Little Finger Prints

Little Finger Prints

By: April Laithwaite

I have always enjoyed road trips. Maybe it’s because watching the scenery whip by calmed my anxiety and felt like I was watching one of those movies that were made frame by frame.

It was late when we stopped at Auntie Mae’s diner. It was just before the border and dad wanted to take a break from driving. So, there I sat in a booth with squeaky red vinyl seats, pondering the places we were going to next. There was an old jukebox in the corner that would occasionally belt out a verse of a song then abruptly stop or skip to another. The floor tiles were scuffed and laid in a checkerboard pattern.

I was sipping on a strawberry milkshake that was so thick, it was hard to suck through the plastic straw. A plate of fries sat abandoned beside me, their grease soaking into the paper lining beneath them. Dad ordered them for me, he didn’t know I didn’t like fries, probably because I’ve never told him.

He sat with his arm draped lightly over mom’s shoulders as he sipped a cold cola. Mom was nursing a too-hot coffee that she insisted tasted just like the cheap stuff we have at home, definitely not worth 6 dollars.

Before we ordered, dad surprised me with an art set. A case full of colourful pens, vibrant crayons, and neon highlighters. I sat, scribbling on a napkin, carefully shading in the flowers and artfully stroking the grass to make it look realistic.

I may only be 7 years old but from a young age I was a master at drawing. My parents called me their little Picasso and encouraged me to draw whenever and wherever I wanted. On the walls, sidewalks, canvases, and even myself.

“Mommy, look.” I say as I turn the napkin around to show her a portrait of 4 people. “It’s you, me, daddy, and Ellie.”

A shadow crossed moms face so fast I must have imagined it, diners don’t really have Hollywood worthy lighting.

“It’s beautiful, honey. Stunning, really. But remember, we talked about this. Ellie is gone. You will never see her again. I know you miss her but we have to move on. How about you draw another family picture, but only with the three of us. And we can frame it when we get home.”

Home. It’s a funny word. On the surface it is the place you live, but it’s different than a house. A house is the outside of the building, a home is the inside. The crooked portraits that line the hallways and the old pillows that barely hold their shape no matter how many times you try to fluff them upright. They sag back into the couch, but are still comfy anyways.

But most importantly, home is the people. Your brothers gap-toothed grin or the smell of your mother’s home cooking. It wouldn’t be home without Ellie.

But I did what mommy asked, I drew a new picture. Dad with a perfectly circular head, not too realistic but good enough, towered unnaturally over mommy and I. Mommy and her sausage fingers because I don’t know how to draw hands. Me in the middle, tiny and slight in comparison, a too big smile splitting my face in half.

I eventually got bored of drawing, so I took to people watching, another favorite hobby of mine. It’s interesting how you never really know a person’s experiences and can create a story for them. I did it whenever I felt dreadful, it reminded me that even though nobody knows my story, they may look at me and see something other than worry. They may create their own version of me in their head and, even if just for a passing moment, I crossed their thoughts. A happy kid with loving parents and dreams so big the world would be astonished.

I gaze around the diner. That woman over there, with heels too high and lips too big, just came back from vacation. That could be the only logical explanation for her crispy dark tan, especially in rainy Michigan at the end of October. She took the money her rich husband left her in his will and partied throughout the summer but, plot twist, she killed her husband.

I shifted my attention to a little boy sipping on a milkshake to rival mine with at least 3 tiers of whipped cream on the top. I can tell by his tear streaked cheeks he had a tantrum not too long ago and his parents gave him the treat to shut him up.

The bell above the door jangled and too burly police officers walked in. It seemed to have begun to rain, considering their water-soaked uniforms. I have always liked police officers, I find them calming. Both were massive, with forearms bigger than my face and hands the size of dinner plates. One had a shiny bald head with a bushy auburn beard that, in the sunlight, would look amber. The other had a long black mullet and sunglasses perched on this thick nose.

I decided they would be my muse. I got to work, drawing their navy collared shirts and taking extra care to pay special attention to their unique features. Throughout the time I was drawing, dad got a business call and excused himself to take it, promising we would leave once he came back. Mom slid out of the booth just as I was finishing my drawing to go to the bathroom and ensure the car was packed.

I fished an ink pad out of the art set and examined it to make sure it was fresh. Then I flipped over my napkin drawing and pressed the pads of each of my fingers into the ink then to the back of the napkin. Cool right, because cops deal with fingerprints. It was the cherry on top.

I told myself not to go give it to them. I wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, even if they were cops, and I didn’t want to disturb their meal. I doodled on my palms for a minute, working up the courage to approach them, before I slid out of the booth, my thighs clinging to the vinyl covering the seats. I finished off my milkshake, placing it on the bar on my way over.

“Excuse me.” I say, quietly, barely above a whisper.

“Hi, sweetie, how can we help you?” the one with the beard replies.

“I drew this picture of you and wanted to give it to you.” I say, fiddling with the corners of the napkin

“Oh, that is very sweet, lets take a look shall we.”

I slide the napkin across the slightly tacky wooden table to them.

“This is beautiful, thank you.” The officer with the impressive mullet says.

“You can keep it, officers.” I smile, then pause. “I’m Dennie.”

“Officer Bradley and Officer Roy. Pleased to meet you. Are you here with your parents Dennie?” The one with the beard, Officer Roy, asks.

At that moment dad stalks back inside and meets mom at the booth. They exchange bits of tense conversation. Not panicked per se, but worried, like they lost a prize possession.

My dad spots me over mom’s shoulder and realization passes over his face mixed with something harder, like barely contained rage. Maybe this was a bad idea, I don’t want them to get mad. The punishments they implement are never pleasant, but I suppose I understand why. Dad hurries over to my position at the officers’ table.

“Hey folks, how are you doing tonight?”

Officer Bradley responds, “Well, thank you. This is your daughter?”

“Yes, Debra is always running away to talk to strangers, silly little kid.” He replies smoothly.

I look up at his stony face, “It’s Dennie, daddy.”

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s not Debra, it’s Dennie.” I say, as I pick at a cuticle, refusing to make eye contact.

He covers up his mistake by saying, “Aw sweetie, we told you. You can’t change your name, even if it is close to the original.” He winks down at me and realize I’m powerless in this situation.

Then he turns to the officers.

“She is so stubborn, can’t get an idea out of her head once she’s made up her mind. You two officers have a good night.”

“You as well. And thank you, Dennie, for the picture.” Officer Roy says, giving me a wink.

As my dad grasps me by one of my shoulders and leads me away, I curse myself for messing up so badly and I ponder why the officer used my real name, instead of the one my dad suggested.

***

“Cute kid.” Officer Bradley says through a sip of coffee.

I just nod trying to ignore the feeling that something definitely felt off about that interaction. I watch the little girl walk away, small and slight for her seven years of age. Shockingly so. She spares a quick glance backward and meets my eyes. Her hands are clasped behind her back, fingers tucked in to from a fist, and then she slowly turn one of her palms out to me. On it is pen, smudged and smeared a bit because of sweat, but I can still read the words very clearly.

Help me, these aren’t my parents.

She flips the next palm outwards

Turn the napkin over.

On the back, pressed neatly into the material, are ten little finger prints. 5 words are scribbled below:

For identification. Just in case.