Chapter 1
It had been 15 years since Rita had seen even a glimpse of the sleepy town of Oyster Ridge Bay. But in the early hours of the morning she found herself staring again into the branches of the large maple overlooking the porch of her old childhood home. From Mom’s large stained glass windows to Dad’s home crafted teeter-totter lonely in the yard, it was the same house she remembered from all those years ago. Lost in the memories she felt the reluctance of return mingled with the overwhelming urge to sit down and cry. Everything was going to be alright.
“Mom, you must be kidding, this is like the cutest house ever. Is this really where you grew up?”
Rita turned to see her 12 years old daughter, Judy, hauling her oversized suitcase up the stone path behind her. She ran her hands through her short auburn hair and pasted a smile across her face right as Judy pulled up next to her and parked herself right on top of her cargo.
“I know right? Can you believe this? Good thing I didn’t sell it all those years ago when your father wanted me too.”
With that comment Rita turned away from her daughter to hide the tears threatening to surface. She had survived the premature death of her father, the accidental death of her mother, and the run for survival with her children from her husband; a man who believed three bottles of whisky and a few slaps could solve any argument. Now, as she stared at a handful of keys she couldn’t help but watch as her two lives occupied the same space; sliding back and forth with the imbalance, hitting each other and intermingling. She could almost feel the tangible end of her emotional strength.
She turned to see her son Brian, staring hard at the house from his car seat. At 4 years old he was the most difficult member of their small family to explain the situation to. How do you tell a 4 years old that his father can’t be around anymore after beating his wife half-to death with a crow-bar? No, Brian’s understanding was far different than that; daddy had to go work over in Australia, Brian’s favorite country. This only made the situation more difficult as Brian now refused to cooperate in all matters of existence short of anything that would reunite him with his father and the jumping kangaroos of the Australian outback. Gesturing for him to come join them on the eve of the front stairs, Rita felt no surprise as Brian’s small face went from open wonder to a set look of defiance as he crossed his arms across his small chest and sunk into his car seat. With a sigh she glanced back to Judy, now too engrossed in her cell phone to notice her mother’s hesitation. Control yourself and pretend everything is fine, then break down later, she told herself. “Let’s go kid,” she said to the top of her daughter’s curly blonde head, nudging the suitcase with toe of her shoe. “It’s now or never.”
“What about Brian?”
“The car’s not going anywhere.”
Rita bent down to pick up the latest edition of the Oyster Bay Express from the peeling porch echoing of her childhood. The headline was the tragic result of the man hunt for a lost child. Disturbing news but missing people was nothing new for the tourist town. With the amount of carefree and incautious travelers each year, it was no big surprise when a few got lost in the caves or waylaid on the white sand shoreline. But to hear of a death of a child was always a stab for any mother to witness. Rita grimaced, tucked the paper under the arm and slid the key into the bolt. How ironically poignant, Rita thought, that our lives are just beginning while a child’s has just ended. Feeling the hint of collapse, Rita steeled her nerves, opened the door and stepped over the threshold.
And so began the next chapter in the Broman family’s existence.
Chapter 2
The Oyster Ridge Express
November 1 st 2003
All Hallows Eve Tragedy
By: Daniel Hutchins
With
It had been 15 years since Rita had seen even a glimpse of the sleepy town of Oyster Ridge Bay. But in the early hours of the morning she found herself staring again into the branches of the large maple overlooking the porch of her old childhood home. From Mom’s large stained glass windows to Dad’s home crafted teeter-totter lonely in the yard, it was the same house she remembered from all those years ago. Lost in the memories she felt the reluctance of return mingled with the overwhelming urge to sit down and cry. Everything was going to be alright.
“Mom, you must be kidding, this is like the cutest house ever. Is this really where you grew up?”
Rita turned to see her 12 years old daughter, Judy, hauling her oversized suitcase up the stone path behind her. She ran her hands through her short auburn hair and pasted a smile across her face right as Judy pulled up next to her and parked herself right on top of her cargo.
“I know right? Can you believe this? Good thing I didn’t sell it all those years ago when your father wanted me too.”
With that comment Rita turned away from her daughter to hide the tears threatening to surface. She had survived the premature death of her father, the accidental death of her mother, and the run for survival with her children from her husband; a man who believed three bottles of whisky and a few slaps could solve any argument. Now, as she stared at a handful of keys she couldn’t help but watch as her two lives occupied the same space; sliding back and forth with the imbalance, hitting each other and intermingling. She could almost feel the tangible end of her emotional strength.
She turned to see her son Brian, staring hard at the house from his car seat. At 4 years old he was the most difficult member of their small family to explain the situation to. How do you tell a 4 years old that his father can’t be around anymore after beating his wife half-to death with a crow-bar? No, Brian’s understanding was far different than that; daddy had to go work over in Australia, Brian’s favorite country. This only made the situation more difficult as Brian now refused to cooperate in all matters of existence short of anything that would reunite him with his father and the jumping kangaroos of the Australian outback. Gesturing for him to come join them on the eve of the front stairs, Rita felt no surprise as Brian’s small face went from open wonder to a set look of defiance as he crossed his arms across his small chest and sunk into his car seat. With a sigh she glanced back to Judy, now too engrossed in her cell phone to notice her mother’s hesitation. Control yourself and pretend everything is fine, then break down later, she told herself. “Let’s go kid,” she said to the top of her daughter’s curly blonde head, nudging the suitcase with toe of her shoe. “It’s now or never.”
“What about Brian?”
“The car’s not going anywhere.”
Rita bent down to pick up the latest edition of the Oyster Bay Express from the peeling porch echoing of her childhood. The headline was the tragic result of the man hunt for a lost child. Disturbing news but missing people was nothing new for the tourist town. With the amount of carefree and incautious travelers each year, it was no big surprise when a few got lost in the caves or waylaid on the white sand shoreline. But to hear of a death of a child was always a stab for any mother to witness. Rita grimaced, tucked the paper under the arm and slid the key into the bolt. How ironically poignant, Rita thought, that our lives are just beginning while a child’s has just ended. Feeling the hint of collapse, Rita steeled her nerves, opened the door and stepped over the threshold.
And so began the next chapter in the Broman family’s existence.
Chapter 2
The Oyster Ridge Express
November 1 st 2003
All Hallows Eve Tragedy
By: Daniel Hutchins
With
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