Squash Soup

Tears fill my eyes. I pause in dicing the onion and glance out into the hall. On the key hook, a pair of rusted keys sits restlessly, swaying side to side. Putting down the chef’s knife, I run to the front door and peer outside. Mum’s car is parked in the driveway. I must not have heard her come in.

I’ve started making dinner more and more these days. Sometimes Mum works until 6 or 7 or sometimes later. Her boss says she has ‘extra business’ to do after hours, but it makes her smile when she comes home to see me cooking. I’ve become used to the rhythmic unlatching, then closing of the door, then the clink of the keys as they hit the nearby hook. Most days, however, Mum usually comes straight into the kitchen to see what I’m making. Seconds after the door’s shut, she wraps me in her arms. Keys on the hook mean Mum is home. Keys on the hook mean I’m safe.

But today she must have gone straight upstairs. I peer around the corner into the dark stairwell.

“Mum?” I call, my voice dying on the thin plaster walls.

I pull the string to my right and a fluorescent bulb flicks on. At the top of the stairs, the two bedrooms are vacant. The bathroom door is shut.

“Mum?”

I knock, but there’s no response from the other side. Strange.

Returning downstairs, I check that the keys are still sat on the hook. Of course they are. I recall when Mum and I went to see Toy Story a few years ago. For weeks I thought objects moved themselves around the house when I wasn’t looking. Mum told me I was just being silly, and that toys and keys don’t move around on their own. I don’t believe silly things like that anymore.

“Mum?” I call a little louder. Silence responds.

They don’t teach you how to find a missing person at summer camp. I guess I’ll have to teach myself. Considering my options, I eventually decide to turn down the heat on the squash soup. I add the onion, the garlic. Let it simmer but not boil over. When I find Mum I still want to have dinner ready.

The next step I suppose would be to check the car. I scamper over to the front door, throwing an oversized sweater around my shoulders and stepping into muddy trainers. I grab the keys off the hook and realize the door is already unlocked. Unusual. Mum always makes sure to lock the door when she leaves, especially when I’m home alone.

The sun has only set recently, but winters in Minnesota are always cold. When we moved here four years ago I didn’t have a jacket until Santa brought me one on Christmas. I outgrew it recently but Mum hasn’t been able to afford a new one.

I approach the car, peering into the windows, but can’t see anything. I struggle to find the lock on the driver’s door, but finally manage to stick in and turn the key. The handle pops open. The inside smells of mildew and strawberry vape. A cross dangles from the mirror. I don’t like when Mum smokes, but she’s agreed not to around me anymore. She switched from tobacco a few years ago. A picture of us sits on the dashboard, held sparingly by a piece of scotch tape. There’s a tear in it where dad used to be. I try not to think about that. Instead, I check the back of the car. A couple old clothes, a few books, and a shovel are all that’s there. Nothing that helps.

Stepping out, I’m beginning to shake, and not just from the cold. Our street doesn’t look like the ones on the nicer side of town. Kids at school dare each other to run up and down it at night. Without street lamps, shadows invade quickly.

I retreat inside, uninterested in conquering my fear of the dark.

“Mum?” I yell in desperation. No response. Worth a shot. I throw the keys back on their hook.

Tentatively, I reach for the house phone, unsure of my next move. I need to call someone. I need an adult. I need to not do this alone. A couple lost aunts and uncle’s names run through my head. I don’t know them, never mind their phone numbers. I could call dad, but Mum told me not to do that anymore. Probably for the best. Of course, there’s always 911.

At school, we’re always told that you’re only supposed to call 911 in a real emergency. Carefully, I punch in the digits, my finger hovering over the dial button. Then I think back to a story I heard. Teddy Lavin, a boy who called the police to his house last year because he couldn’t open a can of soup. Everyone got real upset at him. My hands shake. I let out a sigh and slam the phone back into its stand. Best not make that mistake.

I sit on the worn living room couch. My knee bounces anxiously. I try and think of all the potential places Mum could have gone, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, I think of a short prayer she taught me to recite whenever I get scared. I haven’t said it aloud in years. Despite the dark street, the lying keys, the late nights alone, life is much better these days. Life is safe. I take a deep breath and recall the prayer from memory.

Dear God,

When I’m scared and feeling small,

Please wrap me in your love so tall.

Flashes of light penetrate my closed eyelids. Somewhere in the distance I can hear a man and woman yelling at each other. There’s a crash of wood and metal. The woman screams. I continue the prayer and the sounds die out.

Guide me through the darkest night,

Fill my heart with your comforting light.

From outside the windows come red and blue flashing lights. The living room is bathed in a perverted disco. There’s a pounding at the door. An officer no doubt, coming to take me away. I take a deep breath and the lights and sirens disappear.

Hold my hand, keep me near,

Banish every trace of fear.

The toxic smell of tobacco fills my nose, my lungs. The couch suddenly feels vulnerable. Hands wrap around my shoulders and lead me away from the fumes. I sit down. Leather cop car seats are accompanied by a stale donut. A thin blanket doesn’t protect from cold.

With you by my side, I’m strong and brave,

Your love and protection forever I crave.

Then I’m wrapped in her arms. She that’s made mistakes, but who tries, and tries. When we arrive on the doorstep, I listen to the door unlatch and groan open for the first time, then to the clinking of the keys as they hit the key hook. I know I’m safe.

Amen

I open my eyes to dim light. No police cars, no flashing red and blue. The air smells of butternut squash. The only sounds are wind chimes hanging outside the kitchen window. Just then, the front door unlatches, then shuts.

“I forgot my keys,” she says.

I leap from the couch and run face first into her arms.

“Mum.”