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SAMHAIN

Samhain is tonight. And my son Iain is by my side. My parents, ashen-faced, told me that every fifty years, all the little children of Neamh would vanish. I’m sure I believed it until I was twelve. After that, it was hard to hold back laughter when they said it.

As I stood in my mom’s farmhouse, looking at her and my dad’s severe expressions, I understood how deeply they believed this shit. I took a deep breath, unintentionally savoring the smell of my mom’s chocolate chip pancakes, and tried not to let them get to me. I was their only daughter. A sibling would have really taken some of this heat off me. One more night. Just one more night of this, and it would end.

Neamh, our town’s name, means “heaven” in Gaelic. The immigrants from Scotland who founded the town in 1920 could be taken as melodramatic, except it kind of really was. You could walk down our little main street and think it was 1982. There’s one Blockbuster left in the world. It’s in Bend, Oregon. Blockbuster would be considered too gauche in Neamh. We have “Uncle Dave’s Video Palace.” It sounds like a place you go to get molested. But yeah, they still have actual physical media there. Simply upgrading to DVD players took Neamh about ten years longer than the rest of America.

Anyway, like I said, Samhain is tonight. See, Samhain is a Gaelic festival, that’s where it comes from. You call it Halloween, now. But it started as an end of harvest festival, cattle were slaughtered and needed to last through the winter. It was a scary time for ye olde Gaelic folk, and, like a lot of people, they turned to magical pseudo-religious nonsense. My parents among them.

All of this — it’s why my mom’s holding Iain’s hand and has clearly been crying, and why my dad isn’t talking. The drone of zippy children’s cartoons on the TV mocks us. Drop offs at my parents are usually chatty and peppy. This one’s like a wake. It’s easier to put your faith in something you can understand with a grade-school education, than spend the time figuring out why Neamh is the way it is. If I believed what they do, I’d be scared shitless, too.

My parents don’t own a computer. They don’t have Wi-Fi at their house, something I always bemoan during drop offs, as my cell signal sucks at their farmhouse. Today, I was hoping to get a text back from my friend, another young mother who exists in the real world, instead of the Scots-Gaelic dreamtime shenanigan most of Neamh lives in. The Internet has been a serious problem for Neamh. That’s why some people, like me and my friend, grew a brain.

My parents wanted me to abort Iain. The kid who is currently nonsensically yelling “I got you!” and chasing my mom around the kitchen island. They didn’t want me to suffer the pain of losing my child at Samhain. And now that Samhain is upon us, even in the midst of her terror, my mom is smiling and playing along with Iain.

I wouldn’t have had the abortion anyway, but I sure as hell was not going to do it after my husband Daniel died. His son was going to live. And he did. Iain was born a healthy nine-pound baby boy. I saw Daniel in his eyes. And sometimes, it was like he wasn’t really gone.

They had the same spirit, playful and sunny. Iain, from the time he was a baby in his crib, would wake up singing to himself. He was so fucking wonderful it made me want to drive directly into oncoming traffic. As a single mom, he was always with me, or with my parents. My heart often felt like it would burst as he raced to hug me every single time I left their house and returned, even if I were only gone for five minutes. When I come to pick him up this afternoon, I know for a fact he will drop whatever toy he’s playing with, and sprint across the entire house to greet me. Kids are awesome like that.

So, tonight is Samhain. This morning, I’m still dropping Iain at my mom’s, before going to work. My mom looks so pale. She hugs me too tight as I bid her goodbye. We haven’t talked about Samhain in years. Both my parents know I don’t want to hear any more of their bullshit. So, it just is, in the air, a thing we’ve agreed to allow to live between us, unspoken.

I leave Iain and head over to Roisin’s house. Roisin is ninety-five. She has dementia. Roisin loves talking about Samhain, as you might imagine. She claims she was born right after the first American Samhain festival, in 1920, here in Neamh. And she witnessed the 1970 affair, child vanishings and all. She tells me about the Annals of the Four Masters, a text some Christian monks apparently wrote, about how Samhain in ancient Ireland had to do with this god, Crom Cruach (Captain Crunch? No, Crom Cruach, man, we Gaelic folk need to work on our names), and how a first-born child would be sacrificed at a stone idol in his likeness. If you want a quick snapshot of how simultaneously creepy and goofy Scots-Gaelic/Irish folklore is, I’ll just say that the Aos Si, these spirits that come out on Samhain? Aos Si means “people of the mounds.” Our mythological boogeymen sound like they should be on tour with The Decemberists.

Roisin has congestive heart failure. That’s causing accumulation of fluids in her extremities. Her legs are puffy, basically. If I lay a finger on them, it leaves a mark. I tell her she has to take Lasix, which will help her get the fluid out. What this really means is she will pee constantly. Roisin hates Lasix almost as much as she hates Samhain.

She looks up at me with vacant eyes.

“Are you taking your boy for Samhain, dear?”

“I thought we might just stay in.”

“They will find you anyway.”

“The Aos Si?”

“And the children.”

“What children?”

“The ones who come back.”

“Come back?”

I hadn’t heard any talk of this. Which was very odd.

“I have to piss again.”

Roisin went to the bathroom. When she returned, I pressed her on the children she mentioned coming back. She told me about the latest rerun of Law & Order (Roisin loved Law & Order). I tried again before the end of my shift. Nothing. Another mystery of Neamh, I suppose.

I grabbed my keys and let Roisin know I was going. She suddenly stopped me, urgent.

“It’s better to die young.”

“Then we wouldn’t have gotten to be friends.”

“Getting old just gives you more time to hurt.”

This was going down a dark path, so I tried to dodge it.

“How about I bring you some Cranachan tomorrow?”

“Cranachan?”

Cranachan is a Scottish desert, whipped cream, whisky, raspberries, and toasted oats. Roisin usually goes nuts for Cranachan. Now she’s looking at me like I’m speaking Chinese.

“What’s that?”

“Cranachan. You know what it is.”

“I don’t want anything. Just you.”

I felt myself blush.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Samhain’s tonight?”

We had been over this about twenty-three times prior.

“Yes.”

“Alright. Come. We’ll talk then. You’ll understand then.”

“Understand what?”

“I was going to take all my pills a few months ago. But I wanted to stay. So you’d have someone to talk to about it, after. Someone who knows.”

“…I’m… glad you didn’t take all your pills.”

“Come back tomorrow.”

I got into my car, compulsively checking the time. It feels like the night is never going to get here. I drive through Neamh, seeing people walk around with their assholes clenched, all stiff and foreboding. This isn’t what you’d call a “fun” town on the brightest of days. The truck in front of me fails to advance at a green light.

After waiting a generous three seconds, I honk. The driver, a burly, probably-ex-Hawkeyes offensive lineman, gives me this wounded puppy look. Like, how could you honk at me on Samhain?I check the time again. Still hours to go. This is the longest day of my life.

And then, as casually as flicking his turn signal, the driver takes an old handgun, puts it to his head and pulls the trigger. The shot goes through his head and out his passenger window, shattering it. He slumps over the wheel and the truck slowly wanders forward. I watch, wondering if I’ve fallen asleep at the wheel, and this is a dream. People gradually come out of shops and houses to see what has happened. I feel paralyzed.

Do I stay? Do I leave? Is it rude to leave the scene of a suicide? Why did he do it? I’ve seen the driver around. Neamh’s too small not to know everyone’s face. I think he might even be a second cousin of mine. People don’t kill themselves in Neamh. The corn always grows. The sun always shines. And people don’t kill themselves in Neamh.

Eventually, Sheriff Ruiseart, which is the Scots-Gaelic name for Richard, whom I just call “Dick”, rolls up and secures the scene. By now, the truck has gently drifted into a parking meter. I feel a sharp sensation in my gut, as I realize it’s definitely not a coincidence the first suicide in Neamh ever (at least in my life) happened on Samhain day.

With Sheriff Dick here doing his Dick stuff, I figure it’s okay to leave. I slowly drive around. For a second it feels like there’s an earthquake happening, but then I realize it’s just my hands shaking.

I arrive at my parents’ house to pick up Iain. The sun lingers in the sky, loitering to hold off the sunset. The front door is never locked. I stroll in. My parents, with tears in their eyes, are on the couch as Iain plays in a little kid corner they’ve decked out with toys and books and knickknacks for him.

My mom gestures for me to sit besides her.

“I know you don’t want to go. But we really want you to be with us at the Samhain festival.”

My dad chimes in.

“It’s important.”

I consider it for a long moment. I didn’t see the harm. At midnight, Iain would be standing right there besides me. And I’m sure my parents and the other townsfolk over the age of fifty would have some explanation for why it didn’t happen. Jim Jones used to do that — he’d foretell an apocalyptic event, with a date, and then when it didn’t come to pass, he’d make up a new one. That’s how cults work.

“Okay.”

My acquiescence didn’t seem to bring them any great relief. Iain played in the corner for the next hour as the sun mercifully went down. I tried to make small talk with my mom, but she only gave one-word answers. My dad stood in the backyard and stared into the sky like a deranged evangelical preacher. Like an inmate counting the days to release, I continued to check the time.

At about six-thirty, we went. This is it. We’re finally doing it. We travel out to a giant field, where the entire town has already gathered. There’s a giant wooden wheel set up on the field. Sheriff Dick tosses gasoline onto it.

Iain oohs when Sheriff Dick lights the giant wooden wheel. It goes up into a hearty flame. It’s a sight. If anyone from outside Neamh was here, they’d probably take pictures. None of the adults do. I’m tempted to whip out my smartphone and snap a selfie of me and Iain, but somehow, I know this will be viewed as tantamount to doing a jig on someone’s grave by the older townsfolk.

Iain joins the other boys (of which there are relatively few, I know all their mothers, other 30-somethings like me who dare defy the Samhain lore by reading the interwebs and having views that correspond with the year 2020) in laying on the ground near the fire and having the smoke roll over them. A ring of stones, one for each resident of Neamh (there were only a few hundred of us) gets laid around the fire, and everyone has to run around it with a torch.

I reluctantly participate. It’s another upbeat Scots-Gaelic/Irish/who the fuck knows ritual, the idea is if any of the stones are mislaid the next morning, that person won’t live through the next year. Fun, right? Seriously, what is wrong with my people?

Iain has more fun with the apple spinner. It’s a wooden rod which is hung from the ceiling, and spun. There’s a lit candle on one end, and an apple on the other. You try to catch the apple with your teeth. Iain catches it. He laughs. He has Daniel’s laugh too. I pretend to smile when he laughs, but it makes me want to cry.

Daniel and I got married seven years ago. On our wedding night, as the reception was winding down, my father took me aside and warned me. Samhain was coming, in just seven years. I couldn’t get pregnant. I’d be putting the child in danger. Worse, he had this same conversation with Daniel. We laughed about it that night. I had gone off the pill two weeks before. I hid the pregnancy from my parents for months, until biology necessitated the admission. They took the news the way you might take news of a genocide.

But Daniel and I didn’t care. We had plans to leave Neamh, wonderful as it was. Money held us back a bit. Neamh works like that. Everyone is just prosperous enough to never leave. He was a farmer, I’m still a hospice nurse. We had a baby on the way. Did we really want to leave our families, our land, the support we had in Neamh? Making fun of it was our favorite pastime, but it was still home. Our parents might have been, for all intents and purposes, brainwashed cult members, but they loved us.

Thus, we stayed. And stayed. And then, one night, Daniel went to pick up pizza, from the pizza shop in town so not-Italian it would make an Italian weep. And a Ford Escape ran a red light and crumpled our shitty Honda. They went through the song and dance of driving Daniel’s body to the hospital, forty-five miles away. My understanding is he died about thirty minutes into the trip. The driver of the Ford Escape was effectively banished from Neamh. Maybe Daniel and I should have gotten ourselves banished. He might still be alive.

He would have liked the ceremony of this evening. We would have laughed about it together. Everyone sits down at a giant wood table for the evening’s feast. And I do mean, giant. Like half-a-football field. It’s absurd-looking. And we eat.

Me and the younger moms make small talk, and I luxuriate in it. I want this small talk to last forever. Jim from the bank is fucking his wife’s best friend? Aggie over at the scrap yard has a miniature horse she keeps in the yard? Lonnie at the Save-N-Rite is selling pills on the side? Tell me more! This is “The Real Housewives of Neamh” and I’m here for it. Did I mention they serve wine at this dinner?

Anyway, at some point, I look up and it seems like there are way more little kids than I remember. Did someone bus in a bunch of Scottish kids from some other weird town? Where did all these kids come from? There has to be an explanation, but I couldn’t see one. No one else seems to think it’s strange.

The trouble is, amongst all these random little kids, my little kid is gone. I stand up in alarm, feeling the wine and the associated guilt of letting my guard down. Is Iain gone? If he is, it’s on me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Wait, could this be? No. Stop. You’re being ridiculous. It’s not fucking Samhain magic. You just got drunk and stopped watching your child.

Okay, breathe. I start marching around the table, doing that panicked goose-step/half-run of a terrified parent. I call his name, first casually, and then louder, until I’m screaming at the top of my legs. Other parents notice, and join me.

Someone in the crowd murmurs, “It’s not time yet.” I want to stop and grab them, and scream into their face. It’s all bullshit, you fucking moron. It’s never going to be time. All our kids don’t have to disappear at midnight so the crops keep growing. But there’s no time for that.

I continue my search, breaking into a sweat, my heart pounding in my ears, the world a cacophony of fear and pain and screaming parents trying to help me find my son. Finally, like a dream, someone shouts, “He’s over here!” I sprint like Usain Bolt to my son.

He’d just wandered off. I practically shake him.

“Where did you go?”

“It was kind of loud. I wanted some quiet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You seemed like you were busy.”

I glance at the parents who have helped me. They all stare back at me, and it’s like they are stoning me with their eyes. Jesus Christ, am I that bad of a mom? I want to believe it, and I want to curse them, but instead I just hug my son tighter and softly tell him, “Please, don’t ever do that again.”

He nods and we walk back to the table.

It gets later and later. Iain gets sleepy. I’m practically unconscious. Staying up until midnight is something I did in my twenties. Going to bed at nine pm was a set position once I had Iain, and got him sleeping in his own room. In my sleepy, dreamy state, the Lair Bhan scares the shit out of me. It’s a guy in a white sheet with a horse skull poking out of it, another ritual. I almost punch him. I’m never visiting Scotland, let’s put it that way.

Finally, I check my cell, and it is 11:55pm. We all stand out in the field, this one specifically marked for the end of Samhain, with the bonfire still going on the giant wooden wheel in front of us. My parents kiss me, and hug Iain again. They say they are going home.

“What? Why? This was your idea!”

My mom exchanges looks with my dad.

“We don’t want to see it happen. We can’t.”

I shake my head. I feel a heaviness in my chest. All these years of this. This endless looming fear. You know, that’s why people who have bad anxiety die young? Anxiety is a literal killer. Chronic anxiety increases your risk of heart disease, and lowers your immune system. If anything, these stressed-out nuts in Neamh should be dying off early, not late.

With that, my poor parents totter off, looking about a hundred years old. They hold hands, desperately. It’s not a loving act, it’s like two people holding hands on the Titanic.

Here, in Neamh, anyone over the age of fifty will swear on a Bible to you that they witnessed children vanish in 1970, and their ancestors saw the same in 1920. And this sacrifice, to the Aos Si, these spirits from the Otherworld, that’s what made and still makes Neamh so great. It was a trade, in exchange for the wellbeing of Neamh. It’s (supposedly) why our crops are always growing and people rarely die before their 80th birthday and everything is hunky-fucking-dory in Neamh. Every fifty years, all the children, all girls who haven’t yet had their period, all boys who haven’t yet undergone puberty, disappear at midnight on Samhain… aka in five minutes.

After my parents leave, me and the other young moms smile and joke around with each other. One in particular, Karen, finishes her glass of wine and leans close to me with boozy breath.

“I was supposed to die, once.”

“When?”

“When I was twelve.”

“What happened?”

“I left Neamh.”

“That’s all it took, huh?”

“Seriously, I ran away. Hitched rides. And one of those rides was with a trucker. And he tried to kill me with a mallet hammer.”

“What?!? You never told me that.”

“I never told anyone. Not even my parents.”

“…why are you telling me now?”

“Feels like that kind of night.”

“Not you too.”

“I’m not saying I believe. I’m saying Neam is safe. Always has been. Always will be. And that’s valuable. If the cost of that is we all have to pretend this happens, it’s worth it.”

“So, what are you thinking?”

Karen purses her lips, considering.

“I think Sheriff Dick and the preacher are going to gather us around and tell us the magical vanishing date has been moved to 2040. And we’ve got to stay vigilant and be sure not to fuck our husbands anytime close to that. Shit, sorry…”

I flush hot with shame. I don’t know why. I try to wave her off.

“It’s fine. Where is yours, anyway?”

“He’s home, probably asleep. Said he had real work to do tomorrow morning, and he wasn’t waking up late on account of this bullshit.”

“Good for him.”

Karen hugs me, and kisses me on the cheek, but so close to the lips that it’s almost an accidental straight-up kiss on the mouth. I giggle.

“Hey, you didn’t finish your story.”

“What story?”

“The trucker. How did you get away?”

“I didn’t. I had sex with him and waited until he fell asleep. Then I ran.”

“Jesus… Karen… I’m so sorry.”

She speaks so softly I can barely hear her.

“…bad things have to happen so we can get the good things in life, I guess.”

I hug her back. She quivers a little.

“Be with your boy, it’s almost time.”

“We’re talking about this later.”

“Okay. Go. It’s about to be midnight.”

Finally, we could get this over with, and spend the rest of our lives teasing our parents every Halloween. I grab Iain, and plop him down beside me on the grass. We look up at the stars together.

Samhain is tonight. And my son Iain is by my side. I hold his little hand.

“You think Dad can see us?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Me too.”

I feel the tears, but I look away. I don’t want him to see them. I let go of his hand so I can discreetly wipe them off. I hear the gasps first. And something deep in the pit of my stomach goes up through my body, into a forceful exhale.

Turning back to face Iain, I see nothing but grass.

Samhain is tonight.

And my son Iain is gone.

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