September Lullaby

Norman is off to college to get an education—so be it. He’s also asleep—he just doesn’t know it—and his wake up call doesn’t care that she’s invisible to this skinny, white boy with the red crop of hair. The one who’s still pissed about not getting a rabbit when he was a kid.

This is Norman’s story. He’s about to learn that the company you keep doesn’t always define you, sometimes it refines you. And sometimes it only takes one Yellowbird to sing you awake.

*”Norman, I have concerns about the company you have coming by,” she said as she lowered her glasses to the bottom of her nose.
“I don’t know what to say,” I stammered. “There’s been no one visiting me. Are you sure they came to my apartment?”
“Norman, I may be getting on in years, but I do recognize a search warrant from the RCMP when I see one!”
“What?”
“Yes, they’re looking for an aboriginal woman you were keeping company with last fall. Sound familiar?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I was stunned.
“Anyhow, if you’re in trouble with the law, well, you’ll have to leave, effective immediately. So, which is it?”
“No trouble, Mrs. Lovell. No trouble at all. I’ll take care of things.”
“Best that you do, Norman, what with the new school year starting. You don’t want to end up on the streets, do you?” She had a way of driving home the least desirable outcome.

When my mom died, Simon had been there. He’d put his arm around me at her funeral and we cried. That was only a few years before he left town. After he left, I stopped making friends. Things changed and people started treating me differently; not special, just weird. For example, the Bols family, who lived around the corner in the new subdivision, had rabbits and I wanted one so badly. I asked the eldest Bols kid if I could have one and you could see he was ready to give me one, but then he pulled the freakin’ puppy adoption routine and started asking me questions: What’s your name? Where do you live? And other personal shit. When I told him my name he said, “Your mom’s dead.”
“Yeah?” I answered, like it was the first time I’d heard about it.
He didn’t seem to like my humour and said, “All the rabbits are taken.”
I went home and played with the cat; the dog had already been run over. It was official—my mom was dead and, because of that, I couldn’t have a damned rabbit. Those ridiculous death dots were starting to pile up.*