Bittersweet Swirl

"Who wants to play a game of Snap? Winner gets a bowl of ice cream." My mother walks into the room with a small cardboard box in hand, a familiar game of Snap my brother received for his sixth birthday, featuring cards adorned with various fruits and vegetables. Now ten years old, my brother mostly plays video games, leaving the Snap game long forgotten. But the promise of ice cream lures him out. My mother often talks about the importance of spending quality time together, and although she should be thrilled to see the family gathered around the dining table, she appears sad under the dim overhead light.

"So," I begin, shuffling the cards together, "what kind of ice cream is there?" Dad pulls out a chair with a loud scrape and settles down, causing an unnecessary racket. My mother looks down at her lap, muttering to herself. "Mum?" I prompt, concerned. She looks up, forcing a smile onto her face.

"Uh... cookies and cream, dear." My brother leans forward and snatches the deck of cards from my hands.

"You're doing it wrong," he says, with a hint of impatience. I open my mouth to argue, but my father shoots me a warning glare. Brandon tosses the cards onto the table and begins shuffling them around, clearly taking charge. My mother looks up, her hair partially covering her face.

"Can you please hurry up?" she snaps impatiently. Brandon flinches, hastily gathering the cards back into a pile. The overhead light flickers, briefly casting us into darkness. Lately, my mum had been adamant about conserving energy, insisting we only use necessary lights. But now, it wasn't just gentle reminders; it was full-on scolding. My brother's computer time had become limited, and there were strict rules about using appliances like hair dryers or leaving anything running unnecessarily.

I had confided in my friends about it, but they simply brushed it off, claiming my mum had gone mad.

"Are you alright, Mum?" Brandon asks, trying to break the uneasy silence as he starts

dealing out the cards. He tosses one to me, and I watch it slide along the table before it falls to the floor. He sticks his tongue out at me, as if trying to lighten the mood with a playful gesture.

"I am fine, Brandon. Can we just start? Julie, pick up that card." I nod and bend down to pick up the fallen card—it has a carrot on it. I place it at the bottom of the pile and glance at my dad.

"You start," I say.

He places his card down: tomato. Brandon follows with apple, then my mum with banana. I hold my breath and pull the top card, placing it on top of the deck. It's another banana.

"Snap." My dad's hand comes down quickly, landing on the pile with a loud thump. He wins the round. We start another round, going through the deck: apple, kiwi, tomato, banana, broccoli, tomato, tomato, carrot.

"Wait," I say suddenly, my brow furrowing as I realize what just happened. "We missed a snap." My mum brushes the hair away from her face and looks at me.

"Yes, we did, Julie. You should've caught that," my mum says, her tone gentle yet firm.

"Continue."

I look down at my card, the red lines blurring together slightly. Do I need glasses? Shaking off the thought, I pull the card from the pile and place it down: mango. My dad groans and lays down his card: carrot. Then it’s kiwi, banana, banana.

"Snap," I exclaim, laughing, as I swiftly grab the cards from the middle and shuffle them back into the pile.

Then there’s a knock at the door, and my mother's head snaps up, a small smile creeping onto her face.

“I’ll get it,” she says, pushing back from the table and making her way down the hallway. She bumps into things as she goes, but that doesn't seem to deter her. The door creaks open, and we all turn our attention to the hallway, where the faint glow of

streetlights shines through the entrance.

“Hello, we are nearly done,” she says, though her voice is muffled, and that's all I can make out. Who could it be at this hour?

“Have…chosen…I…fun?” Her shrill laugh echoes down the hallway, as a man talks in a low voice to her.

My father looks at me from his place at the table, and I just shrug. The door creaks shut, and I release a sigh of relief; he's gone. But then the kitchen light clicks on, and there she is, hair tucked out of her face, accompanied by a rather tall man. He's wearing a suit with a blood-red tie, his bald head shining in the bright light. I squint at him, my vision blurry—yep, definitely need glasses.

“Meet Mr. Kringale,” she exclaims, looking up at the man. “We have business to attend to after we finish this game.” Mr. Kringale nods in agreement, his demeanor serious as he places a large metal briefcase onto the bench. My mother nods and moves to the kettle, clicking the button on. “Would you like a drink?” she asks, indicating towards the man.

Mr. Kringale nods, acknowledging my mother's question. "Yes, tea would be lovely," he responds, his tone polite and measured. My mother begins preparing the tea, the kettle starting to hum as it heats the water.

I glance at the briefcase on the bench, curiosity swirling in my mind. What kind of business could my mother have with this stranger?  Brandon shifts

in his seat, also noticing the briefcase. My father keeps a watchful eye on Mr. Kringale, perhaps just as unsure as I am about his sudden appearance. As my mother finishes preparing the tea, she brings over a tray with cups and a pot, setting it down on the table.

"Let's continue, shall we?" my mother suggests, pouring the tea into the mug, the steam rising from the hot water. But as she pours, I notice a crack in the cup, and water begins to trickle out. She doesn't seem to notice or care, her attention entirely focused on Mr. Kringale. She smiles warmly at him, seemingly oblivious to the flawed cup or any other distractions.

“Mum…” I begin, but she interrupts me with a raised eyebrow, looking at me expectantly.

"Nothing, I will start," I quickly correct myself, not wanting to disrupt the already tense atmosphere. I lay down my card: carrot, kiwi, apple. Then it's my mom's turn. I glance at her, and she meets my gaze, her expression unreadable. With a sigh, she passes the cup filled with boiling hot water to Mr. Kringale, and I watch as droplets sizzle on the tiles when they meet the ground. She then plays her card: carrot.

The man blows on his cup of tea and takes a tentative sip, but it's not tea—it's just boiling water. I watch in disbelief as he calmly drinks the scalding liquid, not batting an eyelid. My confusion only deepens, wondering what kind of person can tolerate such heat without flinching. Meanwhile, the game continues. Mango, kiwi, apple, broccoli, broccoli.

"Snap," I call out, slapping my hand down on the pile and sticking my tongue out at Brandon, who rolls his eyes in response. I glance at Brandon's dwindling pile of cards; one more round and he's out. I can't help but grin at the prospect of winning a bowl of ice cream. I play my card: peach. I pause for a moment, unsure if I've ever seen a peach card in the deck before. I shrug it off and continue playing, assuming it's just a card I've overlooked in the past.

The game progresses: broccoli, carrot, banana, apple, mango, carrot—

"I'm out," my brother announces, holding up his hands. As he does, I catch a glimpse of a small smile on my mother's face. I glance at her cards and notice she has only one left; my brother's loss saved her.

"Is that the end?" Mr. Kringale sets down his glass, looking at my mom expectantly.

"Yes, it is," she confirms. She turns to me with a smile. "Looks like you won, Julie. I never doubted you." Then she heads to the kitchen and opens the freezer, pulling out a blue tub with what I think is "cookies and cream"

printed across it.

"Come on," she beckons, and I stand up, pulling my chair back and moving backward before putting it down gingerly. I follow her to the kitchen, anticipation building as she scoops out a generous portion of ice cream into a bowl for me. I take the bowl from my mother and open the drawer, rifling through the random cutlery for a spoon. Where is it? I see a spatula, and then—wait, is that the pen I've been looking for? Yes, it is. I pull out the glittery pen and place it on the

counter.

As I continue my search for a spoon, I hear Mr. Kringale's voice from behind me. "So he lost, that's the one," he says. I hear the scraping of metal against the counter, and then, "Here's the money."

My mind races as I try to process his words. I pull out a clock from the drawer, its hands stuck on the time 3:30. What is this, a cutlery drawer or a junk drawer? My thoughts swirl as I try to make sense of the situation.

Then, a chair scrapes across the floor, jolting me back to the present moment.

"What are you doing, Rose?" my dad's voice breaks through my thoughts. I shake my head

slightly, realizing I've been lost in my own world. Aha, a spoon—I finally spot one in the drawer and quickly grab it, placing it in my bowl. I walk over to the kitchen island and pull out a stool, placing the bowl of ice cream down.

“What do you think I'm doing?" my mom responds curtly. I take a scoop of ice cream and place it in my mouth. I watch as my father walks over to her.

"A million dollars for him?" he asks, pointing at my brother. I let out a short laugh.

"You're only worth a million? How does that make you feel?" I tease my brother lightly, trying to ease the tension in the room.

My brother, however, doesn't take it as humorously as I intended. He shrinks away, his expression uneasy.

I take another scoop of ice cream, watching as Mr. Kringale tightens his grip on the briefcase, his expression remaining steely and unreadable.

"He lost, John," Mr. Kringale says, addressing my father. “Unless you want to go instead.”

The meaning behind Mr. Kringale's words isn't immediately clear to me, but it feels ominous. My father's expression darkens as he processes the offer, but he remains silent for a moment. My mother appears to be on edge, and my brother shifts uncomfortably.

"What's going on?" I finally ask, unable to keep quiet any longer. My mother groans and looks at me with a mixture of frustration and concern.

"Why do you have to be like this, Julie? We go through this time and time again," she replies with an exasperated tone. My confusion deepens as she walks over to my brother and pulls him closer. "Stop asking questions," she instructs me, her tone sharp and final.

She pushes my father out of the way and pulls my brother up to Mr. Kringale. "Just like I promised," she says with a forced smile, though her eyes betray a hint of sadness and resignation.

I watch in confusion and growing concern as Mr. Kringale nods in acknowledgment, his expression remaining inscrutable. My brother looks uncertain, casting a quick glance at me before returning his gaze to the mysterious man in front of him.

My heart lurches as Mr. Kringale grabs my brother's arm, his grip firm and unyielding. I watch in horror as he holds the briefcase out for my mother to take, my brother struggling in his grasp.

"Mum!" my brother yells, his voice filled with fear and confusion. "What is this?"

My mother bends down to his level, her expression strained. "You lost the game, honey. Now you have to pay the price," she says, her voice wavering slightly.

I try to get up, my muscles tensing with the urge to intervene, but my limbs refuse to move. I sit there, paralysed and helpless, as Mr. Kringale drags my brother away. My father attempts to grab hold of Mr. Kringale, but he's pulled back by my mother's firm grip.

"Are you crazy! He’s, our son!" my father shouts. Tears stream down my cheeks, falling in soft plops onto my lap, as I watch my family being torn apart before my eyes.  

The sound of a car motor humming to life slices through the air, drowning out my brother's screams as they fade into the distance. My father collapses to his knees, his sobs echoing through the room as he buries his face in his hands. I sit there in shock, numb to everything around me, my ice cream melting into a puddle.

"We had to," my mother cries, her voice filled with anguish. "We all had an equal

chance."

My father grabs the briefcase and throws it at the wall in a fit of rage, his emotions boiling over. The briefcase slams against the wall with a loud crash, leaving a dent in the plaster.

"Nonsense!" my father shouts, his voice trembling with anger. "You knew how bad he was at snap! How could you have let this happen?"

“It’s all fun and games.” She laughs. “Until someone loses the bet.”

"You sold our son!" my father screams, his voice raw with emotion. "Because you gambled away our money!" He grabs at my mother’s leg, desperation evident in his grip. “Why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”

She pulls away from him, a flash of defiance in her eyes. “Well, who's going to look after you and Julie?” she retorts.

He gapes at her, disbelief etched on his face. “Me! Because I am not the one who gambles our money away!” he shouts back.

“You couldn’t survive without me.”

I watch from my stool as my mother crawls over to the money and throws it up in the air around her. The bills flutter down like confetti, and her hollow laughter echoes through the room.

My father's cries of anguish grow louder as he bangs on the floor in despair. The sound of his pain pierces through me, adding to the torment of the night. The sight of my mother reveling

in the money while my father is distraught over our brother's fate is surreal and heart-wrenching.

Meanwhile, my ice cream

continues to melt, the once-delicious treat now a watery pool, the pieces of cookies drowning, each one sinking deeper until they become not even recognizable.