Construction 101 - Cassidy Shay (free novels TXT) 📗

When faced with telling your story, there's a question that you ask right away. Where do I begin? Do I begin with the very beginning? Or the first memory? Or do you go back farther, to when your parents met (because, really, isn't that where your story begins?). Well... I like to jump around with my stories. It's sort of chronological order, but it skips around a little bit. So where to start with the story of my construction?
I won't go back all the way to the beginning. That might fit in somewhere later. I'll go back to when I was just a little kid. Back to when the chicken pox unintentionally became a deadly weapon.

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I watch my mother’s back, slightly swaying from side to side, as she leaves me. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises. When she turns the corner at the end of the narrow hallway, she disappears from view.

I look around the large room. It’s a hospital waiting room, filled with normal waiting room furnishings. I’ve been in here plenty of times, with the neutral colors blended into the upholstery on the numerous chairs with wooden arms and legs. The pictures of infants and mothers are all familiar. The walls are covered by a beige wallpaper with a dark green strip forming a border as the paper meets the ceiling. The carpet is cheap, typical industrial flooring. It’s a mix of dark colors all bended together, a maelstrom on the dark sea.

Standing in the doorway, you’d see the receptionist’s desk across the room. Next to the desk is the hallway that my mom walked through only moments ago. In a corner are the kids’ toys.

Blocks, mazes, and coloring books litter the floor around the small table. Stuffed animals and baby dolls for the girls, matchbox cars and dinosaurs for the boys. Kids’ magazines and children’s books sit in a basket. Nothing over there is of any interest to me. I’ve seen it all before, waiting for previous ultrasounds.

But this is different. It’s the first time I’ve been here alone, in this place where the scents of disinfectants and baby wipes hang heavy in the air.

All the other kids here are too young to talk to. They’re too young to be in school, even. I should be at school right now, but I just got over the chicken pox. I still have to wait a couple days before I can go back, so I’m here for now.

That suits me fine, as second grade isn’t all that exciting anyway. I’d much rather be here with my mom, learning about my baby brother, and how the pregnancy is going along.

As I wait, I think about him. Max. I think about the name, about his personality, what he will look like. Will his eyes be blue like Mom’s? Will he have the same thin, red locks that Shelsey has, or the thick black rug that was my hair? Will he be sweet like Jake? Or rough like Dad?

My thoughts are interrupted by voices coming from the hallway. I see my mom’s blond hair and get ready to leave. A second glance at her makes me stop rustling around. I stand up and walk over to her, offer my support. Walking slowly, my mom looks different than she did only minutes ago. Her shoulders are hunched, her hands are shaking. She is deflated, reduced in spirit. She comes to collect me, but we don’t leave. I know that it will be several minutes before she is able to drive home.

I lead her to the chair and help her sit. I’m only seven years old, but I know that right now, the only thing I can do is hold her while she sobs.

Eventually, she composes herself enough to speak the words that I will remember for the rest of my life, words that I can never forget. With two short sentences, only ten words, my world is shattered into pieces too small to gather up.

“There definitely was a baby in there. But not anymore.” She sniffles, wipes her runny nose on her shirt sleeve. She doesn’t have to say what she says next. I already know. She doesn’t want to say it. I’ll take the blame. But still, she explains. “The doctor says it was the chicken pox that probably did it. That, and the stress.” She goes on for a few moments, and then gives up on talking. She dissolves once more, and tears run down her face and soak into the soft cotton of my shirt. I don’t mind, though.

I hold my mother until her tears have driend, leaving streaks down her face. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I know that it’s late. We get home and I tuck my mother into bed so she can mourn the loss of her unborn child.

- - - - - - - - - -

I didn’t cry that day. I knew that my mother needed a rock, a foundation on which she would rebuild her strength. I provided that for her.

My tears from that day are still my prisoners, not yet released. I’m not ready to let them go, not sure if I’ll ever be ready. Crying about it will bring a whole new wave of pain, of remembering what I did to my baby brother, before he even got a glimpse of the world.

So I hold my tears in, even though I know that my chicken pox, my selfish dependency on my mother, was the knife that pierced my brother’s heart, the weapon that killed the innocent one.

After you find your starting point, you're set for a while. You write up some of it. But then... where do you go from there?
This is a problem that people face, not only when telling their story, but with every part of life. Once you get to the end of one chapter of your life, you have to decide how to carry on with the next. When school ends, you're faced with the question of how to spend your summer. Once you quit your first job, how do you go about getting your second?
It takes lots of thinking, and sometimes you try and try and try and it's always the wrong thing. That's okay, though. People make mistakes, right? I've started to lead off this next chapter several times now. I think I finally have the right idea now.
So how am I going to continue to tell people about the construction of me? I'll move back a bit. When I was three, and I met the person who redefined the meaning of "red head."

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Wow. It's so... big.

As Jake and I follow Grandma and Grandpa, I can't help but wonder how people don't get lost in a place this big. I see signs all over the place, with arrows and numbers. Unfortunately, I can't read yet, so they are no help to me. But that's what grandmas and grandpas are for.

We follow them into elevators, down hallways, and past countless doorways. But still, I don't see her. My mom's been here all day, and Grandma explained to me that she's going to have her baby. After all this time, I finally get to see the little creature that's been growing inside my mommy.

Finally, we come to stand in front of a door. I hear my mom's familiar voice, the unknown tone of a doctor, and my dad's deep boom that I know so well. Grandpa leans down to tell us something, but in my excitement I don't listen. I know it's something about being calm, but the details will be a mystery until the day I die. I can't wait to meet my sister.

Grandpa slowly pushes the door open, and Jake and I rush past the line of adults surrounding the bed. When I can see Mom, my jaw drops. She looks like a mess. Her face is red and sweaty, and she looks exhausted. But that's not the only thing. There's something missing, something more important than how tired my mom is. "Where's the baby?"

She points behind me, and everyone turns and looks. At a small table, the nurse is wrapping a tiny pink bundle in a tiny pink blanket. The only thing that isn't pink, it seems, is her hair.

The bright orange fuzz that has sprouted from her skin puts me into shock. In a family of blonds and brunettes, the last thing I expected was a red-head. But there she is, in all her orange and pink glory, ready to meet me.

Of course, she first goes to my mom. "Shelsey Rae," my mom tells the room when she's asked what she'll name the baby. "My little trouble maker." She says this with a smile, though, and I know that she loves Shelsey with the kind of love only a mother can know.

"Can I hold her?" My mom looks at me, smiles, and nods. "Of course you can, honey. But you must be sitting down first." I sat in one of the chairs and waited. When my dad handed me my sister, I learned things that would stick with me forever, things that I've never been able to forget. "Hold her head like this, because her neck's very fragile. Cradle her towards you. They like that." The faceless people around the room put in a couple words of advice each, and I was told that I was a natural.

When I had to hand her over to my brother, I went to talk to my mom. "What do you think, Cass?" she asks me, brushing my bangs out of my eyes as mothers will do.

"I think she's perfect."

When you construct something, you have to fill in the gaps. There'll always be a