The Crowe: A Narrative Fiction

Night, with mum and dad huddled on either side of the kitchen table, scribbling on pads of paper, and dad punching in sums on the calculator with his clumsy, blunt fingers. Night, with long discussions in low voices that stopped if we into the room. Night, dad with a fresh beer at his elbow and an empty on the floor beside him, holding onto a flake of chocolate like a cigar, twirling the thing between his thumb and forefinger, crunching onto it and shards flying everywhere. Night, when Mum and Dad had sank what was left of the insurance money and all their savings into a little old town house and a car franchise, signing all the leases, contracts, papers. Night, when Dad was his own boss, answering to no one. And overnight, when the journey abruptly turned its direction. Down in town, a high speed railway station had emerged. But dad couldn’t go anywhere, he was trapped by the crossroads. Juggled a few part time jobs, handy work around town limping in pain. No more notions of independence. All he could do was try his best to make it work. And he did. We even did some paper runs with

As I jotted down the answer to my geometry homework, I felt the vibrations of the floor trembling beneath my feet from the deafening screams of my parents. I continued my work, as I go uninterrupted by the daily routine argument. One day, I didn’t hear the screaming anymore, which was one of the biggest abnormalities in this household. I slunk halfway down the stairs and stretched my neck over the banister to catch a glimpse of what had happened without getting caught. The next thing I knew my older brother was standing by my side, his curiosity piqued. My mom broke the silence by peering her head around the corner of the living room, her eyes locked onto mine. As my brother and my cover were blown, we walked gingerly to the couch and sat down. I watched my mom’s stone cold face quiver out the words, “We...are....divorcing”. My face froze as if I was in a cartoon show. I tried to

I was sitting in a blue chair in the kitchen, confused. My brother was sitting to my right. I looked into my dad’s eyes; they were pained and full of sadness. He started speaking to us, but I only remember hearing the last sentence: “Dadi has a terminal neurological condition, called PSP.” Shock rushed through my body as I processed his words. Every memory of my grandparents, living life to the fullest within their quaint house in the Pittsburgh suburbs, rushed through my mind as I tried to hold on to the past.

My mother and father sat downstairs and talked, Bella sitting with them, while I folded my clothes and put them into my chipped white wooden dresser. I could hear them murmuring between themselves, but I couldn’t hear specific words. My mother came up the stairs about ten minutes later as I was putting the last of my clothes into my dresser. Her five feet two-inch frame stood just inside my door with a Mona Lisa smile. Her eyes were sad and I could tell she was trying to hold back tears. I was confused as to why, and I was going to ask what was wrong, but she told me that my father had something he wanted to talk to me about.

As I woke up in the afternoon, I couldn’t wait to get to my fathers house. My father, Mr. Boddy, is not my real father because I was adopted. My father had sent out invitations to his 30th birthday party. I was so exited to get to his house, because I had just made a new medicinal discovery. I just couldn't wait to get to my fathers house. I got my bags packed, and headed for Tudor Mansion. I rushed out of the house, I had to see my father, its been so long.

When we made it there I got out of our car and opened the door. I went down the aisle searching for the one I wanted. I finally found the one I wanted, so I checked out all of the features and observed it from the front the back and the sides. Somehow I could afford it. “Can I please buy it?” I questioned my mother.

I opened the brown, dull door and found a giant smile, stretched ear to ear with my grandma’s face sitting behind it. My grandparents rushed into our house and my grandpa gave me a hug so tight that I could barely breathe. After they got settled in, my parents tragically walked out the door with their tightly-packed suitcases. My brother and I gave them each a huge hug before they speeded away for a serene vacation. My grandparents sat on the old grey sofa and bombarded my brother and I with questions about our current life. It was time for dinner and instead of the gourmet meals my parents usually prepare, Evan and I gorged on toaster-oven chicken fingers and microwave mac-and-cheese, the only meal my grandmother could perfect. I got ready to go to sleep and sat on my bed, deep in thought. I pondered on what my parents were doing, what they were eating for dinner, and what fancy hotel they would be staying at. I was happy that they finally caught a break from their stressful lives, but I also could not wait for them to return. Days passed by, and each day followed the same routine; Evan and I went to school, came home, did homework, ate dinner, and went to bed. On Wednesday afternoon, I came home and my brother was watching a basketball game, clenching the remote in his left hand. I complained that he was watching too much television and he fought back with explaining that he was older and had

Peering hopefully out the window yet again, I watched as my dad eagerly entered his truck without hesitation. As loud as a distant gunshot, its engine interrupted the previously calm evening. Down the driveway and onto the dusty, old dirt road, he disappeared to a familiar place where he remained until dark. I patiently waited for his return so I could ask about what he had seen. Imagining the beautiful scenery that was described to me provided a connection unlike any I have ever had before with my dad. Spending as much time as possible together was important to me; I was finally ready to accomplish this activity with him and make him proud.

"Emery, go with grandma to the kitchen, she baked some cookies for you," I whisper, glancing down at her with a grin. The skittering of my daughter's shoes on the wooden floor mask her squeals of excitement. The worn, familiar couch moans as I collapse onto it, taking in the entirety of the house; it hasn't changed much at all since I moved out. The overwhelming joy I felt when moving here is something that I remember vividly. My dad got a major promotion, allowing us to move into the house we had always dreamed of living in. The confinement of our old two bedroom apartment had come to an end, and I was ecstatic. Of course, my own future was rapidly approaching, and with that came the fear of failure. This fear resonated particularly strong

“Coming!” I yell back as I put my phone and earbuds in my bag. I run down the polished wooden stairs, as the aroma of bacon and pancakes fills my nose as my stomach growls. I walk into the kitchen and see my little brother, Will, sitting at the table looking through my food and he slips a 20 dollar bill into his pocket.

The freezing cold seeped into my clothing and made me shiver. I was finally here. I slowly raised my hand to the button to ring my dad’s apartment. I was very reluctant to be here all alone not knowing what I had gotten myself into. My dad greeted me with the brightest smile,telling me to set my things in my new room. Nancy, his girlfriend, smiled warmly, greeted and asking me if I needed any help with anything to ask her. I set all my things into my new room. Christmas lights hung by the window and a twin sized bed was put in the left corner. A small closet was tucked to the left side of the door. I had set all my belongings onto the floor. I sat on the bed and thought through what had just happened.

There I was sitting, hoping I would come closer to finishing a dreadful class assignment, pushing a cheap pencil that could give my fingers skin peeling blisters in a few more strokes. It was a frigid Saturday night during October, I looked out the window smeared with water due to condensation and noticed the sky was a rich navy, smoked clouds began to settle behind the steep mountains and the wind was giving a gentle cry. Ruddy brown leaves were twisting off their branches and rocked back and forth until I imagined listening to them make a hushed scratch on the asphalt. The night was too beautiful to ignore, so I tossed my pencil over my shoulder and thought I deserved to enjoy my weekend. The homework made me forget I was hungry from all

I could almost imagine my mom sleeping next to him. I fought back tears and looked away so I wouldn’t be tempted to crawl in and snuggle with him as I had done so many times after my mom vanished. I snatched an apple from the fruit bowl, grabbed a box of Tweeties, a cracker-like snack my dad had invented himself, and stuffed them into the bag. Although it was still pitch black outside, I could tell from the porch light that it was drizzling slightly. My mom used to call that pizzling. I smiled in spite of myself thinking that in a matter of days I might hear her use that word again.

Every day, even Sundays, my father got up early and dressed in the freezing cold. With his dry, cracked hands that ached from hard outdoor labor, he would light the fire in the fireplace. No one ever thanked him for the sacrifices he made. I would wake up and hear the house thawing, heating from the blaze of the fire. When the rooms were warm, he would call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the atmosphere of a house haunted by years of anger and pain. I spoke indifferently to him, even though he was the one who always drove out the cold and polished my shoes. I was young then; what did I know of quiet love and thankless sacrifice?

I sat in my room, staring out the foggy window. All I could see was the endless trees covered in bright shades of red, orange, and yellow. I wonder what this year will be like… I wondered silently. Suddenly I heard footsteps climbing the stairs, breaking me from my thoughts. I thrust myself back under the covers, frantically entangling my legs. My door opened and my mother stepped into the room. Lightly she shook my shoulder, peeking through a squinted eye I could see she was still half asleep herself. “Jackelyn,” she sniffled, “get up, first day of school.” I sat upward and pretended to be tired. I yawned, “Mom you don’t sound good.” She shook her head, “Jack you worry ‘bout me too much honey.” “Well-” She cut me off before I could say anything else. “Jackelyn, for the love of God, it’s a head cold.” I looked down. “It’s-it’s just that dad…” She lifted my chin with a bony finger, “Look honey, I miss your father too, but you need to toughen up. I promise I’m not leaving anytime soon.” I groaned, I could never handle mushy stuff. “Ok get ready fuzz ball.” I raised my eyebrow, confused. “What?” She pointed at the mirror and shut the door behind her. I glanced over at it, and saw my black hair in a giant heap of fuzz. Turning away, I looked back at myself. I had my father’s brown eyes and black hair that I kept at my shoulders and my mother’s tall, bony body and pale complexion. Thinking about my father, my eyes welled and I turned away.