Disarray
After Dylan died, Olivia ate the alphabet, color by color.
She built a railroad out of his crayons, arranging them in alphabetical order. He’d never had a chance to learn the alphabet, but the idea that she would have taught him this way soothed her. She was a good mother. But Dylan had a mind of his own, even at three. He probably would have insisted on a different arrangement, one he already knew. His own world was so real to him. She could see him, his tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth as he carefully placed the individual rails, working according to a plan only he knew. His sense of order controlled their lives. Had controlled.
When Olivia dumped the crayons in the center of the floor, she instantly felt as though she’d violated a trust. Dylan hated it when she dumped his toys, but she liked them spread out like puzzle pieces. She’d tried to encourage a sense of discovery, of surprise, but that was before. Before when surprise meant wonder and not the shock that winded you. Permanently.
She dug into the pile. She found A, Atomic Tangerine, then B, Bittersweet. Crawling across the floor, she could hear the engine inside, the clackety-clack of getting there. “Choo-choo,” she whispered as she placed Cerulean and Desert Sand. Electric Lime. She pushed past the rocking horse and the miniature desk, the toddler toolbox and computer, the racing car bed. They had given him everything – except a simple rule.
Don’t put things in your mouth.
By the time she reached Razzmatazz, she was gagging. “Choo-choo.” But she couldn’t. Colors dribbled down her chin. Her body convulsed, and she clawed at her mouth, at Maroon and Outer Space. She clawed until she could breathe. But the railroad was gone.
Rebecca Andem earned an MFA through the Stonecoast program at the University of Southern Maine. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous journals, including Wilde Magazine, Petrichor Review, and Burrow Press Review. She teaches at a university in China, and in her free time, she travels extensively. www.rebeccaandem.com