Short Story: Your Inner Child Calls

There are sparkles floating in and out of a beam of light. The light is transformative as it dances from shades of red to orange, orange to yellow, and then back to red. It is a fire flickering behind my eyes, as if I am floating with the sparkles, but under the water - only if the water was actually made of flame. The sparkles sway gently in and out of the shadow, playing with the light in which they are suspended. 

Suspended sparkles, I think as I raise my hand to push through them like a child grabs for sand on a soft summer beach. 

The light through the dull window pane is a pocket of warmth in the cold and dimly lit room. I am sitting criss-cross-applesause on a worn green rug. Well, it used to be green. It is more of a decaying crape myrtle color - not quite a healthy green glow, not quite ready to descend from the tree in the winter’s chill. I run my other open palm over the carpet in my parents’ bedroom. The sparkles of dust settle into the beam of sunlight. They still float on, weaving a network between the sun and the shadow. 

The scent of cedar and ivory soap swirls in my nostrils. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath through my nose. I open my eyes to look around and notice the faded rose colored duvet on my parents’ bed. The softness looks inviting. The cedar dresser is a deep red in contrast, almost brown in the dimming light. The sloped walls are a faded eggshell white, now the color of pale skin in its aged state. Through my nose, I inhale deeply. 

That’s the smell of childhood, I think. A memory cascades. It boils forth with the faintest hint of a cracked egg yoke on a Sesame Street plate. Something else tickles my senses. I inhale again. Chlorine. I know this smell. 

The smell of chlorine is unmistakable after spending most of my childhood at swim practice year-round, sitting on a pool deck, a humid fog of the water swirling around my homework. The chlorine caked towels at home are stiff from overwashing, yet they still carry the familiar scent. I recall, It smells like my mom in the mornings when she would swim before the sunrise. 

With both palms now on the faded carpet, I close my eyes to enjoy this memory. Me, my mom, my sister, sometimes my dad at swim meets. Just being with her in her happy place. 

A quick start and my eyes fly open. The softest thump can barely be heard. I look around at the interruption of the serene. Nothing is there but the sparkling dust that dances before me. 

Another whisper of a thump. Is it the echo of a pillow being fluffed after washing? Or could it be a gently tossed pillow on the bed?

A tinkering, nonabrasive, fairy laughter of two giggling girls emerges from the otherwise quiet dusty rose duvet. 

Hehehe! I wait for another. Heh heh… The young laughter increases. 

I raise my head to peek over the side of the bed. As the darkness around the room grows faint, two beings are calmly growing more and more distinct. Two ghost-like figures of little blonde girls are gradually coming into focus. And - 

Wait. I think I know this scene. There is a lump under the blanket.

The thumping sound of the pillow hitting the mattress increases in volume as the memory emerges into view. 

I notice, too, that the scent of the eggs and the soap has become more apparent. The shower can be heard hammering in the adjacent bathroom. I notice the steam streaming into the bedroom, a strong smell of chlorine wafts with it. The soft beam of mellow light through the window has gained strength with this unlocking of memory. A clear glow begins to crawl across the room, illuminating the now seeped-with-emerald carpet. The dust from the dawn has dissipated from the dim room. 

The voices get stronger. Hahaha! No, Daddy! I said STOP! The plea comes through with an infectious laugh. 

Ok, ok! You’re right. Stop means stop. I guess I’ll go back to sleep now.

I can see the clock on the far side of the bed from where I am now perched on my knees. The numbers seven, zero, and four blink back in a vibrant neon red. I can hear the shower still running. 

Now in full inundated form, I can see the two girls on their knees, as well. If they can see me, they don’t let on. 

The figure under the covers pulls the duvet over his tousled blonde head. He smashes a pillow to his face. To me, from my perch, I see the girls look at one another. They’re wearing matching jammies. I see a short sleeve shirt with a mermaid in front of a blue airbrushed wave. The shorts they both wear are the same shade blue as the mermaid background, and a yellow fish serves as the polka-dotted pattern. The youngest of the two pulls both hands over her mouth and lets out a AH Heh. She doesn’t think the man can hear her. 

The oldest scolds, SHHHH!! She isn’t any quieter than the youngest, but she slowly creeps her way to the pillow covering the man’s face. To my astonishment, she places two palms on the pillow. She looks at the younger one and nods. Together, they chant: 

MAKE A FUNNY FACE! 

I lean in on my knees. I remember this. I know this. This moment. I know it. I feel my heart racing. The lines of the room become all the more tangible. The sounds of giggles and the shower running are more defined than ever before. The air is thick with the scent of a memory long left to gather dust. The room has a warmth that grows in strength. I am now tasting the sweet egg yolk as it drips from the buttery toast. My mom is in the shower after her morning swim. My dad is in the bed playing the iconic game of Make A Funny Face with the pillow and my sister. The Saturday morning breakfast of eggs and toast that dad would make before mom took us to the library. 

As I stand to acknowledge the moments of joy my inner child holds dear, a piercing alert blares through my head and clouds my memory. 

ERH! ERH! ERH! 

I open my eyes. 

ERH! ERH! ERH! 

The same but different red flashing numbers blink back at me in real time: seven zero four. 

Written by, Amy Harrison