Her Beginning

Tonight is like the pinwheel my mother gave me at last year’s county fair. Spinning because it can’t be still, unrecognizably colorful, and mysterious in its cause for being. What is missing that made last September’s big night out so memorable, though, is my mother’s laughter. It just left with her.

“Emma,” my Dad says, “Stay away from the tape.”

Although he doesn’t want to leave Mom, he walks around the front of what used to be my Dad’s car to where my brother, Evan, and I are sitting.

“Listen,” Dad calmly says, as he looks at us. “I need you both to go and sit in the cop car. Officer Ken will get you something to drink. I’ll be over with you and soon as I can, and we’ll go home. Okay?”

I nod, as I reach for Evan’s hand. When we are walking, he asks me why all the people are standing around Mom. I know that he’s only four and doesn’t understand, but I still tell him that it’s because she’s dead. He holds tighter to my hand and follows behind as we walk to the car. Officer Ken hands us two sodas and a chocolate bar to share. Neither one of us is hungry, but I grab the candy and hand it to Evan.

“Did Mom die when we hit the bird?” I ask Officer Ken.

He looks confused, so I ask him again, “Officer Ken, did Mom die when we hit the bird?”

He focuses and takes a sip from his cup of coffee.

“Um,” he says, as he clears his throat and wipes his mouth with his sleeves, “No, she didn’t. Well, I mean, she did die because of the wreck, but she didn’t die right away.”

I stop him again. “Did she hurt for a long time?”

Officer Ken readjusts his position in the car and says, “Well—I—I’m not completely sure. I’d like to think not. She was able to speak for a few minutes.”

He takes another sip, wanting to save this talk for my Dad to have with me.

“Did she say anything about me before she died?” I say.

Ignoring my question, Officer Ken tells us he has to get more coffee and asks if we want anything. Evan and I both shake our heads. I watch him, as he leaves the car and goes to talk to the other officers. I try to listen, but they are talking unusually low. I can only hear pieces of their conversation:

“Seen before.”

“Man.”

“Crazy.”

“Out of a fairy tale.”

None of it seems to be about my mother, and I don’t think it’s fair. I want to know how the bird caused us to crash and if Mom said anything about me before she died. Dad shouldn’t have taken us away from the car. We would have been fine. I hear a knock on the window nearest Evan. It’s Dad.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home. The cops say there is nothing else we can do tonight.”

What Dad says sounds programmed, but sometimes we can only say what we think we should say. I want to say what I want to say.

“Dad, did Mom say anything about me before she died?”

“We’ll talk about this when we get home. Your brother is tired. Right, buddy?”

Evan doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree, either. Instead, he hugs Dad and cradles his head near Dad’s chest. Dad wraps his arms around Evan and picks him up.

We get home and nothing has changed. Everything is still in place. I think clothes should be scattered, and I hope to see dishes broken across the kitchen floor, creating shards of glass for me to walk on. But no, nothing has changed. What were things are now memories. Or is it too early for those? I can still smell Mom. Her scent of lilacs and cucumbers. Early summertime. That’s my Mom. I want to think of this as one of her business trips, where she is gone for a week and tonight she forgets to call.

Her sneakers are beside the door, and her hairbrush is lying on the kitchen counter. I remember Mom telling me to sit beside her and how she would teach me to brush my hair. I remember how she would place her palm against the crown of my head and coach me to brush “slowly.” The brush gave me barely visible dark red streaks the first time she helped me. She said she must have forgotten to clean it. I giggled because Mom never had red hair. Why would she clean it? She would compliment my steady perseverance, and joke how she should have taught me sooner. I would smile because I was embarrassed. I knew she didn’t mean it. I was four then. We were just becoming friends. I close my eyes and slide my hand over the wooden handle of her brush.

“Emma, there you are,” Dad says almost out of breath from rushing up and down the stairs to put Evan down for bed.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “Nothing,” I reply. “I was just remembering something.”

“Do you want to talk about it, honey?” Dad asks. “No,” I say as I wrap my arms around him and begin to cry.

Dad hugs me back and I hear him crying. For the first time since the accident, I feel something. I want to think that it’s Mom telling me that I’ll be okay, but I don’t. I feel like Mom has something that I need to know. And suddenly, I remember.

“Dad,” I say, stepping back from his embrace.

He wipes his eyes and sits down before he meets my attention. “Yes, Emma.”

“Did Mom say anything to you about me before she died?” I ask.

Dad looks across the room and spots what he needs. Slowly, he slides to the front of his bulky, blue chair and stands. At first he hesitates, but then he beings to walk across the room to Mom’s bookcase. He settles on his knees and reaches to the back. When he stands, he has an old brown book with a latch that looks older than Mom and Dad combined.

“I’ll tell you the last words your mother said to me,” Dad says.

I stand up to accept the book as he presents it to me.

“She said,” Dad says, “Don’t forget to tell Emma who she is.”

Confused, I quickly sit back down and look up at Dad, as he walks back over to his chair.

“Don’t forget to tell me who I am?” I ask.

“Yes, Emma.”

“What are you talking about, Dad? I know who I am,” I say laughing.

“Listen, Emma,” Dad says, “The wreck tonight. That wasn’t a bird that we hit.”

I get angry with Dad and tell him that I know it was a bird because I saw it. I hear nothing for the next few seconds. I see him becoming frustrated, but I don’t care. She was his wife, but she was also my Mom. I’m allowed to be angry for him telling me that I didn’t see what I know I saw. He just stares at me. I toss my book to the ground. It collapses. The old book’s spine almost rips, and awkward landing bends several of the pages.

“Emma!” Dad yells my name.

I don’t care what my mother wanted me to read. I don’t want to read it. He’s lying to me. I start crying.

“I know I saw a bird hit our car. I saw it pierce my mother’s skin. I saw her bleeding,” I emphatically tell Dad.

He looks at me. Instead of arguing, he gets up, walks to my book, and bends to get it for me again.

“Open it,” he says, as he hands it back to me. “I know you loved your mother. I loved her. She was my wife, Emma. I loved her more than you or anyone can imagine. I also know what you think you saw. Trust me. It wasn’t a bird. Did you see the body of a bird in the card, Emma? What you saw flew away. A bird would not have survived the impact or penetrated the shield. Your Mom and I knew this was coming. We just didn’t know when.”

Still crying, I look at Dad. I know he is telling the truth, but I don’t want to believe him. I am sad, confused—even stupid. How could I not have noticed how the body of what I assumed was a bird was missing from the scene? I clutch the book in my hands and look down at it.

“So,” I say to Dad, “Who I am is inside this book?”

He shakes his head and says, “Yes. Everything you will ever need to know about yourself. It’s in there.”

Dad gets up from his chair and comes over to where I’m sitting. He sits on the arm of my chair and pats my shoulder. He tells me,

“Go ahead. Open it. Just be prepared. You think you life changed a few hours ago, but now it’s going to be completely different.”

I turn around to meet his gaze. I start to smile, but his expression discourages it.

“Read it aloud, Emma. It might help make everything more real,” he says.

I open the cover. Dust blasts everywhere—green, gold, pink—a cloud of color engulfs my body. A ball of wind jumps from the pages and pushes the dust along. First, I resist what is happening, but I can’t stop the cloud, as it attacks my head and works its way quickly down my torso and to my toes. It tickles, but I refuse to laugh. I try to squeal, but I can’t. Soon, I’m not even sure that I want to stop what happening. It feels wonderful, as the dust clings to my body.

I shut the book and run to stand under the light in our living room. Emotionless, Dad watches me, as I bask in utter wonderment. I look in the mirror to watch my body transform. At first, I glitter like I’ve been glued with sequins, but soon, the dust settles into my pores. My glow fades, and I’m back to a human-like tone, only slightly more golden than I was.

“Um, Dad,” I say, “Did you know that was going to happen?”

I feel incredible—almost weightless.

“Emma, look down,” Dad says.

I take his advice and almost collapse at what I see. My feet aren’t on the ground. I’m hovering at least three inches above the floor.

“Look in the mirror again,” he instructs me.

I scream.

“You’re going to wake your brother, Emma. He doesn’t need to know about this” Dad says.

I stop screaming, but I can’t help but to continue gasps. I have wings. They are beautiful. They are the color of the dust. They shine beautifully in the light. I put my hand over my mouth and admire what is happening.

Dad stands beside me, and I look at him in the mirror. He still doesn’t smile. Then, I remember. Mom died just a few hours ago. How could I have forgotten? If didn’t die, I wouldn’t be flying. I close my wings and plant my feet back on the ground. I sit down to read what—well, who—I am. Dad rejoins me.

“Read it aloud, Emma,” Dad said again, “This time, let’s finish reading the opening page. That will give you all the information you need for tonight.”

I agreed and pulled back the cover again.

I begin to read, “To whomever now possess this gift, I equally congratulate and warn you of your current status, which may be a blessing to those who respect required fulfillments, but to those who neglect even the smallest of orders, it will be a terrible curse.”

I stop reading and look at Dad. He looks back but nods, as an indicator for me to continue.

“Roughly, every thirty-five years, the queen of all fairies decides on a new Tooth Fairy—usually, this selection falls on the daughter of the past fairy.”

I stop and sarcastically ask, “Mom was the Tooth Fairy?”

Dad looks at me.

“The childhood legend is, in fact, only partly true. Securing the first shed tooth of every child is the most important requirement of the Tooth Fairy. You must not only get the tooth, but you must leave a single dollar bill under the respective child’s pillow. However, collecting successively shed teeth are not your responsibility. This task belongs to the child’s parents or guardians. You must collect these teeth daily, either late at night or in the earliest of hours of the morning. Once you collect the teeth, you must hold them in your hand until they turn to dust. Due to your wings and other magical abilities, this process is easily accomplishable within an hour. If you fail, even once, you will grow violent and, consequently, kill. The desire to pound brains in an effort to secure teeth will overtake you. This is why many children fear the loss of the first tooth. Hundreds of thousands have been slain due to irresponsible Fairies. But do not fear, the amount of happiness, ability to fly, and response to the magic dust, will make your time as the Tooth Fairy well worth it. Teeth are now the key to your survival, and the survival of those around you. When your time is up, the queen will find you and pierce your heart with her sword. You will not suffer. Until then, you will be responsible for securing the first lost tooth of every child in your land.”

I close the book at look at Dad.

“Are you kidding me? There is no way this is real. The Tooth Fairy. Come on,” I tell Dad.

I stand up to walk to the mirror again. I reexamine myself. I look normal. My earlier Moments must have been hallucinations. I walk back to the kitchen and grab Mom’s hairbrush. It is mine now. Mom used to tell me how she thought of her own mother every time she saw it.

“Dad, I’m going to sleep,” I say, as I begin to walk up the stairs.

Dad gets up and hurries to meet me.

“Emma,” he says, “You have to begin tonight. You’ve already been hit with the dust.”

“That’s not real. We’ve had a long day. We hit a bird, which caused us to crash, which caused Mom to die. Nothing in that book is real,” I say.

Growing frantic, Dad says, “Why else would I have the book? What about the bird not being anywhere near the crash site? How do you explain that, Emma? What about your Mom’s last words?”

“You are my father. Your responsibility as a parent is to help show me who I am. That’s what she meant. Be a good Dad. What she said was for you. Apply it to Evan and I. The book is just a book, and that stupid bird was probably obliterated,” I say, as I continue to march up the stairs. “I’m going to bed, Dad.”

“Emma, please don’t do this. What about your brother? What about me? You will kill us. You won’t be aware of what you are doing. Please!” Dad begs me.

He follows me up the stairs and continues to talk, but I ignore him. I forgive him for believing what I read aloud because I remember the day we’ve all had. I tell him that I love him. I promise him that everything will be okay. After only a short nap, I wake up to watch the clock. It hits midnight. I reach over to make sure Mom’s brush is still on the bedside table, and it is. When I pull my hand back inside the covers I feel something wet. The moon’s soft glow makes what I fear a reality. I call out, but no one answers.