Ten minutes earlier…
"Beep, beep, beep," rang the alarm clock before being silenced into submission by a hand slamming down on its hard top. Maryn opened a lone, perturbed eye to check the time, leaving the other eye closed in protest of what she always thought was a rude way to be awoken. The digital display read 7:30 am and despite the objections of her pre-teen internal clock, it was time to get up.
For Maryn and her 6-year-old sister,
Abigail, it was the first day of summer day camp and it was a shock to the
system to be up so early after two weeks of camping in Northern California with
her family and the many late-nights spent around the campfires roasting
marshmallows. For her parents, it was the first day back to work and a dreaded
"Transition Day," as her mother called it. A ripe setting for
overreaction.
For Maryn was prone to overreacting,
especially when pushed to do so by her loving, yet trouble-seeking younger
sister. Maryn adored Abigail and her free-spirited self. Envied her even.
Abigail had the ability to let things go, not hold a grudge, and entertain
herself in ways Maryn could never do. But no one could push her proverbial
buttons like her little sister could. It was as if Maryn had been free of all
buttons until Abigail, as a seemingly helpless baby, had snuck into Maryn's
room at night to secretly install them; ready to be pushed whenever she wanted
attention.
Over the years, Maryn had developed a
fascination with the plastic fasteners and no newly purchased item of clothing
could be put away until she had liberated the spare buttons from the
manufacture's tag. Her collection had grown in size and in importance as a
metaphorical exorcism of her buttons that were too easily pushed.
The jarred collection sat proudly on the nightstand next to Maryn's bed as a
pleasant reminder of her on-going campaign and, as it turned out that fateful
morning, as an irresistible, tantalizing target for Abigail.
As Maryn picked her clothes for the day,
Abigail stealthily crawled into the room, attached a looped end of a piece of
string around one of the jars and tied the other end to the handle of Maryn's
bedroom door. She knew she was being naughty despite the fact that she truly
did love her older sister. Envied her even. Maryn had the ability to reach
things, read big books and ride a bike without training wheels, all things
Abigail couldn’t do. But getting a reaction out of Maryn meant staving off
boredom and she couldn't resist the temptation.
Once dressed, Maryn headed for the
bathroom to complete her morning regimen. To thwart her adventurous and snoopy
sister, whenever she left her room Maryn always ensured the door was firmly
shut. On July 19th, her bedroom door closed, not with a click of the latch or
the light thud of the door hitting the frame but with a loud crash of
shattering glass and scattering plastic.
Maryn knew instantly what she had lost,
who was to blame and that she would not be able to contain what was coming
next. Her emotions would erupt; loudly, uncontrollably and potentially,
violently if she could catch her deceptively quick little sister. Like an
unstoppable expulsion of molten lava, she crelled at the top of her
lungs, Maryn's unique fusion of crying and yelling.
Maryn ran down the stairs to the kitchen
where her mother, Anne, had been preparing their breakfast on autopilot before
being jolted out of her routine.
"W, wh, whh, where is she?"
Maryn managed to get out between sobs, referring to her now hidden little
sister. "I'm going to k…"
"Pardon me? You'll do no such
thing!" interrupted her mother, sternly. "Come here…" she added
more softly, extending her comforting arms out to her daughter. Maryn sank into
her mother's chest, letting the love sink in, and let out an enormous cry.
"She pushed my buttons off the
shelf!"
"I know sweetie. I know," her
mother replied in the most comforting and understanding tone she could muster,
fighting the curling of her mouth that was developing into a smile at the sound
of the complaint. With her daughter's face nestled in her chest and out of
view, Anne decided her best foot forward would be to stop fighting her natural
reaction to the complete lack of irony in her daughter's words. Suppression
could bubble to a boiling point and force an uncontrollable release which might
set Maryn off again. No, best not to fight it and let your face briefly
experience an irresistible moment of joy she decided. "Kids do say the
darndest things," she thought to herself.
"Mommy's laughing!" Abigail
teased, catching her mother quite by surprise, mid-smile. Maryn's head darted
up to see the offending facial expression for herself.
"Don't laugh at me!" Maryn
crelled as she pushed away from her mother and began stomping her feet and
turning red.
"I'm not laughing!" Anne
attempted to relay in as serious a voice as she could, but it was too late. The
absurdity of the situation had gotten the best of her. "Buttons! Of all
the things she could collect."
Knowing full well that her daughter hated
above all things to be mocked, intentionally or otherwise, and seeing that
Maryn clearly hadn't been convinced by her defense, Anne readied herself for
the inevitable blowback. "Stupid involuntary reactions!"
As Maryn became red in the face and
deceptively calm, Abigail braced for impact and Anne counted down in her head,
"3-2-1… Boom."
Maryn exploded with emotion to a degree
not seen in some time in the Martin household. In an effort to both improve the
situation and get back on schedule, Anne said, "Oh, sweetie. Let's get you
to your quiet place." Anne placed a comforting arm around her daughter's
shoulder and started to guide her to the door off the kitchen which opened on
the backyard, adding, "And here, take this."
"You!" Maryn said, pointing to
her little sister as she briefly paused at the backdoor, "You better get
up to my room and clean up my buttons before I get back." She headed
outside with the piece of toast her mother had thrust into her hand, stomping
loudly, and headed towards the old oak tree in the corner of the backyard. She
climbed up the ladder and disappeared into the treehouse to collect herself,
cool-down, and work through her emotions.
Copyright © 2022 by David Liam Carrier. All rights reserved. Published by Skaha View Publishing
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