Dannika Dark: Seven Years

Apparently, his dick had eyes for someone else.

When I showed up at my mom’s house the next morning, it felt like the funeral all over again. The yellow sun glimmered off the black mailboxes, and a light breeze knocked some of the hot pink blooms off the crepe myrtle trees. It created the fantasy of a summer snowfall, and I stood on the cracked sidewalk staring at the front yard, remembering the tire swing that used to hang from the oak tree on the right side of the lawn. Wes had loved spinning me around on that thing until I got dizzy. Sometimes I could still hear his laugh.

The door swung open and little Maizy came dashing out of the house in a bright yellow dress that was three shades darker than her hair. “Lexi! Lexi!”

As soon as she made it to me, her exuberant face tightened with all kinds of excitement. Her blue eyes widened with anticipation when she saw my right arm curved behind my back.

I bent over and whispered in her ear, “Don’t tell Mom.” As soon as I brought my hand around, she grabbed the bag of assorted candy, giggled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and stuffed it inside the top of her dress. I snorted, following close behind as she ran back inside.

Maizy was the result of my brother’s passing. Sometimes good things come out of tragic events, and she reminded us of that every day. I’d never seen a child so full of life and happiness as my Maze. Our parents weren’t very sprightly to be dealing with a new baby, but they’d had Weston when mom was sixteen, so they weren’t that old. The pregnancy came not long after his death, and Mom called Maizy her little miracle baby because five months later, she had a medical scare and underwent a hysterectomy.

“Mom,” I called out, “I’m here.”

“Yes, I just saw my well-endowed six-year-old dash into her bedroom and thought as much,” she said, coming out of the kitchen. “I’m going to assume that’s a bag of candy tucked in her dress and not an early growth spurt.”

She was wearing a dark blue dress with a black belt and a silver necklace I gave her two years ago on her birthday. Mom had been lightening her shoulder-length hair since it started going grey and put it in rollers at night so it would hold a curl. We were close to the same height but looked nothing alike. I hadn’t inherited her generous cup size or her Montana-blue eyes.

“You really need to stop bringing that girl candy. I’m too old to be chasing after her when she’s all sugared up.”

I kissed her cheek and breezed into the kitchen. “Oh come on, Mom. She just turned six. Who else is going to spoil her if not her big sis?”

Her kitchen had pale blue tile on the floor and a matching backsplash behind the sink. The cabinets were red oak and lined the wall above the counter all the way to the window on the left. Mom loved blue and the kitchen looked like a bluebird’s nest. Tiny vines branched out across the wallpaper like an enchanted forest, but everything else was accented in blue, including the knitted toaster cover she’d bought at a craft fair. I reached in the fridge and grabbed a bottle of cold water.

“Lexi, it’s just going to be us today.”

I stared at the counter. “Why?”

“Your grandparents put their foot down.” Mom sighed deeply, painfully. “I had a long talk with your grandma and she said it’s too difficult and they don’t want to relive this every year.”

I whirled around. “Relive the fact they had a grandson?” I said in a hurt voice.

She calmly placed her hands on my shoulders. The dinner had become a tradition, although I was usually upset by the end of the party.

“ We’re his family, Lexi. That’s all that matters. If your father were here, he might have agreed with them. I called off the dinner, so no one will be coming. It’s just going to be a quiet day with us three girls.”

I should have been happy because dinner always consisted of a few aunts and uncles, not to mention dysfunctional cousins I saw only at funerals or weddings, and several neighbors my parents had known for years. My biggest complaint was that no one talked about Weston at the party. It was just a casual get-together and then a sorrowful “damn shame that happened” goodbye at the door. Now it felt like this was evidence that no one really cared about remembering him but us.

Which was a lie. At some point, people had to move on from grief and tragedy. I knew this, and yet I struggled more than anyone with accepting his death. Over the years, my mom had acquired a coping mechanism I just didn’t have when it came to Wes. He’d been more than a brother—he’d been my protector, my friend, and someone who would be there for me long after our parents left this earth. Wes and I had been as close as siblings could be. I’d confided to him that he was going to walk me down the aisle because our dad would probably pick his butt and then give some embarrassingly long speech about how I’d never amount to anything but a barefoot and pregnant wife. Dad had never been the most encouraging man, and maybe that’s why Wes took over that role in looking out for me.

Three years after Wes died, my dad left us. All of us, including Maizy—who would never grow up with a father. Maybe it was for the better, all things considered, but it stung. Mom was in constant denial, and it showed in the way she talked about him like he was deceased and not living in Florida. At least, that’s where we last heard he was. I tried thirty-six times to contact him via phone and mail, but never got through.

Sometimes I wondered if Wes would have liked the idea that Dad split. I should have been upset, but we girls made a great team. Mom was much too young to retire, so she held a part-time job in order to take care of Maizy. I’d helped as often as I could in the beginning because daycare was too expensive. Now that Maizy was in school, life was a little easier.

Aside from our family tragedies, we led normal lives. I talked to Wes in my head a lot and didn’t pine over his death, except on this day, because it had always been made into a big production. It was the only time I visited his grave, because seeing it made his absence too real.

Maizy’s white shoes clicked on the blue tile and I lifted her up onto the cabinet, twirling my fingers in her blond hair. It wasn’t bright like April’s—more like the color of sunshine smeared across the floor at sunrise.

“You look garjus today. Like a little diva fashion model.”

She squealed out a giggle. “Mommy bought me a pretty ring. See?”

Maizy held up her little fingers so I could admire the pink stone. I winked at my mom. “Mommy has good taste.”

“Someday, I’m going to marry a prince and he’s going to give me one just like this.”

I softly kissed her cheek. “Yes, you will. Now why don’t we… race to the car!” I splayed my fingers across her belly, tickling until she screamed, jumped down, and went flying across the house.

“I’m going to beat you!” she called out.

“Lexi!” my mom scolded. “The whole neighborhood can hear that child when she screams.”

“Well, guess that means you don’t need the tornado sirens. Just give her a bullhorn and we can put her on the roof—”

Mom popped me on the butt with her hand and I chuckled. I might have been in my late twenties, but that woman still saw me as the smart-mouthed little girl who once stood up on a counter at a department store, folded my arms, and announced to everyone that perfume made you smell like a stinky pig. It was a protest because my mom wanted to buy me a bottle of the little girl’s stuff that smelled like overripe bananas.

Ever since then, I’ve despised bananas.