The Outliers
Page 37
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“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Tell me.” My blood was pumping furiously through me. I felt hyperaware of my surroundings. Of my body. I was tense like I’d never felt before.
In addition to being completely and utterly terrified.
My mother managed a strained chuckle. “Richard wanted to name you Mara. The biblical meaning being bitter or bitterness. It was like everything he did to you was a punishment for my sins against him and he wanted your name to be no different.”
“Sounds about right,” I muttered, rubbing whenever was tied my hands together and against the bark of the tree to try to slice the bindings apart
My mother looked to the sky like she could see the story she was telling me unfolding above her. “When Critter and I first got together we would lay out in his sunflower fields for hours watching the sun set and just listening to the leaves rustle around us. We’d talk and drink wine and get sunburnt on our noses,” she sighed as she remembered happier times then broke out into a coughing fit.
“Mom, mom are you okay?” I called out, hating feeling so helpless.
She nodded. When she regained herself, I blew out a breath of relief.
She continued. “You already know part of the story. But one day there was this little toe-headed boy. No more than six or seven years old. I watched him drive his big wheel into the field and with his little rusted pocket knife he snipped off a flower, waived to Critter, and drove away.” She laughed softly. “When I asked Critter about it he told me that the boy did that almost every week. When I asked what he was doing with the flowers Critter told me that he found the boy in his field one day and he was upset because he was trouble with his mother for swearing.” She shook her head like she still couldn’t believe it herself.
“Critter snipped a flower and gave it to the boy. He told the him to go and apologize to his mother and give her the flower. Well, it must have worked because every week after that Critter said the boy was there with his own knife snipping away. One for his teacher because he told her that math was for people who didn’t have calculators. Another for the lady at the bakery for knocking over her cake display in the window that had taken her all weekend to put together.”
“That’s kind of adorable,” I commented, my heart breaking as my mind replayed the roof collapsing in the library over and over again. Maybe we would have a boy who liked Finn. Maybe he’d never get to meet his father.
While I was breaking inside, mother spoke as if we were on the porch drinking tea.
“It was adorable. Turns out it happened so often that they came to deal where Critter roped off a patch of sunflowers just for the boy to take as he pleased.”
The rising water was now soaking my jeans up to my thighs. I knew had to move faster if I any chance and cutting through my restraints.
My mother looked over to me. She raised her voice above the wind which had picked up. “You were named Sawyer because of Finn. She sighed happily as if we are about to go pick out bridesmaid’s dresses and weren’t about to meet our ends in a murky swamp.
My stomach felt rock hard. I wanted to flee from this nightmare. I held back the scream that threatened to tear from my throat. “Mother why aren’t you panicking?” I managed to ask, swallowing down my fear in one hard gulp.
She smiled over at me. “I’m terrified for you and the life you and your child may never get to live. But me? I came to terms with my own death years ago.”
My mother kept talking. I kept trying to free myself. “Critter and I even joked how if we ever had a girl that she could marry Finn because he already knew what most men would never learn, how to apologize.”
Now it was my eyes tearing up as I imagined a little version of Finn causing problems all around Outskirts and fixing them with a flower and a sly dimpled smile. “How did you get Richard ever agree to the name?”
She looks almost proud when she gave me her answer. “Sawyer means woodcutter in Celtic. All I did was stretch the truth a little. And since I couldn’t flat out recommend the name to him because he’d just swat it down, I told some of the ladies in church, but I told them that Sawyer meant carpenter, like the occupation of Jesus himself. Sure enough, before I was about to give birth to you, the name had made its way to Richard. One day he announced to me that your name was going to be Sawyer, like it had been handed down to him in a vision from God himself.” She began to laugh hysterically.
“That was very sneaky of you, mother. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
She sighed heavily. “I did.” Her eyes became unfocused and suddenly it was like she was staring through me and not seeing me. Her head began to make an orbiting motion, small circles.
“Mom?” I yelled.
No response.
“Mom!” I called out louder.
Her eyes closed and she blinked rapidly like she was trying to clear her mind. “Sawyer?” She asked, and then her eyes closed and her chin fell to her chest revealing an angry looking bloody wound on the top of her head. She needed help.
Soon.
“Stay with me, Mom,” I called over to her. The water was now above our waists and still rising.
Her eyes remained closed, but she spoke again, only she sounded like she was far away instead of right in front of me. “Mom,” she said. “I… I like it when you call me that. It’s much better than Mother.”
Then silence.
“Mom, Mom!” I yelled. Hoping for at the very least another incoherent answer.
Still no answer.
“Moooooom!” I groaned as the water rose and was now at chest level. If my mother stayed in her current position she’d be breathing in the murky water within the next few minutes. “You need to pick your head up, Mom. Pick it up!” My yells turn into screams.
I pulled at the restraints tying my hands together and growled when they didn’t give yet again.
I needed to stay calm. Think. Clear my mind.
With the water rising all around us and the fear of losing my mother and my unborn child’s lives, I harnessed my panic and attempted to find some clarity amongst the chaos.
I’d grown up in a home where the religion was strict and the enforcement of both God and my father’s laws were even stricter. I’d bowed my head thousands of times and recited words of faith because I was told they needed to be said. But I’d never truly prayed. I never put any meaning behind the words I was saying. I never believed them enough to be true or had the kind of faith that others found easy to trust in blindly.
In addition to being completely and utterly terrified.
My mother managed a strained chuckle. “Richard wanted to name you Mara. The biblical meaning being bitter or bitterness. It was like everything he did to you was a punishment for my sins against him and he wanted your name to be no different.”
“Sounds about right,” I muttered, rubbing whenever was tied my hands together and against the bark of the tree to try to slice the bindings apart
My mother looked to the sky like she could see the story she was telling me unfolding above her. “When Critter and I first got together we would lay out in his sunflower fields for hours watching the sun set and just listening to the leaves rustle around us. We’d talk and drink wine and get sunburnt on our noses,” she sighed as she remembered happier times then broke out into a coughing fit.
“Mom, mom are you okay?” I called out, hating feeling so helpless.
She nodded. When she regained herself, I blew out a breath of relief.
She continued. “You already know part of the story. But one day there was this little toe-headed boy. No more than six or seven years old. I watched him drive his big wheel into the field and with his little rusted pocket knife he snipped off a flower, waived to Critter, and drove away.” She laughed softly. “When I asked Critter about it he told me that the boy did that almost every week. When I asked what he was doing with the flowers Critter told me that he found the boy in his field one day and he was upset because he was trouble with his mother for swearing.” She shook her head like she still couldn’t believe it herself.
“Critter snipped a flower and gave it to the boy. He told the him to go and apologize to his mother and give her the flower. Well, it must have worked because every week after that Critter said the boy was there with his own knife snipping away. One for his teacher because he told her that math was for people who didn’t have calculators. Another for the lady at the bakery for knocking over her cake display in the window that had taken her all weekend to put together.”
“That’s kind of adorable,” I commented, my heart breaking as my mind replayed the roof collapsing in the library over and over again. Maybe we would have a boy who liked Finn. Maybe he’d never get to meet his father.
While I was breaking inside, mother spoke as if we were on the porch drinking tea.
“It was adorable. Turns out it happened so often that they came to deal where Critter roped off a patch of sunflowers just for the boy to take as he pleased.”
The rising water was now soaking my jeans up to my thighs. I knew had to move faster if I any chance and cutting through my restraints.
My mother looked over to me. She raised her voice above the wind which had picked up. “You were named Sawyer because of Finn. She sighed happily as if we are about to go pick out bridesmaid’s dresses and weren’t about to meet our ends in a murky swamp.
My stomach felt rock hard. I wanted to flee from this nightmare. I held back the scream that threatened to tear from my throat. “Mother why aren’t you panicking?” I managed to ask, swallowing down my fear in one hard gulp.
She smiled over at me. “I’m terrified for you and the life you and your child may never get to live. But me? I came to terms with my own death years ago.”
My mother kept talking. I kept trying to free myself. “Critter and I even joked how if we ever had a girl that she could marry Finn because he already knew what most men would never learn, how to apologize.”
Now it was my eyes tearing up as I imagined a little version of Finn causing problems all around Outskirts and fixing them with a flower and a sly dimpled smile. “How did you get Richard ever agree to the name?”
She looks almost proud when she gave me her answer. “Sawyer means woodcutter in Celtic. All I did was stretch the truth a little. And since I couldn’t flat out recommend the name to him because he’d just swat it down, I told some of the ladies in church, but I told them that Sawyer meant carpenter, like the occupation of Jesus himself. Sure enough, before I was about to give birth to you, the name had made its way to Richard. One day he announced to me that your name was going to be Sawyer, like it had been handed down to him in a vision from God himself.” She began to laugh hysterically.
“That was very sneaky of you, mother. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
She sighed heavily. “I did.” Her eyes became unfocused and suddenly it was like she was staring through me and not seeing me. Her head began to make an orbiting motion, small circles.
“Mom?” I yelled.
No response.
“Mom!” I called out louder.
Her eyes closed and she blinked rapidly like she was trying to clear her mind. “Sawyer?” She asked, and then her eyes closed and her chin fell to her chest revealing an angry looking bloody wound on the top of her head. She needed help.
Soon.
“Stay with me, Mom,” I called over to her. The water was now above our waists and still rising.
Her eyes remained closed, but she spoke again, only she sounded like she was far away instead of right in front of me. “Mom,” she said. “I… I like it when you call me that. It’s much better than Mother.”
Then silence.
“Mom, Mom!” I yelled. Hoping for at the very least another incoherent answer.
Still no answer.
“Moooooom!” I groaned as the water rose and was now at chest level. If my mother stayed in her current position she’d be breathing in the murky water within the next few minutes. “You need to pick your head up, Mom. Pick it up!” My yells turn into screams.
I pulled at the restraints tying my hands together and growled when they didn’t give yet again.
I needed to stay calm. Think. Clear my mind.
With the water rising all around us and the fear of losing my mother and my unborn child’s lives, I harnessed my panic and attempted to find some clarity amongst the chaos.
I’d grown up in a home where the religion was strict and the enforcement of both God and my father’s laws were even stricter. I’d bowed my head thousands of times and recited words of faith because I was told they needed to be said. But I’d never truly prayed. I never put any meaning behind the words I was saying. I never believed them enough to be true or had the kind of faith that others found easy to trust in blindly.
