Piper Moscowitz

Second Place: Fiction

“Grief Spiral” 
by Piper Moscowitz
11th grade, Westfield High School

—

The woman didn’t know why everyone was crying. She didn’t know why everyone was in her living room or why they were all dressed up. All she knew was that the two little boys running around her antique ottoman were going to ruin her carpet with their filthy shoes. She sat on a red armchair near the corner watching them giggle and chase each other. The louder their laughs, the more she cringed. It was bad enough her house was full of a bunch of noisy strangers but now her beautiful ivory rug was going to get ruined. No one was paying any attention to them or the crime they were about to commit. If their lazy parents weren’t going to stop them, then she had to take matters into her own hands.

“You two better quiet down and get away from my carpet!”

The room became still. The two little boys froze and stared up at her, their eyes wide and doe-like. Everyone stared at her. A young woman with long red hair approached her. She wore a long tight black dress with black stilettos.

“Relax, everyone,” the woman announced. “Go back to what you were doing.” Gradually the room filled with the sounds of unsteady murmurs. The walls gradually echoed with the same clinking of silverware and chatter. The redhead turned to face the woman. Her mouth curled into a frown.

“Barbra!” she scolded in a harsh whisper. “You have to calm down. Those are your grandchildren.”

Barbra. The name felt familiar on her tongue, like a song she hadn’t heard in years. Still, she had no idea who was talking to her. She had seen that same red hair and green eyes before. The words were there. The memory was there. It was just caught in between her mind and throat.

“Barb, I get it. Emotions are overwhelming right now. Maybe you should take a break.” After a moment, the redheaded woman studied her. Silence vibrated between them.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked, tears forming in the corners of her green eyes.

“Remember what?”

“Jack.”

Jack. Barbra knew that name. Her mouth had made that sound millions of times. Through the fog of her mind, a memory wafted into view. A little boy with black curls. He was laughing. She could feel the warmth of his hands in hers, the sound of his voice, the shape of his smile.

The details came rushing after. Peas. Triangle sandwiches. The way he struggled with his Rs.

“Barbra?” the redheaded woman called.

“Where is he?” Barbra demanded. “Where is that little boy?”

Barbra looked around the room. She spotted a photograph on the coffee table in front of her. She shoved the woman aside and grabbed it. The black frame scratched against the glass, letting out a shrill screech. The photo had faded from age but everything was visible enough. It was that boy from her memory; he was on a beach, wearing blue swimming trunks and a wild smile. Barbra couldn’t help but smile back. Sitting next to him on the sand was a woman with long black curly hair and the same blue eyes. They looked so alike. The woman wore a gold chain with a small seashell charm dangling from it. Barbra’s hands went to her own. She was wearing the same one. That was her in that photo.

But where was the boy? She needed to find her boy. She had to. He could be hurt. He could be kidnapped.

“My baby!” she cried. “Where is my baby?”

“Barbra, stop.” That redheaded woman grabbed her arm, but Barbra wriggled away. The room stopped again, turning their eyes toward them, not moving a muscle to help her search. In a panic, Barbra darted away searching for her son. She heard the rapid clinking of stilettos behind her and they were catching up. Barbra turned her head to see where her pursuer was but she suddenly crashed into something. A wooden casket stood in front of her. A man was resting inside, dressed up in a black suit. His face was fairly young, wrinkles hadn’t fully set in yet. Barbra breathed heavily. She shut her eyes tight and massaged her temples as she muttered to herself. She was trying to find something, wasn’t she? Why couldn’t she remember?

The red-haired woman stepped up beside her.

“Do you know who that is, Barb?” she asked, her voice now soft, her voice quiet.

Barbra turned to the woman. She noticed the bags under her eyes, even under all that makeup. She looked so sad.

Barbra looked at the photograph, still clutched in her hand. The little boy on the beach looked so happy. Then she gazed at the man in the casket. He had the same curls.

“Is that—” she started, her voice breaking.

The red-haired woman smiled, tears gathered in her green eyes.

“That is.”

“My boy,” Barbra said as she began to sob. Memories of sandy beach towels, movie nights with popcorn kernels scattered across her bed, a wedding cake with five tiers. He was hers. She created him, cared for him, soothed every fever.

Jack was her son.

Jack was gone.

The sound of giggling startled her back to the present. She examined her surroundings.

Two boys were chasing each other around the room.

The woman didn’t know why everyone was crying. She didn’t know why everyone was in her living room or why they were all dressed up.

She turned around. A woman with red hair stood behind her.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Have you seen my little boy?”