Marking Time in the Waiting House (a short story)

When I was very young and very little, I lived with my parents and sister in a little house on a little street in a little town where it was always hot and it was always humid and there was nothing to do but wait.

Being very young and very little, I spent most of my time waiting for everyone else to have time for me. I’d while away the hours playing make-believe with stuffed animals who were my snuggle buddies at nighttime and my best friends during the day. My sister was much older and concerned with big kid things like clothes and books and boys. She didn’t have much time for me.

My father worked at a factory where my mother once told me they made the fuel we put in our cars. I think he must have been a very important person at work because he’d always leave our little house very early each morning even before the sun came up. Usually, I was asleep when he left but sometimes I’d wake up in time to see him walking out the front door carrying a big metal lunchbox in his hand and a white hard hat tucked under his arm.

On those mornings when I was awake, I’d run back to my room as soon as he’d closed the door so I could watch from my window as he climbed into his old truck and backed out of our little driveway. I’d wave to him as hard as I could as he drove away, but he never waved back. It was probably too dark for him to see.

Later, my sister would start getting ready for school, which usually involved her screaming at my mother while my mother yelled back at her to hurry up or she was going to be late. Minutes would tick by as she tore through the house, slamming doors and sighing while my mother called her things like young lady and warned her about the dangers of having a bad attitude.

Eventually, she’d run out the door and sprint to the school bus that would be waiting at the end of our little street. I never waved goodbye to her. She was always in too much of a rush to notice, anyway.

My mother would leave for work a little while later, and my grandmother would arrive to take care of me for the day. Mom was always in just as much of a rush as my sister, and would often mumble to herself about being late as she ran out the door, never saying goodbye.

I don’t think it was because she didn’t care, but grown-ups have important problems to worry about that little kids don’t. We weren’t ever poor, but I don’t think we had much money. I’d occasionally hear my parents talking and worrying about bills late at night when they thought I was asleep. Everyone but me had a job, including my sister. I don’t know what she did after school, but she always came home smelling like cheeseburgers.

I think I would’ve spent most of my days alone, if not for my grandmother. She was kind and attentive, always taking time to play pretend with me and my stuffed animals. Sometimes, we’d watch cartoons and she’d laugh at all the jokes other grown-ups didn’t seem to understand. I called her Nana and, other than my stuffed animals, she was my only friend.

On rainy days, we’d go on adventures around the house. My favorite teddy bear was our leader. Some days, we’d go on safari, hunting my other stuffed animals and “shooting” them with blown kisses. Other times, we’d have elaborate dinners and “practice” birthday parties where we’d gather around the kitchen table and sing the birthday song over some stale cupcakes that were always in the back of the cupboard.

Toward the end of the afternoon, my grandmother would turn on the television to watch her stories, and I’d fall asleep with my head in her lap as she stroked my hair while we waited for my parents to come home.

This went on for a long time, every morning the same with everyone ignoring me and rushing out the door. Eventually, my sister left one day with suitcases and never came back. A few years later, my parents did the same thing.

The house is empty now, except for me and my grandmother and all my stuffed animal friends. We still play pretend and go on adventures, and sometimes strangers come over while a nice lady with long blonde hair walks them through the house.

The lady usually comes over early to unlock all the doors and light a bunch of candles that smell like cookies. When the strangers arrive, she takes them around and points at things while they turn and look and nod their heads, but they never seem to notice me or my grandmother until we turn on the television. The lady with the blonde hair is always startled by this and she tries to turn it off, but my grandmother just switches it back on again.

Eventually, the lady will try unplugging the television from the wall, but we can still turn it back on. We can always turn it back on. The strangers seem to leave after that.

And when they go, my grandmother leans back on the couch and I curl up beside her to lay my head in her lap as she watches her stories and strokes my hair while we wait for my family to come home.

Forever.

Not all ghost stories have to be scary, at least from the point of view of the ghosts themselves. This same story told differently might involve frightening bumps in the night or strange noises coming from empty bedrooms, but that’s just what the living see. To the ghosts – to these ghosts – they’re just playing and having fun while waiting for a time that will never come.

The noises we hear in lonely hours of the night might seem to us like the haunted scrapes and scratches of a terrifying spirit shuffling across the attic floor, but sometimes the distant sounds of childhood laughter and the pitter-patter of unseen footfalls running down the hallway aren’t things to be afraid of.

I wrote this thinking about my grandmother, who I really did call Nana. My parents both worked, so when I was sick, I’d go stay at her house instead of going to school. She’d play with me and make me feel better, and I’d always end up falling asleep with my head in her lap while she watched soap operas and stroked my hair.

She called them her stories, and to this day, whenever I’m sick, I can turn on the television and lie down on my couch, then close my eyes and feel the touch of her arthritic fingers running through my hair thirty-six years ago.

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

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