read the judge's notes on "Chasing Memories"
"Chasing Memories"
by Kiala Givehand
Chapter 1: The Color of Truth
Seven houses stand. Roy G. Biv connects them. The first is red—vibrantly inviting in the smell of rose petals grown on the balcony above the teal blue awning. Below, the street is paved with kitchen tile and the footsteps of tourists from centuries before. Authentic Spanish roofing cradles and curves the tops—a few tall, some even taller. Years ago, progress added obvious exterior piping and countless rows of cables.
The second is blue fading into gray. It shrinks between crimson and cherry-stained stucco, waiting to be seen by the eye of a historian whose mission is to find truth in 200-year-old walls. Green shutters, newly painted, bask in the sun’s infamous dance across the sky. It goes unnoticed, but the store beneath brings immeasurable traffic. Travelers seek bona fide Italian cheese and meats hand carved by men named Paulo.
RedBlueYellowRed—brownstones built with uniqueness—one formation divided into several without separation. Four houses hold hands, stand shoulder to shoulder, and create strength through memories that unfold inside. The crowds do not see the chronicled lives from generations of women who wash clothes by hand, make pasta from scratch and carry children on their backs while selling vegetables.
The last is purple. Royal and intense, it flanks the others, anchoring them. No one finds fault in its cracked siding and rusted lines. Foreigners photograph rolls of film, one behind the other like paparazzi. Natives pass with heads bowed. It invents love in the passionless and brings valiant men to their knees. Without it, the others are invisible.
Chapter 2: The Color of Frustration
He hurries through the crowd. A daughter at the end of each arm, camping sized cargo on his back. The youngest has to pee. He is frantic. She is newly potty trained. The oldest is angry—dragging behind in a stammer—she wants to ride the princess teacups.
His eyes search 30ft ahead. He needs a family restroom, but only sees men’s and women’s. The youngest, tears and snot covering her face, stops dead in her tracks. He continues walking and pulling, nearly dragging her to the ground. Her face is frightened. She tries to hold it by motioning to him that she can’t move or it will come out. The oldest is begging to be freed from this disaster, pointing towards Fantasyland, she can see Cinderella’s Castle.
He picks up the youngest and continues towards the toilets. He spots Winnie the Pooh. Trying to get directions to the family restroom from a honey bear proves futile and he pushes the unsuspecting actor hard enough to force him to the ground. The girls both cry harder—each for a different reason. A lady with a Peter Pan costume approaches him and points him to the bathroom. He can see it.
The youngest smiles. The oldest
skips beside her dad the hero. They are proud of him for finding the
bathroom without mom. The oldest runs ahead, waving her pink princess wand
towards the bathroom. He bends to let the youngest stand and run to her
sister. He feels warm. The youngest feels relief. She no
longer needs the bathroom.
Chapter 3: The Color of Worship
The third stair behind the kitchen wall creaked. She moved her plate to the middle of the table, fixed her eyes to the coupons from Sunday’s paper. “I hope you have your house shoes on.”
“Yeah, I got em.” He jumped over the last step, landing steadily in the doorway where his mother sat, clipping squares. He lifted the lids from the pots. “What’s for breakfast?”
“The usual—oatmeal, eggs and turkey bacon. Get a paper plate from the pantry.” She motioned her scissor hand.
“Hey, careful with those scissors.” He flinched and twisted his torso away from her, his superman cape spun around his neck landing backwards. “You could put someone’s eye out, lady.” He found the paper plates and brought one back to the stove.
“So, we still going to see dad today?”
His reflection peered back at him from each pot. He could feel a slow melt on his back where he imagined his mother staring a steady stream of fire.
“Why must we go through this every weekend? Can’t we just wake up and have our breakfast? Why do you need to bring him into every Saturday morning?”
“I just want to see him. Isn’t Saturday the only day for visitors? You don’t have to come in.”
“You’re only twelve, you can’t go in by yourself. Even if you weren’t too young, I wouldn’t let a child of mine go into that God forsaken place alone.” She shifted the papers making space for him at the table. “Just eat your breakfast. I don’t want to talk about your dad.” She clipped a coupon for Quaker Oats™. “Look, your favorite—put this in the special pile.”
He stared at his food, took the coupon from her hand and placed it on the pile without looking at it. The oatmeal burned his tongue; he winced inside. Cinnamon and brown sugar coated the next spoonful and he wolfed down the meal, alternating the scrambled eggs, oatmeal, and bacon until he could only see crumbs on the white paper plate.
“Okay. Can I go with Gloria when she visits?” He scanned her faced, then returned his eyes to the plate like sunny side up eggs with a side of ‘Hell No!’
“You can’t go anywhere with that irresponsible bitch. Never mention her again.”
“I just want to see my dad!” He felt the space inside him filling with heat. He shifted in his chair to face his mother. “Okay, you win. I won’t ask about my dad anymore if you just let me go see him today. Just today. Please!”
She slammed the scissors on the table. “Damn it! Leave it alone.” The neatly arranged piles jumped and landed—scattered. She reached for his hand.
He pulled away. “Damn it! You leave it alone. He didn’t kill anybody. Plus, he’s my dad.” He got up from the table and moved to the stove. “If you won’t take me, I’ll get my own ride.” He watched his mother straighten her papers.
“If you call that Gloria, I will whip you until you stutter.” She turned her back to him and bent to recover the coupons from the floor. “What the hell?” Hot oatmeal oozed over her face and down her neck, scorching her skin. She wiped the thick grains from her eyes. A hard metal thud then bounced on her head. She fell to the floor, landing in her pile of special coupons.
With the empty pot in his hand, he sat in her chair, watched her flail about and go limp. Then he took the telephone from its charger, dialed 911 and waited for his ride.
Chapter 4: The Color of Spite
I visit with you in your brownstone. You make me fancy meals. I tell you I do not eat meat. We argue over the true origins of bacon made from turkey. The historian in you contends that vegetables are not enough. I disagree. My body has adjusted and craves grapefruit and kale. It desires a connection to the past through food. You want ice cream. Your body desires satisfaction. You are insatiable.
Each time we share a meal you become uncomfortable. You think I am judging you. Eating no longer brings you pleasure. I no longer need food to comfort me. Eating no longer brings me pain. My body is well. We cannot find a happy middle.
We share your brownstone three times a week and my apartment twice. Red plastic cups hold fresh squeezed juice but you prefer coffee. I prefer tea. Herbal infused blends of hyssop and calendula rest in the pantry on my shelf. Your shelf holds Fritos, Funyuns, and firecracker sausages tightly wrapped in the skin of a pig. I never touch your stuff. You fumble through mine daily, searching for answers to the acne plaguing your face, your back, and your chest.
Your father left you this brownstone in his will. You wonder if he watches from his place on your living room mantle. We discuss life and death. I embrace your ideas. You force a conversation about truth. I’d rather talk about the color red. You fear that I will leave you. I assure you, again, that I am content. Y ou ask for my help because you think I need to be needed. I agree because I know it will last for less than a week.
In your brownstone, I make dinner. You try my portabella tomato sauce with spelt pasta. I roasted the tomatoes from scratch. You eat two bowls. I smile because I know it is good for you. You ask me to move in. I hesitate, and then refuse. For dessert, we eat caramelized pears with fresh blueberries. You ask for more. I only made two. You reach for a candy bar but, because I believe I know what’s best, I’ve hidden them. We pinky wrestle for it. I win.