SHORT STORY: "Tropic Sadness" by Shanice Skyers

"Tropic Sadness"
By Shanice Skyers 



              It’s a Saturday morning and the sun is shining through the windows that have been worn and swollen from the hurricane that finally past on last week. The hurricane was brutal, and I was scared that the windows would crack or the door would be ripped angrily from its crusty hinges, but it didn’t, and I was thankful that even though the hurricane had uprooted all the trees in my neighborhood, disconnected all the cable wires, and sent the rooftops of small zinc houses flying in the wind and rendering some homeless, my house was left mostly unharmed. The minor damages suffered a small crack could be seen now through the ugly brown swollen windows.
            The sunlight through the window is aggressive and refuses to set me free from the captivity of its assault on my eyes. This effort by the sun is successful as I sluggishly sit up in my bed. The first thing that catches my eye is the outfit my mother has chosen for me, which consists of a brown colored Capri and a green and white polka dotted top, that exudes youth and happiness. I scowl at this outfit, arose, then walk to the door where I knew I would find my mother pinning the clothes on the line she had just finished washing.
            “Shanice!” my mother called “get yourself out of bed, it’s your birthday so you have to get up and thank the Lord for the beautiful day, plus your party is this afternoon,” mother exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes, Ma has always been excited enough for both of us on past birthday’s but this time, I think my excitement nearly matches hers, but not quite.

            “If you don’t get up, I’m going to throw a bucket of cold water on you,” mother declared, I snort of course; she would use threats if I didn’t comply.
            I opened the also swollen wooden door with a firm pull and this proved useless as the door refused to move, I pulled again determined to see my mother, for I knew she would be happy, because my father was due home today from Guantanamo Bay for my birthday. After this effort the door finally swings open to reveal the bright, hot Jamaican morning I have become too used to. The sun hurts my unaccustomed eyes and I blinked rapidly waiting for them to become comfortable. When they grew accustomed I opened my eyes to the beauty now set before me, three butterflies were flying in a group, they all shared the common color of yellow but the biggest one had black spots snaking around its wings and the others had blue outlining around each wing, they looked spectacular as then flew together, as a family, and I imagined them having normal human conversations as they flew by and busily landed on various trees and flowers. I imagined they talked about common things, like what flower the like best, or the latest gossip regarding the new cocoon, and what the butterfly may look like.


            “Little girl, do you know how long I’ve been calling you? Stop staring at those butterflies and come give me a hug, they’re minding their own business, while you’re their staring at them like you’re looking at the face of God,” mother said.
            “Ma I’m coming! It’s my birthday so you have to be nice to me, and stop screaming the neighbors already think we’re crazy, you yelling at 9:30 in the morning, doesn’t positively contribute,” I answered.
            Looking on, I also saw Sandy, my five month old dog, as she saw me she ran to me moving her tail happily from one side to the other. She had uncontrollable white hair with deep embedded brown spots and she looked fairly odd, her eyes were chestnut brown and she had sharp uncommon features. She was bred by this old woman that children mostly avoided for she was always frowning and spoke to no one. Children often told stories of her murdering men and cooking them and feeding each man to her various pets, such as chickens, pigs, goats, and dogs.

When she died, her landlady sold her things and from that sale came Sandy, I’m not sure what kind of bred she is, but when I first saw her, all small and adorable, I had to get her, and I was determined to whine all day, and kick and scream, until my mother got her for me, but thankfully kicking and screaming wasn’t necessary, and now as she reaches me, I pat her head, and descend the steps, in search of the crazy screaming lady.

“Hey my darling, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!” mother screamed.

With this, I run into her arm, and wonder if I’ll ever love anyone, as much as I love my mother. She smelled of detergent, clean with a hint of bleach, her hands were withered, and looks as if she had gone swimming for too many hours. Her hair, a high sitting ponytail, engulfed me in warmness as the sun shone in her brown eyes.

            “Are you excited for your fathers visit?” mother inquired.

“Sure, I hope he actually comes this time,” I remarked not mirroring her excitement. She sensed this but ignored it.

“Did you like the outfit I picked out for you?” she asked

“It was alright, but did you have to pick girly, baby clothes, for my birthday outfit?” I asked.

She frowned then remarked: “You are a baby, you’re my baby,” I sighed heavily, of course she would use that line. She laughed at this then kissed my cheek again. I freed myself from her arms and went to sit on the verandah, and zoned out, thinking of my birthday party and my father's visit. I was snapped from my reverie, when car tires could be heard running over gravel.

"Ma!" I screamed, "Dad is here! Look his car his coming."

She immediately ran in to the house to change, for she didn't want dad to see her in the clothes she had been washing in. As the car approached, I immediately noticed something was wrong, my father was not in the car; yet Charles, his usual driver approached the house and parked at the gate.

I immediately ran to him and inquired: "Where's dad, are you going to leave and pick him up now?"

"No," he answered "he's not coming, the base got more prisoners, so your dad had to stay for new safety procedures, but he did send this letter and a very nice gift, for your birthday." With this he retreated to the car and brought me a life size teddy bear. It was purple, and yellow, my favorite colors. 

"Thanks," I said as tears ran down my face and disappointment seemed to overwhelm me

"Shanice, what's wrong?" my mother asked worriedly, as she emerged from the house in a rose pink dress and her hair cascading around her shoulders. "Charles, where's Hugh?" she asked Charles.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Skyers," Charles answered, "he's not coming, he got caught up at work, but he did send both you and Shanice a letter and a gift." With this he went again to the car and emerged with a small box and a white envelope similar to my own. "I'm sorry, for the bad news," he said again.

He then returned to his car, and left. Leaving behind the pathetic picture of a little girl saddened with disappointment, and a helpless mother who could do nothing to comfort her child.

"Shanice it’s okay, don't cry," mother said to cease my tears.

"He always does this," I said through violent sobs "he's a liar; he doesn't keep any promises, why should I even call him my father. Maybe he found another wife and daughter in Guantanamo Bay, he doesn't love us anymore."

"Shanice..." she started, but abruptly grew silent, for she knew not what to say, the evidence proved and nothing she could say could contradict me.

"He's a liar Ma, he doesn't love me, he doesn't love us," I declared.

The days following this went by slowly, the party was a success, but it lacked someone, someone who didn't care enough to show. All the colors of blue, green, and yellow, could not fill the emptiness I felt in my heart, nor mask my disappointment.

I read the letter; it didn't say much, as always it lacked specificity and emotion. "Sorry I missed your party darling.” was all it said, brief and to the point. Never in my life did I think six words, could cause such a hole in my heart.

I lay now on my bed and think of what I had done for my father to no longer want be my father.

My mother's sobs interrupted my thought process. I rushed to the living room and found her sitting around the dinner table.

"Ma, what's wrong?" I asked

"Nothing baby, nothing's wrong, go wash up for dinner," she answered; as she wiped the tears from her eyes, and folded the letter dad had sent for her and threw the small box, that Charles delivered with it, into the settee. 

I immediately grabbed the letter, and ran into the bathroom as she called weakly for me. I locked the door, then sat on the toilet and quickly unfolded the letter. 

"Sorry it just isn't working out, I do love you, but I'm no longer in love with you. In the box is my wedding ring, it's now yours if you want to sell it," it read.

             I reread the letter, seemingly a million times, in hope that the words on the paper would no longer confirm my suspicion, but they did, and those very words, left my mother weeping like a saddened, broken child. I, however, didn't cry, I couldn't. I had no tears left to cry.

I slowly unlocked the door, to find my mother sitting in the same place she had been. Now her head was buried in her arms. She looked weak, she looked helpless, she looked broken. I ran to her, and hugged her, as she cried in my arms.

We said nothing to each other; the letter said all that needed to be said. Someone needed to be strong. I hurriedly assumed this position, without the shedding of a tear.

 I gently tucked a piece of hair, behind her ear and whispered: "We'll be okay Ma, don't cry, the Lord will provide, we'll be okay without him,".

With these words, came unbelief. I don't think I've ever doubted anything more, than I did the words I had just uttered. Her sobs grew louder and more rapid, and I knew then, that she too, had doubted the implication of my words.

What if we weren't going to be fine?

What if the Lord didn't provide? 
(c) 2013 Shanice Skyers