At the Core are Daffodils

1

Even at 38, Corey’s hair is still the bright blood-strawberry red it had always been. It has never liked being twisted back, preferring to splash into Corey’s eyes. Absently, she pushes it out of the way and brings another forkful of spaghetti to her mouth.2

The kitchen is poorly lit. The few spotlights on the ceiling bite out chunks of the room, instead of illuminating it fully. The small square table is under one thin spotlight, letting shadows whine and beg at the chairs of the two patrons eating.3

Out of the corner of her eyes, through the unruly mop of hair, Corey glances at her daughter. Unlike her mother, Chay’s hair is the dark brown of her grandmother’s. It’s plaited back into a tight pair of French braids that end at her shoulders. She is bedecked in silver space junk and steel fish on chains. She wears a long sleeved shirt that reads ‘Shoplifters Unite’ to hide the small black tattoo of a Scarab beetle along with the small bruises on her right arm.4

“How about Pioneer Pacific College? That’s close.”5

There’s a pause. Chay watches her nest of food and listens to her mother slurp in more pasta before venturing an answer.6

“Maybe.”7

“Why not? What’s wrong with Pioneer Pacific?”8

“Nothing…nothing.”9

Corey’s eyes narrow as she scrutinizes her daughter, who was staring impassively at the plate in front of her.10

“So what’s wrong with it?”11

Chay quietly breathes in before replying.12

“I just…would rather go somewhere else. I think I’d do better somewhere—”13

“Okay. There are a bunch of other good schools around here.”14

“I’m going to Novgorod State,” Chay murmurs firmly.15

Corey lowers her fork and the clink it makes as it nudges her plate echoes through the kitchen and escapes down the hallway to launch itself out the small window. She says nothing and forcefully stares at her daughter, shocked. Her mouth opens slowly and she inhales, the muscles in her heart and chest wincing.16

Chay swallows and says quietly, “It’s in Russia.”17

To Chay, the slap doesn’t even make a noise, though she knows it must have. All she hears is her mother’s sharp inhale and afterwards, the frantic screeching her mother’s chair makes as it’s shoved backwards.18

Corey is standing, still staring at Chay, whose head is still tilted to the left from the force of the smack. Her daughter’s eyes are now focused on the floor.19

“There’s n-nothing there! Just cold and-and vodka and nightclubs and-and I won’t be there to pick up after you, you know.”20

Her daughter doesn’t move.21

“You’re so immature! How can you think you know what you want?”22

Chay still says nothing. She licks her lips quietly and continues to stare at the unresponsive floor.23

Choking back a sob—Chay can’t tell if it’s a real sob or just her mother’s dramatics again—, Corey turns and stomps out of the room. The spotlights appear to set her hair on fire as it marched away.24

Only after the sound of a door slamming reverberates down the hall does Chay allows her eyes to lift from the floor. She sits still for a moment, letting herself just breathe. She realizes that her fingers feel cold; the dinner probably is too. Lifting her right hand, the severe spotlight tenderly lathers her silver rings, and she brushes her icy fingertips gingerly against the left side of her face.25

Hissing slightly, she lowers her arm and quietly pushes back her chair. The plates, silverware, and glasses clank and grate as she picks them up. Balancing a small tower of domesticity, she walks across the battlefield of dark and light and puts the dishes into the sink.26

End27