Excerpt from WHAT DO WE DO WITH THE CHILDREN

I stare straight ahead through my window. In order to watch the start of my last sunset, hues of purple and red bath the sky. Digging my nails in the arms of my chair. I don’t want to go. I look at my mother, she is in the same state as I.  Her face is devoid of color, as sweat begins to bead down her face.  My dad sits across from her, he smiles weakly at me as he urges me to finish my birthday cake. No one has even sliced it. No one wants to hold a knife. 

“Pumpkin,” he says gently, “we can handle this, you’re not like them. You’ll wake up in your bed in the morning. You’ll wake up.” It’s only then that I realize his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. My mom lets out a small cry. I just continue to stay blandly at the white frosted cake. 

It’s red velvet. Cindy said every kid needs to get a red cake, Ellie clarified that they should at least try to normalize the color if you don’t have a lottery Ticket. Then they sneered at me and ran away to the swing sets. They both have lottery Tickets, I’ve seen them, everyone has. Those types of kids only invite non-lottery winners to their house to show them. Ellie had the biggest birthday party for her seventh. When we walked through her front door, the first thing we saw when we walked in the door was the Ticket. That Ticket with embellishments of pink flowers. That Ticket guarantees her next birthday party. I sigh, and slump through into my chair. She didn’t have a red velvet cake. 

My mom goes to reach for my hand that is still firmly wrapped around my chair. I feel her sweaty palms weigh over mine. I can’t look at her face. I can’t look at his face. I can only stare at my red red red cake. No one is here for my seventh. It’s not like we would have invited anyone. Who would want to see what will happen at sundown. 

I figured that once I had actually turned seven that I would have felt some big change. That yesterday I was an unprepared kid, who couldn’t possibly comprehend the gravity of what was to happen. Twenty– four hours did not make much of a difference, all I truly know is that I don’t want the sun to go down. 

“We got you a present,” I nod without breaking my stare. 

“We understand that today is not–is not the best. We just wanted you to know that you are loved, and and… will you please look at us?” My tummy turns, I don’t want to look at them. They look scared. Yet I glance at my dad who seems like a safer bet at the moment. 

“Thank you pumpkin,” he slid a small black box across the table, this time his smile reached his eyes.

“We understand that you’ve probably heard a bunch of crazy things at school, and we know that you had said your goodbyes and emptied your desk, but um. You’re not like those other kids, those kids that don’t come back after their seventh.” He touches the side of my cheek; as I continue to watch his sad eyes try not to well up with tears. 

“Open up the present sweetie.” My mom asks. I lift both hands and grab the box, I wish it were pink, and I open it. 

It’s a bunch of paper that I can’t begin to comprehend. All of the words have way too many syllables for my skill set. I don’t think it is a very good present. 

“This,” my dad says with too much enthusiasm for this evening, “this is our confirmation paper for our lottery Ticket.” I go back to staring at the red cake. 

“See there is our address, and here is your name, and of course our names, little one. Do you want to try and read out this part for yourself? Try and show us what you have been learning?” I glanced up, he looked so desperate. I look at the window, the sun has since dipped down towards the horizon; I can almost make out the van waiting patiently outside. My stomach twists tighter. 

“Sure,” I responded blankly, what else am I supposed to do?

“Pay–ment for em–bell–ish–ments of your lottery ticket–et, bal–ance due $40 doll–ars. Em–bell–ish–ment type, pink hem–locks.” I look at them to see I got it right. My father has tears in his eyes, and mother stares out the window. 

“Good job pumpkin, can you guess what it means?” I stare straight ahead.

“See, see little one. You have a lottery Ticket.” I continue to stare at my red cake. If I have a lottery Ticket then why is no one at my birthday party? 

“And even if that doesn’t work,” my mother begins as my dad frowns, “we have another way.”

“It will work.”

“We don’t have the actually Ticket”

“We have proof that we once did, we have proof that we won the lottery.” 

My mom looks at my dad as one would look at a hopeful terminal patient. Such sympathy. Such dread. I wish to hide under the table now. But I can only look at that red cake. I should have never listened to Cindy, she always stole my crayons and broke them. 

I don’t want that cake anymore. 

“Regardless,” My mom starts, “ Even if they choose not to listen to us,” She shoots my dad a look, “we still are going to wake up in the morning, maybe just not here.”

“What,” I finally stopped looking at my cake.

“Yes pumpkin, we have it all ready,” He says, then looks straight at my mom, “even if it is unnecessary.” I don’t quite know what is happening, but I know mom did not like that comment. 

“We have been trying it your way for years, we are out of time.” My mom says with a smile, not a happy one because she doesn’t seem happy. 

“Well the right people haven’t been listening to us,” Dad interjects in a hushed voice, as if I am not two feet to his right.  

“If they were actually listening,” She glances at me with a worried expression, “ we wouldn’t be so W-O-R-R-I-E-D.” I can spell. Just not that word right now without some paper. 

My dad smiles, again not a happy one, “We shouldn’t be A-R-G-U-I-N-G in front of H-E-R.” I know what is happening here, there are context clues all around us. 

I slump further into my chair, as I stare at the window. The stupid sun keeps on lowering. The last light of the day passes through my window and then it is gone. 

No one makes a move. 

Promptly a knock on the door breaks the silence.