A short story by Haley Hadge
She whispered softly to herself so as not to wake the house, but it made no difference; when she reached the bottom of the stairs, little Ellie was waiting, wrapped in an old quilt, half asleep, ready to say goodbye. Mona floated over her daughter’s body, crouched beside her, and brushed the hair away from her face.
Did you leave yet? Ellie asked in a sleep-deprived voice.
No, not yet, my sweet. I’m just about to.
Are you gonna make coffee before you go?
Mhm.
Good, I like the smell.
Are you staying on the floor, or can I help you to the couch?
You can help me to the couch.
Mona braced her legs the way she would to lift a fifty-pound dumbbell at the gym; Ellie was light, but Mona was aging in the least favorable way one can. She was long past thirty, past forty, now banking toward fifty-four, and she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand the feeling of time entwining itself around her bones—taunting her with its cruel inevitability.
She held Ellie like she was an infant. The quilt she wrapped herself in hung loosely—just brushing the floor as Mona danced them from the stairs to the living room, making sure not to bump Ellie’s head on any furniture along the way. Mom, what time will you be home today?
I’m not sure, but it should be sometime between five and six; it depends on traffic. That’s sooooo late, Ellie whined.
I know, sweetie, but you’ll be in school most of the day, so it’ll only feel like we were apart for two hours.
Yeah.
Ellie curled herself against the couch; Mona sat on the edge and rubbed her back until she fell asleep. It was 5 a.m., and school didn’t start till 8:30.
Mona moseyed to the kitchen to rinse out the Mr. Coffee. She filled it with new grounds as a faint nose whistle fluttered through the breaking morning. It percolated. She checked her email, packed her briefcase, and pulled a mug from the cabinet. She poured the entire pitcher of blackened water into her travel mug and pushed down on the lid until she heard — click.
She checked on Ellie one final time before squeaking the garage door open. A tear made its way down her cheek — crawled over her chin. She blew Ellie a silent kiss goodbye.
As Mona backed out of the driveway, Ellie’s eyes fluttered open like a moth acclimating to life outside the cocoon. She sat on her knees, rested her elbows on top of the couch, and leaned her little head against her forearm. She watched her mother speed out of the driveway and into a day that only knew the morning dew. As Mona’s grey sedan sped down their street, Ellie leaned forward until her forehead reached the glass. Just before the car was completely out of sight, a little voice whispered:
I love you.
Haley Hadge has a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Framingham State University. She is a fiction author and a writing tutor at Quinsigamond Community College.
