West Wind - Chapter One

         It was a warm, sunny afternoon at Cumberlege Crescent. It wasn’t the type of sunny day you’re probably thinking of- it wasn’t a brilliantly bright, white-light sort of day. It was one of those afternoons where it feels as though the sun has gone golden—the kind where the light shines through the windowpanes and rather than illuminate the whole room, actually adds a sort of glow to the entire atmosphere, and for a small space of time, everything feels perfect and otherworldly. Like a fairy tale, or a dream. The kind that is indescribably beautiful and magical while it lasts, but then quickly slips away like paint evaporating on a canvas.

         For now, however, the sun shone blissfully on, freezing time for a moment as it smiled upon all the resident homes of Cumberlege Crescent. It warmed the interiors of the small blue and yellow kitchen of the widow, Mrs. McCleary, who smiled peacefully as she swept sweeping her impeccably tidy house. It beamed on the small, stained-glass windows of the Ministry’s chapel over the ridge, making them gleam like precious jewels. And it shined its rays on the entire front of 22 Cumberlege Crescent, reflecting off the front door, catching the greenness of the grass, and spilling in generously through the second window of a one-story house into a bright, whimsical room, full of gypsy colors and creativity and life, bouncing blithely off the mirror, and tenderly reaching across the bed.

         On this bed laid a young girl, no more than fourteen, lying on her back. Currently she was staring at the ceiling, occasionally sighing. She had extremely round, gray eyes, and short, shaggy blonde hair that was just the perfect degree of messy to be publically acceptable. Her bangs were too long, and as she sat she puffed her breath upwards, attempting to clear her vision, but not too terribly preoccupied as to whether they actually stayed back or not.

         Underneath this girl was a quilt. This was not just any ordinary quilt—it was exquisite, a work of art, and unlike anything you may have seen or imagined. A sea of swirling colors and patterns curved beneath her body, dizzying to look at yet dazzling all at the same time. Pink and turquoise wove through shades of peaceful lilac and threads golden like the sunlight. The cotton and silk that conjured up its material form into existence combined into a feel of comfort and fantasy. It was wild, but it was peaceful, too. The quilt held something magical about it- it held warmth, and happiness, and stories. It seemed to boast as if perhaps its creator had caught imagination and woven it into thread. It held history, and tears, and laughter- it held all the memories that held her together. It was a piece of her.

         Sunday afternoons were normally rather peaceful at Cumberlege Crescent. A full afternoon where there was no work, stress, or any other sort of unpleasant feeling weighing down on their chests was an incredible luxury for the residents, and while they worked hard all week, on Sundays there was a general unspoken agreement that it was a time for rest, at least among the residents who would take the time to rest. The sleepy workers each laid on their beds. Some fathers sat in the dining room reading the newspaper, sometimes lifting a mug of coffee mechanically to their lips. Some mothers rested their eyes as their young children finally shut their eyes and mouths and slept quietly in their cribs and little beds. The occasional grandmother, like Mrs. McCleary, lounged on her porch with a crossword puzzle book on her lap, which also  served as a fan on especially hot, humid days like this one.

         The young girl lying on the bed of number 22, however, was the exception to this case. Rather than relaxing or resting her eyes, this girl was staring pensively at the ceiling, her brow furrowed. She puffed distractedly at her bangs at irregular intervals, concentrating too hard on her thoughts to be fully aware of what she was doing. She brought a fingernail up to her mouth and chewed on it in an aggravated manner, a bad habit that wasn’t so bad since she never actually bit any part of the nail off.

         Suddenly, a series of authoritative knocks sounded on her door.

         “Zephyr, enough of this—it’s time to talk.”

         The girl frowned. Her mother sounded both weary and aggravated, yet still in…

         “Zephyr.”

         …control.

         The girl closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath in, and waited.

         The door opened slowly, cautiously, as though her mother was afraid the raging teenager inside would attack her like a wild animal. She stood there for a moment, surveying her daughter before coming closer.

         Shannon McCafferty was tall, thin. Firm.  She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and her jaw set. Her long, dirty blonde hair was back in a ponytail, which meant she had been doing business. Despite all this, her deep brown eyes still managed to radiate a hint of softness.

         Her mother dropped her arms and entered the room slowly, carefully picking her steps as she crossed the threshold. The floor was a mess. She walked to the humble white chest of drawers and brushed her fingers across a couple items: a notebook, a purposeless skeleton key, a small music box. She turned around and leaned against the dresser, re-crossing her arms and taking a good, long look at her daughter.

         Zephyr reluctantly lifted her head for a moment, briefly made eye contact, and then dropped her head back onto the quilt. Her mom continued to stare at her for a few moments, and finally, after what felt like an eternity of oppressively loud silence, began:

         “I don’t think I fully realize what’s going on here.”

         The words rushed through Zephyr’s ears. She gave no outward indication of hearing what her mother had said. She could feel her entire body buzzing with resentment, still burning fresh from the fight they had just had twenty minutes before. Her pulse pounded with the mounting tension.

         This was the way it always began. The unyielding mother would come in to analyze and play psychologist. In reality the mother was actually an artist, and a failing one at that. Zephyr knew her mom’s real intent was usually to act concerned while actually letting her know exactly how she felt about every aspect of her life and the way she lived it.

         Not this time, though. She was going to avoid answering at all if she could help it — anything she said could be misconstrued as an invitation for her mother to pry. No, she was certainly not going to have that satisfaction this time.

         “Zephyr?—I’m talking to you. What’s the deal?” Her mother raised her eyebrows, expecting an answer. “I guess what I’m really wondering is why now? Why, after all this time? I have always thought you and your sister were happy -- why this sudden interest in your father?” 

         Perhaps if she ignored her long enough, her mother would go away. The swirling patterns on the ceiling were certainly riveting. They looked like extremely thin icicles, creating a thin layer of frost across the top of her room.

         “Zephyr.” Shannon’s voice was dangerously sharp. Zephyr slowly raised herself on the spread, and although she was doing her best to keep her expression blank, she could feel her already impossibly dark, stormy-gray eyes flashing like a tempest. She reluctantly met her mother’s gaze, tilting her chin defiantly. It was on.

         Her mother sighed. The silent storm of a girl was raging.

         “Needless to say, I am a bit shocked at your behavior lately.” She paused a moment to allow Zephyr to respond. When she continued to stare challengingly, Shannon charged in, tired of tiptoeing around.

         “This has got to end! You’re fourteen years old. Contrary to what you may think or believe, you are not an adult yet! Sneaking out at night? Honestly, what were you thinking?”

         Zephyr realized maybe it would be better to reason a bit. “I didn’t go anywhere exciting.”

         “To Demetri’s. Yes. I would have felt better if Dustie at least had gone with you.”

         “Dustie is the same age as me.”

         “You would have at least had a boy with you.”

         The bottlecap exploded, and Zephyr felt all the contents of her anger spilling out and spewing onto her mother’s face.

         “You! You don’t even get me. You think because I snuck out once I’m a bad kid? I never do anything wrong! I work so hard to be good, and nothing good even comes from it.”

         “I see that you try. I really do.”

         “No, because if you saw you would have done something about it by now. You know what I think? I think you’ve realized that you are tired of your life, and instead you’re just going to live vicariously through me, until you turn me into exactly what you want! Like a cooler version of yourself!” Shannon looked incredulous. “I’ve got news for you mom. This is my life, and I am not going to be you. I don’t even want to be like you.”

         If someone had been watching carefully, they would have seen a small twinge of pain snaking through Shannon’s eyes. However, Zephyr did not notice this, and Shannon’s expression remained rigid and unyielding.

         “You think you know who I am because I’ve lived in your house your whole life, but you don’t!”

         Shannon blinked.

         “You know…maybe I don’t.”

         Zephyr could see the sadness in mother’s eyes. Guilt crept on her neck like a collar. Her mother was not stony like a rock, but she oftentimes kept her emotions in check, especially in front of her daughters. 

         She paused to give her daughter’s words some oxygen, then started where she had left off.

         “This is not about me, contrary to the lengths you are going to right now to convince yourself it is. I am concerned about you, Zephyr.” She was leaning against the white chest of drawers, arms crossed in a simultaneously authoritative and relaxed stance, a look that did not fit most parents, but hung well on Shannon, like a comfortable pair of jeans. “Now, I’m going to try this one more time. I need you to talk to me. I don’t understand—“

         “And again, mom, you don’t understand! You don’t know me, and you don’t even try anymore.” Shannon’s mouth opened in protest, but shut again as it was assaulted by the stampede of her daughter’s words. “All you ever think about is your job, and you ignore what’s important. You tell me that you don’t “get it”, but the thing is, I don’t exactly “get it”, either! How about I tell you what I don’t understand, mom?”

         She couldn’t stop now.

         “I don’t understand why our family is broken and small and abnormal. I don’t understand why I can’t just be like the other kids at school. They don’t know me either. You’ve never taught me how to talk to other kids, do you know that? I don’t understand why you gave me such a dumb name.”

         She had been locking eyes with her mother, and held contact, feeling dangerous as she precariously teetered at the edge of a subject she knew she should not breech.

         “But most of all—“ she growled at her mom, the hairs on her neck standing up, “—I don’t understand why I have a father who ran out, or what my mother could have possibly done to drive him away so far that he never came back!”

         All remnants of calm and control that Shannon had been carefully holding in a graceful composure vanished as she snapped up like a rubber band. Zephyr felt the slight sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she knew she had gone too far, but her defiance made her stubborn. If there had been an angel on each of her shoulders, the one on the left had just stabbed the one on the right to death with a pitchfork.

         She did find, however, that she could no longer look at her mother in the eye. Shannon McCafferty did not cry, but as Zephyr looked at her now, tears glistened threateningly. It was the most emotional state she would ever be seen in. The tears announced a pain too profuse and a history too painful to begin to unravel, but as their descent downward would be an admittance of pain that would be seen as equal to complaint, they remained swimming in her soft doe eyes, diamonds streaming on the face of garnet.

         “Well, it seems that you know about as much about me as, say, I apparently know about you.” Shannon quickly wiped her right eye clean with the edge of her elbow, then straightened and took domain again. “You’ve gone too far, young lady, and I will set you straight. We will discuss this later.”

         With one last scan over her daughter, Shannon swept her hair over her shoulder and left Zephyr firing guilt-laden darts at her back, shutting the door quietly. Zephyr, more inconsolable than before, fell back upon the pillows and growled. She haphazardly turned herself so that she was face down on the pillow.  As she formed a fist to punch the unsatisfying cotton pillow sheath her cheeks were burning against, she brewed and felt the unending pressure in her chest suddenly and unexpectedly swelling into a pain swirling in her thoracic cage for a million and no reasons that she could think of.