Low turnout this time around… again. But, this story by Don McCann doesn’t disappoint. Sorry that it took me so long to post this, but here you go. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did. Would you please let Don know what you think of his story? Have a great weekend and happy writing!

Little Darling

Glenda Stewart slid gratefully into the end of a rough day.  With ten more minutes until dinner, she waited, slumped on the couch, half-filled wineglass in hand.  Staring vacantly at the evening news, she rolled her eyes.  Politics, celebrities, sports.  She didn’t bother to switch it off.  She didn’t know which was worse, a slow news day, or a busy one.

Fortunately, at dinner, she would receive welcome a break from the sordid headlines.  Her tween—ahem, teen—daughter, Victoria had slammed into the house just thirty minutes earlier and, with a, “Hi, Mom!” and trundled loudly down the hall, straight to her only-slightly-messy room.  With another slam, she was ensconced in her neon pink and blue cocoon, loudly soundtracked by Eminem and Nicki Minaj (or, as she liked to call them, Em and Nick).  Having forced herself to listen once, at Victoria’s manic insistence, Glenda grudgingly admitted the lyrics were clever and the delivery original.  Parentally, though, she told her teen that she could do without all the vulgarity.  She allowed it, however, as that seemed to be the only vice her daughter had developed.

An ‘A’ Student on the Principal’s Honor Roll, her Little Darling (a nickname she had finally accepted at age nine), loved cooking, tending to her lizards, and—wonder of wonders—studying.  Since age six she’d wanted to become, of all things, a rheumatologist, a goal she’d attacked with a singular vigor before she could even properly pronounce the word.  “I wanna be a rummy-tah-gist to help people like Grandma fix their arthur-itis.”  At the time, Glenda bit back her laughter, thinking it was just childhood dreaming, but Victoria had never wavered and now, at 14, she was well on her way.  In fact, she was on track to graduate high school this year, and already fielding scholarship offers from top colleges.  Full rides, no less.

As if all that wasn’t enough, she wasn’t just book-smart, the girl oozed common sense.  At 11, she’d realized she was becoming, “. . . dangerously addicted to white chocolate . . .” and had not only drastically cut back her consumption, but increased her exercise to balance her diminished, but still, in her mind, excessive sugar intake.  She’d gone from a chubby size 14 to a svelte size 8.  Now, at 5’ 7”, with her mother’s curves, she was beginning to turn heads.  Fortunately (thankfully), dating and romance seemed the furthest things from her mind.  The love of her life, she was fond of telling her friends, was her mother.

One of Glenda’s favorite pastimes was thinking about how blessed she was to have such a wonderful child.  Four years ago, when her husband, Alan, died suddenly, she thought she would simply implode from grief.  But, who was there to pull her from the brink?  Victoria, of course.  After the hundredth day finding her curled up on the couch, her alarmingly precocious 10-year-old sat down and told her, in all seriousness, “Mommy, you have to get up and take care of me.  If you don’t, when you get old, I won’t be able to take care of you.”

The innocent wisdom of that simple, yet profound, statement had literally changed her life.  She vividly recalled opening her eyes, blinking at her beautiful daughter, then sitting up and folding her into her lap.  They both sobbed together, and told stories about Alan until, finally they just sat, rocking each other.  After about 20 minutes they got up and, through bouts of giggling, wiped each other’s noses.  Of course, they missed Alan, but also realized they were all they had left.

The ding-ding-ding of the oven timer dragged Glenda from her reverie and she levered off the couch.  Passing the hallway, she shouted, “Victoria!  Dinner!”  She wasn’t sure she’d be able to compete with the rap concert going on, but it was a start.  She’d just taken the chicken out of the oven when the music stopped and she heard, “Mommy!  Find me!”  She chuckled and shook her head.

She wasn’t like some parents who can’t wait for their kids to outgrow childish games.  Her Little Darling had always loved Hide and Seek and, being so mature in other ways, Glenda was glad she still savored this piece of her childhood.  Deep down, however, she had a sneaking suspicion it was her daughter’s way of helping her deal with her grief, but she wasn’t complaining.

Setting the roasting pan carefully atop the stove, she smiled and walked out of the kitchen.  Wanting to play, but also hungry, she hoped to bring the game to a swift close and started with Victoria’s favorite spot.  Creeping on cat-feet, she snuck into her daughter’s room, and suddenly dropped next to the bed, “Gotcha!!” she shouted, yanking back the dangling blankets.  Instead of a squealing teen, she only found swirling dust bunnies.  To be sure, she used her phone’s flashlight, but only scared up more dust.

“Hmph,” Glenda was sure she’d find her there.  Rising, she thought she heard a familiar tinkling giggle and bent to look again.  Nothing.  Strange, she could have sworn that came from under the bed.  Standing, she turned to continue her search.

15 minutes later, she walked back down the hallway, shaking her head.  Bathroom, linen closet, hall closet, even her own closet—nothing.  The only trace of her Little Darling to be found was that teasing giggle.  “Come on, sweetie.  Dinner’s gonna get cold.  You win again.  Apparently, I—” her voice trailed off, hearing the breaking news announcement from the TV.

“. . . Stewart, age 14 was pronounced dead at the scene . . .”

Her heart froze and she stopped in her tracks, afraid to move one step further.  There was no logical explanation for the crushing dread she suddenly felt.  The name and age had to be coincidence, right?  Victoria was here, she thought . . . wasn’t she?  Even so, she couldn’t shake the prickling terror creeping up her spine.  Shivering, she tried to keep walking, but the longer she stood there, the more she wanted to flee, cover her ears, sink through the floor; anything to avoid hearing the whole story.  If she heard it, she just knew—

“Repeating our breaking news, police have now identified the last of the three teens killed in a single-vehicle accident on Simpson Road, just east of the city.  Victoria Stewart, age 14, was pronounced dead at the scene.  Police are attempting to locate the young girl’s family . . .”

“Mo-o-o-m!  You’re still terrible at this.  I was under the bed the whole time.”

Glenda’s jaw dropped and her lower lip started to quiver.  Here tear-filled eyes grew wider as she heard that tinkling giggle and the too-familiar scrape of a chair being pulled out at the dining room table.

“Ok, game over.  Do you need help with anything?  What’s for dinner?”

Trembling, Glenda turned to the dining room to see four empty chairs at the table—one sliding backwards on its own, as if—

“Mom?  Are you ok?  You look like you saw a g—”

Glenda screamed.

By Don McCann