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Topping the Willow

By Lori Closter

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(Please excuse formatting, took it from a pdf)
Ten years ago

Midnight. In a large colonial outside Manhattan, five-
year-old Brittany Warner lay awake thinking about
death. Just like last night, and the night before. The room
was dim, made even darker by the lace canopy over her
four-poster bed. It was as if she lay in a narrow box …
maybe one that was about to go into the earth forever,
like a grave.
She peered at the bookshelves filled with her stuffed
bunnies and teddies, a few picture books, the justice scales
hanging by thin brass chains, the unused tea set with its
painted blue flowers … but none of it helped. The clock
on her bureau, with its two bells on top like ears, lit up
the room with its green numbers. Telling time was still
a mystery, but she knew, because her mommy and daddy
had told her, that both hands pointing straight up meant
either it was lunchtime—which it wasn’t—or very, very
late. Which made her tummy feel sick.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. The minutes of her life were ticking away. Somewhere downstairs, the tall, pale-blue grandfather clock began to chime in as well. One, two, three … ten, eleven, twelve. And the air conditioner hummed through it all, as if it didn’t care. Would she know if she were going to die today, or next week? She was perfectly healthy, but …
She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed away a tear. Her mommy didn’t like her to cry, but she needed … something. Clutching the soft, silky edge of her blankie, she slid from her bed and landed on her bunny slippers. They couldn’t help either, so she kicked them aside. Barefoot, the tattered blanket dragging behind her, she crept out of her bedroom and down the thick carpet of the hall toward her parents’ bedroom. She passed the same lighted paintings, polished tables, and tall vases with dried flowers she saw every day, but was careful to look straight ahead. Who knew what scary things might wait to pounce on her?
Ahead of her, Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom door seemed to call to her, its creamy paint shining in the dim light. She raised a shaking hand and tapped. Waited.
No answer. They must be asleep. But she couldn’t go back to her dark room and awful thoughts without her daddy. Her heart thumping wildly, she knocked louder and waited again. Still nothing. If she tried again, Mommy might be angry. She jammed her thumb into her mouth and turned away. Took one tiny step, then another. Halfway to her own room, she stopped.
“Brittany?” Daddy’s voice, muffled with sleep.
She whirled and raced toward the shiny door. Turning the knob, she pushed the door open, edged a foot into the room, and stopped. This room was even darker than hers. Holding her blankie across her chest, she inched forward.
“It’s me,” she whispered.
A few feet away, Daddy yawned and switched on his bedside lamp. “What is it, punkin’?” Next to him, on the far side of the bed, her mommy adjusted her blue eye mask and flipped onto her side, facing the wall.
Brittany burst into tears. “I can’t stop thinking!”
Her mother gave an impatient grunt and tugged the comforter around her shoulders. Daddy raised himself onto his elbows and glanced, his eyes blurry, at the nightstand clock. His eyebrows came together.
He sighed. “Again?”
Brittany gulped, trying to calm down like Mommy had taught her. “Always, Daddy. It’s like a big black monster swoops down and all I think about is—dying. How after you die, you never ever wake up again. And the whole world goes on forever without you.” She swallowed a sob and peeked at the still form at the far side of the bed. “I wish you and Mommy didn’t tell me,” she wailed.
Silence. Her daddy blinked, his eye sockets big and black above his pale, bony cheeks. “Brittie, is this about that dead possum—”
“No. Why do people have to die?”
A pause. He shot a look at her mommy, the elastic of her eye mask tight against her smooth blonde hair. Brittany clutched her blankie. Her own gingery braids were a wild mess, as usual. Brushing out tangles was a job both she and Mommy hated.
“Punkin’, we’ve talked about this, haven’t we?” Daddy said. “You’ll live a long, long time, and so will Mommy and Daddy.” His fingers twisted the edge of the comforter.
She stared back. “And then—”
The blanket twitched in his hand. “Well, when people are very, very old, they become … tired. They’ve lived so very long, and done so many wonderful things, they’re ready for a rest. So they lie down, real peaceful, and it’s just like going to sleep.” He eyed her. “Doesn’t that sound nice? It won’t happen for ages, of course.”
“But are you sure I’ll live ’til I’m old, Daddy?” Her small thumb found her mouth.
From the far side of the bed came a long sigh. “It’s late,” her mommy said through gritted teeth and the muffle of blankets.
“Well, I can’t be positive,” her dad said in a rush. “But most people—”
Her mommy threw off the duvet and swung her legs to the floor. They were bare below her silky pajama shorts, and the flowery scent of her body lotion filled the room. Gardenia. Brittany had tried it once, smoothing it onto her skin the way her mother did, but it made her sneeze. Even now, her nose felt tickly.
“I have court tomorrow, remember? We can’t do this now.” Mommy shrugged into her fluffy white spa robe, yanked the belt tight like she was mad, and lifted her glossy hair from the collar. “Brittie, you’re too old for this. You’re five now. And take that thumb out of your mouth, how often do I—never mind, let’s get you back to your room.” Rounding the end of the bed, she bent to remove the thumb from Brittany’s mouth. But the child resisted. The mother tugged harder. The thumb popped out with a blip, and she folded Brittany’s spitty hand in her large, dry one. She gave Brittany’s dad an odd look. “Don’t wait up,” she said.
She led Brittany into the hall, leaving the door open. But when they’d gone just a few steps, the blanket rustled from inside the bedroom and they heard the gentle thud of feet hitting the carpet. Then Daddy was standing in the doorway, his hair rumpled.
“Agatha?”
Mommy’s nose pinched white. “What.” It wasn’t a question.
“I just—” He stopped.
She blew out a breath. “Stay here,” she ordered Brittany. She pushed past Daddy into the bedroom, turning to pull the door half-shut behind them.
The little girl listened from the hall, her ears bunny-sharp. “Should we tell her something about heaven?” her father whispered. “She could decide for herself later.”
Her mother snorted. “You want to give back her pacifier too? It’s ridiculous, Steven. I won’t lie to a child.”
“But we already are.” His voice dropped even lower. “We have no guarantee how long any of us will live, or what happens afterward.” A pause. “She’s upset almost every night now.”
Mommy stomped out of the bedroom, her tall form ghostly and her beautiful face stormy. She gripped Brittany’s wrist and towed her down the shadowy hall. “Trust me,” she threw to Daddy over her shoulder. “She’ll live.”
Back in her room, alone again, the child lay rigid on her back. Holding her tummy, she stared upward. The white canopy looked blacker than before. As if she were inside a grave.
Mommy doesn’t understand.

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