My Friend Mallory

This story, I’m sad to say, is not a story of carefree friendship,
of an easy life of two friends. This is a story, however, of true friendship. This friendship is not without it’s doubt and troubles, yet it is strongly bound. Reader, this story starts with a boy. A boy named Miko. This boy’s name means joyful to many, but Reader, this boy was not joyful. This boy was a depressing sight. But this boy was I. And this is my story.

         “Miko, we’re leaving! Grab your things, we must load them.” My mother franticly searched the empty house for anything we could have forgotten. Ripping open drawers, shoving them shut once more, and then moving on to something else. She spoke not in our language, but in the new language we were working so hard to comprehend.
         “Of course, Mother,” I instinctively responded. “I am loading them onto the truck as we speak.” I spoke sadly and dutifully in our language. A language you would call Japanese. We finished anything we had left to do, such as checking the house for anything left, sweeping and mopping the floors, and finishing loading the truck. All the while, my mind was wandering towards the new life we would now live.
         As my mother and I climbed into the moving truck, she asked me a question I was unprepared for: ‘Would you like your own room?’ I stared into her eyes and remembered my little sister Tasumi. As if on cue, Tasumi started laughing her innocent baby laugh.
         “Miko!” she squealed. “Miko, Miko, Miko!”
         “Well, Mother, I do not mind. You may decide if you wish.” I spoke the words softly, quickly. Still, my mother gazed deep beyond my surface, into my soul, into me.
         “Beep, beep!” roared the driver of the moving truck, and we headed out the door.

         The truck pulled up to the airport, and I shuffled through the doors, carrying as much as I could, doing as much as I could for my wary mother. A smiling man opened the door for me: a simple act of kindness that gave me a miniscule amount of hope. It was a small amount, to say the least, but it was hope. And hope helped me to put on a brave face, and to face my new life.
         “Miko! Hurry up, honey! We shall miss the plane if you do not.” My mother, patient as she was, could not put up with my selfishness and lack of hard work today. I would lock away the lazy, uncaring, lump I usually was, and replace it with a new, hard working, man to help my mother. I would, could do it for my mother. At least that was what I told myself to keep that lump from bursting out of its confinement.
         “Yes, Mother. Do you need me to care for Tasumi? Or would you prefer I load and ship our things? Any task you need completed, I will complete.” Now that my selfish form of self was locked tight and controlled, I spoke in the language my mother spoke; English. I spoke not sadly, but confidently. I stood not sluggishly, but almost proudly. The small amount of hope came a long way, when it came to what mattered: the safety and happiness of my mother and sister, the fact that we arrived safe in our new home, that my father would be proud of me, were he still here today…
         It was my mother who broke through my wall of thoughts and emotions, straight to my senses. “Miko, stop worrying. You’ve been a large help to me in this stressful time. It wouldn’t be right for me to ask more of you.” That was the one thing I didn’t expect my mother to say. I expected her to scold me and tell me to fix my behavior. To glare at me with her motherly glare and walk away, lips pressed tight. But she did not. And she was kind and patient enough not to. Why was she so selfless? It only added to the pile of sadness and to my depressing state. As I remembered that that part of me was supposed to be locked tight, I straightened my once again sluggish posture into the slightly less proud posture. Once again, I was deep in thought. Only my body remained conscious.
         “Miko, we are here. Wake up, Miko. Miko!” my mother’s voice was a distant whisper in my twisted dream. I was dreaming of my mother. Of her childhood in Tokyo. I was her father. Her father had not been able to provide for her family. He was a man who would not work hard. A man who did not care if he was a failure in life, if his family suffered for his selfish mistakes. Her father, me, a failure; the pieces connected. Could I provide for my sister and mother? Would I work hard enough to find out the answer to that question? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times yes. I know that if I am strong willed, I can pull my loving family through the tough times. Or that is what I made myself believe.
         I awoke in shock, hearing my mother’s distant voice. I unloaded our gear, and moved it to the car that would soon be taking us to our new home.  As she cared for Tasumi, I did everything else that needed doing. A small girl approached me carrying a small doll and her smile, increased the amount of hope somewhere inside me.
         As my mother and sister hopped in the cab I took out ten precious dollars from my pouch of money, and paid it to the nice man that drove us all that way. Another drop of hope. 
         Our house was not glorious, but better than what we had back home. I refused to call this place my home, but it was a house, and it worked for our purposes. It took my mother and I a few weeks to unpack and get settled, but the small girl from the airport was showing up to help. Another drop of hope. The hope was building inside me, but who was this girl? And why was she showing up? Did she not have a family of her own? No matter, she did not cause any trouble. And we would find out before anything large happened.
         “Little girl? Do you mind telling us your name?” I spoke the words friendly and carefully; not wanting to frighten the small girl of five or six.
         “Mallory,” said a small, squeaky voice from below me. “Mallory A. Jones.” Though her voice was small and feeble, it was confident and full of hope. This voice was new and different; it took me by surprise. “Why? If I’m not being rude,” she added quietly.
         “Well, Mallory A. Jones, I asked because you are such a small child. Where is your family? And why are you not with them? I’m not meaning to pry.” I added quietly.
         “I am not too small! And besides, my family doesn’t care where I am. Not anymore. Not after Daddy…” She ended abruptly; as if she had said too much. Her voice had calmed into her usual mouse voice.
         “I am sorry. I did not intend to offend you. You are just…” I couldn’t find the correct words I truly needed. “You just need to remember that your family does love you. And that they do care. You know that, do you not?”
         Her already feeble voice lowered to a whisper, “No, I don’t.” It rose. “And you don’t know my family! How can you tell me what they are like?” Mallory sat down and her eyes looked through me; and she liked what she saw. “I’m sorry. I don’t like being mean. But I have to anyway. I can’t help it.” Her eyes pleaded with me, and I gave in.
         “Mallory, I do not know your family; you are correct. But does that mean that they do not care; that they do not love you? Why are you so reluctant to tell me about them?” She seemed to pause as if she didn’t know what answer to give out; what secrets she could reveal to me. “Mallory, you may trust me: I will not tell your secrets to anyone.” Her expression lightened somewhat and she blurted it out all at once: “ My-mom-and-dad-don’t-let-me-talk-to-anybody-about-them-because-they’re-afraid-I’ll-tell-somebody-about-them.” She slowed a tiny amount. “They think I’ll tell someone what happened. And if I do, they won’t let me out.”
         “Oh.” Oh. Oh. “Why are they so cruel to you?” I was not trying to interfere with her life; I was trying to understand it. But I did not know how to help, if there was a way to.
         “Mommy and Daddy… They drink this stuff. They say it makes them happy, but I think it makes them meanies.” Her voice: so small and feeble took hold of my heart and didn’t let go; I couldn’t help giving her a small hug.
         “What was that for?” she asked, but I could tell she wanted another hug.
         “Just to let you know that I am here if you ever need someone to talk to.” Between Mallory and providing for my family, I would not have any time for school. I was digging my own grave. That part of me let loose and I couldn’t control it. When I was supposed to be helping my mother, I thought and thought, never surfacing to reality.
         “Miko!” squealed Tasumi. “Hehe! Miko!” Tasumi’s energy finally brought me back into the real world; back to my life.
         “You have no idea how much you mean to me, Baby Sister. In return for all the smiles you bring to my face, I will keep you safe and warm with me.” I smiled, the warmth of kindness radiating off me. I struggled to remember the last time I had felt this loved.
“Hello? Is anyone home? Hello-o-o-o?” the small voice was recognizable, but somehow different.
         “Mallory?” I called. “Mallory, is that you?”
         “Uh-huh… Where are you?” her voice grew stranger and more hopeless with each word she spoke.
         “I’m right here, silly. Can’t you see me?” I walked into the front room as I called to her, but she still could not see me.
         “Why is it so dark everywhere?” Mallory A. Jones’s voice told me something was very wrong, and that it wouldn’t correct itself.
*          *          *
         Through the tears in my eyes, I could see the ambulance ride away in the chilling night, Mallory the reason it flew so quickly. She had blacked out in the kitchen, hitting her tiny head on the kitchen counter. I raced to the telephone, remembering we didn’t have one. Sitting the unconscious girl up, I sped to the neighbor’s house and begged to use their phone. Before the confused family had time to respond, I pushed through them, to the telephone. I knew as much as the numbers 9-1-1. I dialed them and within minutes, the ambulance arrived, scooped up the girl who meant so much more to me than I realized, and took her away. I stayed on the porch, letting the wind whip my face, letting the pain of loss overwhelm me. Upset as I was, I was glad, somewhere inside me that it was only Mallory and not my mother or sister. I knew this was a cruel thought, but it was somehow true.

         That night, I did not sleep well, or at all, actually. I built a wall; a wall from my thoughts and emotions; a wall that kept away the inside. I cared for Tasumi, trying to remember the time when I felt her warmth. Really, all I had been was a shell of my former self. Trying to numb myself, I held Tasumi in my arms and walked out the door. Did I know where I was going? No. Did I know how to get there? No. But somehow, my feet led me to the hospital I didn’t know existed, up the steps, to the third floor, and into room number 176. Still a shell, I set Tasumi down on the nightstand and peeled back the covers to reveal a sleeping, but somehow peaceful, Mallory.
         “She has it, you know. She has cancer.” The small boy, behind a curtain, spoke like he knew his life was fading… fast.
         “How do you…”
         “The doctors here don’t keep things very private. They came over her so that girl couldn’t hear them.” This child, maybe six or seven, made me depressed so I picked up my sister flew from the room.
         “Mother, I’m sorry, but that little girl meant so much to me and I could not let her stay in that hospital without knowing if she was alright.” I apologized to my mother before she could ask for an apology, knowing that I could make her understand better this way.
         “What are you talking about, my son? I have not scolded you, nor have I asked for an apology. I understand what you have done and why you have done it, but that does not make it okay that you have done it without my permission.”
         I bowed my head low, taking in my mother’s words. I know I did not deserve her ever-lasting patience, kindness, and love. Yet, I absorbed every drop, as if it was limited. “Mother, I am so sorry.” I walked from the room and went to find a job to support my family.
         Wandering through the neighborhood, looking for a job, I stumbled up to the doorway of Mallory’s house. I took one look at the family, and I knew they didn’t care who I was or what I was here for. Yet, I didn’t care: I wasn’t the reason I was here.
         “You. You did this to her! You could have cared one tiny speck about your daughter and maybe she wouldn’t be in the hospital, suffering from cancer!” I didn’t wait for a response, didn’t wait for an answer; their lifeless faces told me all I needed to know. I continued to look for a job, going door to door as if nothing had happened.


         That day, I found a job with a family named the Phfifers. They were a normal, loving family who treated me like one of their own.  Walking up to the door, I saw a sign that said, “Welcome children, gather ‘round. We shall love you, help you off the ground. You know we are kind, gentle and pure. To trust, love us, you can be sure.” I smiled and felt the warmth surround me, but it didn’t last long. I rang the doorbell and a small boy answered the door. He reminded me of Mallory, so I mumbled an apology and left; the boy still standing in the doorway. Mallory, I thought Why her? She was so innocent, so incapable of hate, even to those who deserved it. I felt a tear in my eye, but brushed it away, trying to build the wall inside me once more.
         “Mother?” I called. “Mother?” The woman walked into the room I didn’t know I had entered.
         “Yes, Miko?” I explained to her that I needed to visit the hospital, that Mallory had cancer and I needed to talk to her. “Of course. But, please, be back soon.”
         “Yes.” From that word I flitted out of the house that was know our home.

         “Little boy? I think I talked to you last time I was here.”
         “No… The boy who lived here is… gone.” I now knew that he would not be the only one to… go. The hallway was crowded with nurses bringing dinners to their patients. I entered room 176 and hugged Mallory, not wanting to wake her. I did anyway, and felt sorry.
         “It’s… okay… Miko… I… love… you…” she barely whispered. The sound was the shadow of a ghost, sliding across the floor. I held the girl in my arms for a while, neither of us bothering to say a word. Mallory soon turned cold and limp; I knew she had… gone.
         “Please… No…” The words floated before my lips, lifeless, soundless. I slowly drowned in my own thoughts. I didn’t fully resurface… ever.



Epilogue
         I was never the same after that… loss, but I could not abandon my family over one death. I visited the grave I had dug myself by letting her trust me, and then never fulfilled my promises. My sister grew to be a beautiful actress, supporting herself, while my mother lived a long and happy life with my sister and I. As for me, I am the same as ever, writing this story to keep my mind from exploding. Sometimes, even though I try not to, I wonder where Mallory would be now, were she not with my mother and father: on the left hand of God.