Chatterbox: Inkwell

Read my NaNoWriMo story because why not.

That's what you'll be doing. Every day that I remember, I will post part of my NaNoWriMo story; Alone: Audrey's Story. Here's the beginning:

I was sitting on the couch, watching TV next to Mom, when the TV show we had been watching (a skit about school) cuts out, and instead we see the weather channel. I frown. We never watch the weather channel. That just isn't a thing we did. We aren't like that, because we're funny people, not serious weather-y people. And besides, I could run in rain or shine or freezing-cold hail. Although I would prefer shine to freezing-cold hail. 

I turned my attention back to the TV, where the weatherman was saying, "-flash flood warning, starting tonight at 8:00 and ending at 10:00. If we're lucky, we won't be hit, but make sure to find some place high and dry, just in case. Thank you." Then the weather station cut out and the skit we were watching before came back on.

Strange, I thought. We've never been under a flash flood warning before. I wonder why we are this time? My thoughts were interrupted by Mom switching off the TV and turning to me, eyes panicked. 

"Audrey!" she said, "What are we going to do? I don't know what to do in a flash flood! If your father were only still alive . . ." Her wide eyes found her phone lying on the floor, and she started typing something.

I was immediately alarmed. I'd never seen her like this before. How did she get this distressed, just because of a flash flood - 

Oh.

I realized my mistake with sudden certainty, and didn't know how I missed it in the first place. Obviously! My dad died in a car crash when I was two years old - and it was pouring outside. How had I missed the signs? Mom was still traumatized from that one fateful night, when she learned the awful news . . . 

I became suddenly determined to protect us from what once seemed a silly warning. I dashed to my room and grabbed my computer from where I had left it after school today. (I'm homeschooled.) I conduct a quick google search, "What to do in a flash flood warning," and scroll through the results. Most say move to higher ground. Some say to evacuate, which sounds like a good idea, but the weatherman didn't tell us to, so I go with staying on higher ground. My bedroom? The attic? The roof? Presumably a flash flood would involve rain, so the roof's probably not the best idea. But maybe the attic . . . 

Another quick google search says that going to the roof if necessary would help, but from there we should signal for help. So maybe? I decide we'll start in the attic and move to the roof if we have to. 

With that figured out, I just have to wait until 8:00. My eyes roam around my bedroom, settling on my clock. It reads 6:30. I groan. I'm already impatient, and a lot nervous. What if, what if, what if . . . 

I try and calm the urgent questions, focusing instead on the quiet ticking of my clock. Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . tock . . . It actually works quite well, calming my nerves and quieting my thoughts. I start to breath with the clock, letting my worries float across my mind like clouds, leaving just some white, fluffy nonsense thoughts drifting slowly across the sky that is my mind.

This is a technique I learned a few years ago from Mom. Picture your mind as a sky and your thoughts as clouds . . . it works surprisingly well. And while my mind-sky is never empty of clouds, when using this technique I can often clear my mind of stormcloud-worries, leaving the light, fluffy nonsense random thought-clouds. I breath deeply, still half focusing on the ticking of the clock. 

My eyes wander lazily to my clock, and I decide to set an alarm for 8:00. In the meantime, I need to do something. I can't just sit around meditating for the next hour and a half. Not only would I get bored and distracted, I have things to do. (Things equals writing and some work I didn't get done during school today.) I grab a random piece of paper and start writing.

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess named Amelia. She was me. Except I'm not a princess, nor am I beautiful. Well. Of course my family says I'm beautiful. But they have to say that. It's like the law of all families. Plus, my name's Lia, not Amelia. I wish people would call me Amelia, but apparently it's 'too long' and 'doesn't work' with Lia, my birth name. So that's dumb.

So yeah. That's me. That's my introduction. How are you today? I know it's weird of me to be asking a piece of paper a question, but whatever. I'm that kind of person. And I don't want this whole thing to be about me. So how are you? Don't say fine. Tell me the truth. And even if you are fine, tell me why you're fine. Elaborate. Please. I have the time. 

Okay. Thank you. I don't know that you actually said anything, but I'm just going to trust that you did and get on with it. So, yeah. 

I nod at the paper. I like her. She's nice. But I don't really want her to be writing her own story, because then I couldn't write all the details, like dialogue and things. Oh! Maybe I can have her live in a world where there's sound-to-paper recording devices, and then she edits what the paper hears . . . that would be awesome. I am totally doing this.

But should it be technology, or magic . . . hm. Magic. That's cooler.

I'm going to be bringing you everywhere, and you can record my life from within my sweatshirt pocket. Yes, I said record. My aunt is a magician, a real magician, with real magic - and she invented this paper that can record everything that it hears, and put it into a novel type format.

I smile. I so wish I had that. I've had diaries before, but how would I remember the whole day? Especially dialogue? 

I continue writing for another hour and about fifteen minutes, until my alarm (which I decided to set for 7:45, instead of 8:00, so we have time to get up to the attic) goes off, and suddenly I start panicking again. What if the flood hits us? What if the house gets soaked, and we have to move out? What if we drown? What if our whole house gets swept away? What if our car gets swept away? 

For a moment I'm paralyzed, my breaths coming sharply and quickly. I have no idea how to snap out of it without not focusing on the flood, and I want to focus on the flood, so we can be safe. I don't want to die! I know that sounds like something a toddler would scream, but seriously. If the flood hits bad, my life is in my own hands. Mom won't be able to protect me. 

I take two deep breaths, trying to think about the situation rationally. If one of my characters - my smart, brainiac characters, not my, well, kind of dumb characters. Well, not dumb, emotionally driven. If one of the smart characters was in my situation, what would they do? They would find out the smartest thing to do in their situation. No, they would already know, probably. But I don't. So I should find what to do. Easy. Now how do I do that?

Oh right, google search. Dumb me, I already did that earlier! I mentally smack myself on the forehead. 

"Mom?" I say.

"Yes?" she responds tiredly.

"I - I looked up what to do in a flash flood warning." I cringe. Why? I don't know. Whenever I do something especially good, I'm embarrassed. "I think - from my research, I think we should camp out in the attic. Where are the sleeping bags?"

I hear Mom get up, presumably from her rocking chair. That same chair was the one she was sitting on when she heard the news that Dad died. She sits in that chair when she's tired. She sits there when she's scared. She sits there when she's dreaming up recipe ideas. She sits there . . so often, it's kind of crazy. She loves that chair. She says it carries some of her soul, and that's why it rocks. I don't believe that story at all, but she swears it, so I go with it. 

Then Mom's in front of me, and she hugs me. "Oh, honey, thank you." She tilts my head up, and I instinctively try to duck it back down. She laughs lightly. "And the sleeping bags are in the attic, so we should be good."

"Okay," I say, ducking out from underneath her arm, "Let's go up there then."

I grab her hand, and we walk slowly down the hall, chatting lightly about nothing, even though I know we're both absolutely terrified. I tell her about my story, and about how I want a paper like that. 

"You don't need a paper like that, you've got your own words," she says.

"But I can't remember everything!"

"But you can remember the important things. And you can remember how you feel."

At this I become silent, contemplating the truth in her words. Yes. What happened doesn't matter as much as what we feel about it. I smile.

"Thank you, I've never thought about it like that before. Cool."

She laughs. "You're welcome. That's what mothers are for, right? To teach you things?"

"I suppose. Except for you. You're just here to feed me."

"Hey!" She tries to ruffle my hair, but I'm too fast. She grins. 

"Well, we'll be stuck up here for a while," I say, once we reach the attic, "We need something to do." 

All of a sudden my eyes widen. "Darn it! I forgot my notebooks!"

"I guess you'll just have to deal with me!" Mom says.

I laugh. "Your words will be background noise to me by the time we get this over with."

She nods wisely. Then, in a ridiculous accent, she says, "My words, they are background noise. They drone on and on until you have fallen asleep. That's what my amazing words can accomplish. I am the most amazing wordsmith you have ever and will ever meet, and that is because of their ability to put you to sleep."

I snort. "Sounds like some amazing words you've got there."

"I know."

We talk like this for a while, keeping the radio on as a distant reminder of why we are up here. But somehow we manage to brush off the reminders and pretend everything is okay, pretend we decided to have a fun day in our attic, pretend we're just playing around as we start joking about our house being swept down, pretend we're not both secretly panicking as we talk lightly about these things that weigh heavily on our minds. We must be brilliant at pretending, because neither of us says anything . . .

Until the radio starts beeping. Then Mom, who's voice had been already starting to get shaky, and who's words had already started to become paranoid, completely dissolved.

I have never seen her cry this hard. The tears don't leak out of her eyes like they do sometimes when I bring up Dad. The tears pour out in a waterfall, splattering on the floor like collapsing raindrops. They curve down the sides of her cheeks and over her lips. She shakes, hunching over. I don't know what to do except hug her.

"I'm sorry," she sniffs, "I - you shouldn't have had to see that." But I barely hear, focusing on the radio as it describes what is happening. 

"The rain is coming down hard already," the voice says, "I don't think evacuation would be smart. It shouldn't be that bad. However, if you can, go up to your attic or your roof. The higher up the better. If it looks really deep outside, call 9-1-1 and they will send a boat and some policemen. I repeat, if it looks deep outside, call 9-1-1. Thank you." The voice cuts out, leaving static. 

I turn to Mom, my eyes wide. She sniffs, her eyes red. Trying to compose herself, she sits up- well, not straight, but straighter than she had been.

"Well -" she sniffs, her voice raspy, "I guess we see how deep it is?"

I smile at her. "Makes sense."

I peek out the window. "Looks like -" I squint. "I honestly can't tell." I motion her over with me.

Out the window, we see the road, obviously wet, but it could be tiny puddles or it could go up to our knees; we have no way to tell, especially with sheets of rain pouring down to block our view. I can just picture some of my characters trudging through that mess, or some I can see dancing beautifully, gracefully down the road, paying no mind to the rain soaking their hair and the cars potentially driving along the same road they are twirling down. Their dresses sparkle, revealing just how wet and presumably cold they are, but still they don't flinch. And now they're dancing with the rain, letting the raindrops take their hands, and they bow, beaming proudly.

I smile. What nonsense. This really shows what my characters are - not reflections of me, but reflections of who I want to be. Because who doesn't want to be the beautiful maiden who dances elegantly with the rain? Who doesn't want to be the brave, sassy kid who tells her friends what to do? Who doesn't want to be my deeply flawed, but still amazingly beautiful and perfect characters?

My mom turns to me. She's not smiling. 

"Audrey," she says.

"Yes?" I ask, still in the mind of my princess characters.

"Audrey!" she says again, shaking me out of my stupor.

"What is is, Mom?" 

"Oh, thank goodness, you're back. Your mind wandered off for a bit, and -" She sniffed.

I hug her. "I'm sorry, Mom."

She hugs me back. "IT's okay. I don't mind. You just - this is serious. You can't be all writer-y about it, because it's not that kind of situation. It's a serious situation, and you're not acting serious about it."

I drop my gaze. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry."

She grabs my hands. "No. Don't be sorry. Just be your favorite character, the one that would handle this best, because I need her. Please." She looks desperate, and I realize again how much this has taken a toll on her.

"Okay, Mom." I relax into her arms.

Then I pull away. "Well . . ." I say mischievously, hoping very badly that this doesn't turn out badly.

To my great relief, she smiles. "Well what?" she asks, putting her hands on her hips.

"If you really want me to be my favorite character, you're not going to get away with hugging me and sobbing like that."

Her cheeks turn red, but she manages to laugh. "We'll see about that." 

She chases me, arms outstretched, wailing obnoxiously. "Ah!" she cries, "Baby, save me! It's raining!"

I duck around the small obstacles in the attic, glad for once that I'm short. By the end I'm grinning, panting, and enveloped in sweaty arms. 

"You know, Mom?" I say lightly, pushing her arms away from me. I turn to face her. "I think my favorite character did a good job."

Mom smiles. "Yeah, I think she did too."

Then I sit down, and she sits down next to me, and we sit in silence, listening to the rain pounding at the roof and splashing into the puddles down on the ground.

"Mom?" I ask hesitantly, breaking the silence.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Oh, baby." She sighs, smiling. "I love you too."

Then, as if we planned it beforehand, we both crawl into our sleeping bags and snuggle up.

"Good night," I whisper.

"G'night," she replies, already sleepy. I giggle softly.

With a yawn, I roll over, and start trying to fall asleep, using Mom's steadying breaths as my guide.

By 10:00, when my alarm beeps, I was already asleep, and so was rudely awakened.

"Is it m'rning 'lready?" Mom says.

"Nope. Ten o'clock. End of flash flood watch."

Remembering where we are, Mom looks around the attic.

"We should probably move downstairs, then," she says. 

"Yup. That's why I set the timer." 

"Smart thinking." She yawns, and then grudgingly scoots out of her sleeping bag.

"So," she says. "Did we get flooded?"

I shrug. "We'll see."

We walk quietly down the stairs. My heart's not racing, but I think that's only because I just woke up, and I'm still sluggish. Next to me, I hear Mom's breaths coming short.

I cringe. I slowly push open the door . . . 

The floor in front of us is soggy and wet.

Mom breaths slowly, trying to calm herself. I try to match her breaths. 

"It's okay . . ." I say, "It'll all be okay. We'll figure out somewhere to stay while it dries out, and then we can move back, and then . . ."

But Mom's not listening anymore. She's testing the floor with her feet, hopping over spots that give, making her way to her room. And then I remember.

The rocking chair.

Running as quickly as I dare, I try to follow in her footsteps, letting my feet only touch the wood for a few seconds before I jump to the next sturdy-ish spot. 

Not stopping to wait for me, Mom walks ahead gingerly. I'm sure we look like two freaks out of a circus, but I don't care. If the chair's gone . . . I don't even want to think about what could - and would - happen. 

Suddenly, Mom stops. She's looking at her door, face frozen. I can't tell if she's afraid from her face, but I sure am. She presses her hand to the door, letting her fingers trail down the wood. 

"I'm sorry, Matt," she whispers softly. "I'm sorry."

Pushing open the door, she steps into her room.

I follow, avoiding wet spots.

And . . . there it is, the famous rocking-chair.

Mom gives a cry of relief, and I smile at her. "It's there," I say, giving the confirmation I know she needs.

She slowly lowers herself down, and then she rocks. Slowly at first, testing out the soggy rockers. Then she speeds up.  "It's here!" she says triumphantly. "It's here!"

She sounds and looks like a crazy woman, but actually, I'm super happy myself. That chair means a lot. 

If we lost it, I don't even know what would happen. To her. To me. To us all.

I wonder. But I don't want to know.

She pats the seat, but I hesitate.

"Oh, come on," she says. "There's room enough for both of us."

I settle in next to her.

"Thank you," I say.

"For what?" she asks.

I look at her, trying to keep a straight face. "I wasn't talking to you! I was talking to the chair! Thanking it for surviving."

Instead of laughing, Mom strokes the armrest on her side of the chair. "Thank you," she tells it. A tear slips down her cheeks. "Thank you so much. For sticking with us. Through all of this."

I smile. "Yes, this chair is very brave, isn't it. Faced with an enemy, it just rocks. Holding us all up."

"Holding us all up," Mom echoes. "Yes, this chair holds us up. Without it, we would crumble." She smiles wistfully.

Then her philosophical mood disappears, substituted with a stern Mom face.

"Now we have to look around for all the other important items that could've been ruined. Clocks, notebooks, computers, watches, everything. Come on, get up! Start moving."

I stand up, but she stays in the rocking chair for a few more seconds. 

"I really miss you, Matt," she whispers. "I wish you were here to help us."

She looks back to find me staring at her. "Get a move on, Audrey," she says, a smile playing across her lips.

I refuse to budge. "Only if you come with me," I say defiantly. 

"Oh yeah? Do you have a treasured possession to reunite with?"

"Not yet, because the only thing we've looked for so far has been your rocking chair."

She sticks her tongue out at me, but stands up.

"Where should we start?" she says.

Never has our house felt so big. I shrug. "Next door, maybe?"

"You think we'll find something important in the bathroom? It's practically waterproof."

"So? Maybe your toothpaste got ruined."

She smiles. "I honestly don't care about my toothpaste. Unless my wallet got ruined, and we can't even buy more . . ."

"Well, let's see, then."

She takes in a breath. "Okay."

We tiptoe across the hall, slightly more confidently then before. Mom doesn't test every board, and I don't hop over them like they're trapdoors waiting to swing open. Improvement. Kind of.

We throw open the door, and find . . . the bathroom. It's not even soggy, because of the tiled floor. I step onto it gladly. "Actual solid floor's a nice change," I joke.

Mom nods. "Watch where you're standing though, it seems someone's toothpaste did get spilled."

My mouth opens, and my gaze darts over the floor. It's perfectly clean.

I turn to glare at Mom. Her mouth twitches.

I go to the bathroom, because I haven't since we first saw the news. Wow. That's been like . . . four hours, now. It feels like much longer, but it also feels like much shorter.

Once I'm done, we stand around in the bathroom a bit more, enjoying the actually solid ground a bit more before we have to go walk around on soggy wood. Bleh. I hope downstairs isn't too bad. Although it might be kind of funny to have to slosh through a puddle of water . . . I grin. I save that one for later, hoping I might use it to cheer Mom up if it turns out it has happened, and she gets . . . well, she falls apart again. 

I wish I could help her! She doesn't deserve having something as small as this scare her. She deserves more. She deserves better. Because she is better. She was better. Before my dad died. 

A tear threatens to escape my eye, but I blink it back. No. I can't show that I'm weak too. I have to support her. I have to be strong, like the rocking chair. 

The thing is . . . I miss my dad. I shouldn't have to. I have no memories, because he died when I was two years old. But the way my mom talks about him, he sounds like someone I would admire and love. And Mom talks about him so much . . . I feel like I miss him so much, even though I never really knew him. 

Mom looks at me. "What were you thinking about?"

I shrink away. "Nothing."

She grins. "Spill."

"I was thinking about . . . how I miss Dad, even though I never got to know him. How it feels like I did, because I've seen pictures and videos and descriptions of him. How I wish I could've known him. How I wish I could've loved him."

Mom tickles my ear. "You're an amazing talker, Audrey. I wish you wanted to be one. Then you could grow up and I would watch you make speeches and I could be so proud . . ."

I smile. "Maybe I'll make speeches about my books."

She brightens. "Oh yeah! Good idea! I'll make sure to come to every single one."

"They'll probably get repetitive," I warn.

"I don't care. That doesn't make them any less good."

"It doesn't?" I raise an eyebrow doubtfully.

"Okay, fine. It may make them a bit less interesting. But still."

I giggle. "You're the best mom."

She smiles distantly. "I hope so."

"You ARE!"

"You don't have another mom to compare me to, do you?"

I relent. "Fine. But you're the best mom I could imagine, and I have a pretty good imagination."

"That -" She pauses, considering. "is actually a pretty good point."

"See? Best mom."

She ruffles my hair, and I dodge.

"We should check the rest of the house," I tell her.

"Why?" she pouts.

"Don't you want to see if the TV has been waterlogged?"

"Kind of. But that can wait."

"No it can't."

"Yes it can."

"No it can't."

"Yes it can't."

"No it -"

"Fine, we can go check the house." She shakes her head, smiling.

We tipto out of the bathroom, stepping carefully around wet spots. We walk to my room. When we get there, I pause.

"Do you know what I'm worried about?" I ask.

"Um . . . your notebooks being ruined?"

"Well, yeah, but that wasn't what I was thinking about. I'm worried about looking at downstairs. I'm worried about panicking." You panicking, I leave out, unheard but understood.

She nods.

 

Sorry it ends on kind of a . . . not ending point, but thanks for reading the whole thing so far!