The Gateway from the Other World
Tammy is disguised as a single working mother. She is frustrated with her life in hiding. Then she receives a bittersweet gift from home.
Fwop. Fwop. Fwop. Fwop. Tammy’s left sole slapped against the shoe’s inner lining with every step she took. In some ways, the sound comforted her, because she did have something covering her feet. She wondered vaguely whether or not she could glue it again to make the pair last just a little bit longer. They still had a minute amount of tread on them. Sadly, her brown uniform would never wear out. It was made of some polyester material that just wouldn’t die no matter how badly you treated it. It was one of those shapeless numbers that made anyone’s figure look positively hopeless. She had to wear a brown kerchief over her beautiful short, brown curls, and the brown of the uniform made her pretty, rounded face look sallow. No, she would be very happy to stick the uniform in the trash, but she would miss her tennis shoes when they had to go.
She made her way painfully up the Thompson’s walkway listening to the fwopping of her shoe and wondering vaguely what she would make for dinner. She had just gotten off a 10-hour shift at Hungry Harry’s Salad Bar and Grille. It was one of those mundane jobs that slowly suck the life out of you where you are always busy on your feet and people are always asking you for something. The Thompson’s walkway was lined with Fall flowers, and little crackly leaves chased each other around as she walked in the waning light. The overcast sky promised precipitation of some sort very soon, so Tammy did not want to dawdle, even though Mr. Thompson always invited her in for cocoa and Mrs. Thompson loved to give her a long-winded synopsis of anything Greg, her four-month old baby, did while she was slaving away.
On most days, Tammy played the part of concerned parent very well as she listened to Mrs. Thompson. She could never let slip that she already knew everything that had gone on during little Greg’s day, because she would be confronted with all kinds of awkward questions. Today though, she felt a strong urging to get a move-on and head for home. The gathering storm worried her a great deal, but she did her best to not let that show through her façade.
She rang the Thompson’s bell. It chimed a sweet, happy tune, and Tammy listened to Mrs. Thompson’s over-exaggerated commentary she provided for Tammy’s son as she walked to answer the door.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh, Greg! I think your Mommy is here! Let’s go open the door for her." Tammy smiled in spite of herself. She had picked a baby sitter who truly loved babies. She had expected to stay home with her baby when she and Mark, her husband, moved here, but sometimes things just don't work out the way you plan. He had died during their harrowing trip. Died. Murdered.
Mrs. Thompson opened the door. She had the full grandmother look going. She wore her silver hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her baby-blue, ‘50s-vintage dress swirled about her legs as she walked. Tammy cooed over her baby as she stepped inside. He was a sweet, little thing with his shock of thick, black hair.
Mr. Thompson said, "It sure looks like its gearing up for a bad night tonight. Would you like some hot cocoa before you set out?" He looked young for his 78 years, especially in the face and in his sea-blue eyes. His snow-white hair lay neatly combed, and he wore pants that sagged—old man pants, he called them.
"No thanks, Mr. Thompson. I want to get this darling home before the storm lets loose."
"OK, dear," he answered with a smile. "I understand."
Tammy handed some money to Mrs. Thompson, packed up Greg, then headed out the door. As the door clicked shut behind her, Tammy listened to her shoe’s mournful noise. Fwop. Fwop. Fwop.
The door to her green, rusty Hornet creaked as she opened it. She snapped the infant seat into its base, slammed the door shut, then got in herself. She hated how long it took to get the baby strapped in or to unbuckled. She found the thing a dreadful nuisance, but it did keep her baby safe. The roof covering sagged from age. She hated the shabbiness of the car, but no one had questioned her disguise, because she had been so careful about dressing the part of a semi-poor single mother whose husband had died just after their son was born. She drove down the steep driveway and onto the road.
The storm seemed to have been waiting for just that moment to break loose. Rain poured over the car like icy water from an enormous car-wash machine. Lightning flashed all around, and the sky boiled in fury. Tammy ground her teeth and began muttering. She turned out of the Thompson’s neighborhood and made her way through the thick Atlanta traffic onto the highway. Tonight, the cars inched forward like a gigantic worm bloated from too much rain.
Tammy cried out in frustration. She had hoped the traffic would be all cleared out by now. How could anyone stand to live in these conditions? The fact that New York and L. A. were much worse seemed to be small consolation when you worked hard and a good chunk of you personal time was consumed by the traffic machine. She pulled off at the next exit, ordered some food from the first place she found and sat out in her car eating it and listening to music by Tchaikovsky. She slowly began to relax as Little Greg slept, the rain poured down, and the wind rocked the car almost lovingly.
When Tammy pulled back onto the highway, she encountered not a single other car in the darkness. She was much more relaxed now, though the rain and wind continued to pound her aging car and whip the tall Georgia Pine trees around. She watched the passing signs, still in awe of the infrastructure that surrounded her. She wished she could live in a quiet country place like where she had come from—or, even better, not to have moved at all!—but she ended up choosing the Atlanta area so she could lose herself in the anonymity of multitudes of people. Before three months ago, she had never seen so many people in one place at one time in her entire life.
Things were finally going Tammy’s way at last. She had no traffic to contend with. Her baby slept peacefully. Her body felt relaxed. She let the music pour out over her like a warm, happy wave on a sandy beach. Then her car just stopped running as she cruised along at 70 miles an hour.
"How can it do that?" she wondered aloud, perplexed. She let the car coast across the six empty lanes to the shoulder. Then she tried to start the motor again as the wind howled all around her. Finally, she gave up on it. She grabbed her purse and the baby seat and began walking toward the next exit. She became drenched immediately.
As she walked along, Tammy huddled herself into her coat and kept checking to make sure the baby was fine as well. The cold wind picked up speed, and Tammy distinctly heard the quiet wail of a baby. She stopped and turned toward the sound. Greg still lay sleeping. She pulled his baby seat closer to her then marched toward the new sound.
Lying amongst discarded trash sat a small, closed packing box. Tammy opened it to reveal a two-month-old baby girl who had wound herself up and now cried for all she was worth. Tammy stared at the little bald head and the quivering chin as the baby cried herself into a stupor. Blankets surrounded her in the would-be tomb, so she was not cold. She was, most likely, hungry. Tammy closed the lid. She hooked Greg’s car seat handle over her arm and picked up the baby in her box.
As Tammy walked back to her car, she shouted at the wind and the rain like some forgotten Ahab. Anyone who saw her might have thought she was insane, but no one drove by. By the time she got back to the car, the wind had calmed down and the rain became more of an unpleasant drizzle than a torrential downpour. She set the box and the car seat on the front seat then slid in herself.
"Now," she cooed as she picked up the crying, abandoned baby, "let’s see what we have here." She let the baby nurse and closely looked at the baby’s head. She could see a very light brown birth mark on the top of the baby’s head in the distinct shape of a mushroom. "Just as I thought, little one. So, your parents did not make it, did they?" A tear slid down Tammy’s cheek. "Don’t worry, Christina," she breathed. "You will have a home with me."
She lifted Little Greg's blankets back just enough to see the little mushroom-shaped birthmark on top of his head, then let him alone.
She started the car with no problem at all, and drove off into the night.
She made her way painfully up the Thompson’s walkway listening to the fwopping of her shoe and wondering vaguely what she would make for dinner. She had just gotten off a 10-hour shift at Hungry Harry’s Salad Bar and Grille. It was one of those mundane jobs that slowly suck the life out of you where you are always busy on your feet and people are always asking you for something. The Thompson’s walkway was lined with Fall flowers, and little crackly leaves chased each other around as she walked in the waning light. The overcast sky promised precipitation of some sort very soon, so Tammy did not want to dawdle, even though Mr. Thompson always invited her in for cocoa and Mrs. Thompson loved to give her a long-winded synopsis of anything Greg, her four-month old baby, did while she was slaving away.
On most days, Tammy played the part of concerned parent very well as she listened to Mrs. Thompson. She could never let slip that she already knew everything that had gone on during little Greg’s day, because she would be confronted with all kinds of awkward questions. Today though, she felt a strong urging to get a move-on and head for home. The gathering storm worried her a great deal, but she did her best to not let that show through her façade.
She rang the Thompson’s bell. It chimed a sweet, happy tune, and Tammy listened to Mrs. Thompson’s over-exaggerated commentary she provided for Tammy’s son as she walked to answer the door.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh, Greg! I think your Mommy is here! Let’s go open the door for her." Tammy smiled in spite of herself. She had picked a baby sitter who truly loved babies. She had expected to stay home with her baby when she and Mark, her husband, moved here, but sometimes things just don't work out the way you plan. He had died during their harrowing trip. Died. Murdered.
Mrs. Thompson opened the door. She had the full grandmother look going. She wore her silver hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her baby-blue, ‘50s-vintage dress swirled about her legs as she walked. Tammy cooed over her baby as she stepped inside. He was a sweet, little thing with his shock of thick, black hair.
Mr. Thompson said, "It sure looks like its gearing up for a bad night tonight. Would you like some hot cocoa before you set out?" He looked young for his 78 years, especially in the face and in his sea-blue eyes. His snow-white hair lay neatly combed, and he wore pants that sagged—old man pants, he called them.
"No thanks, Mr. Thompson. I want to get this darling home before the storm lets loose."
"OK, dear," he answered with a smile. "I understand."
Tammy handed some money to Mrs. Thompson, packed up Greg, then headed out the door. As the door clicked shut behind her, Tammy listened to her shoe’s mournful noise. Fwop. Fwop. Fwop.
The door to her green, rusty Hornet creaked as she opened it. She snapped the infant seat into its base, slammed the door shut, then got in herself. She hated how long it took to get the baby strapped in or to unbuckled. She found the thing a dreadful nuisance, but it did keep her baby safe. The roof covering sagged from age. She hated the shabbiness of the car, but no one had questioned her disguise, because she had been so careful about dressing the part of a semi-poor single mother whose husband had died just after their son was born. She drove down the steep driveway and onto the road.
The storm seemed to have been waiting for just that moment to break loose. Rain poured over the car like icy water from an enormous car-wash machine. Lightning flashed all around, and the sky boiled in fury. Tammy ground her teeth and began muttering. She turned out of the Thompson’s neighborhood and made her way through the thick Atlanta traffic onto the highway. Tonight, the cars inched forward like a gigantic worm bloated from too much rain.
Tammy cried out in frustration. She had hoped the traffic would be all cleared out by now. How could anyone stand to live in these conditions? The fact that New York and L. A. were much worse seemed to be small consolation when you worked hard and a good chunk of you personal time was consumed by the traffic machine. She pulled off at the next exit, ordered some food from the first place she found and sat out in her car eating it and listening to music by Tchaikovsky. She slowly began to relax as Little Greg slept, the rain poured down, and the wind rocked the car almost lovingly.
When Tammy pulled back onto the highway, she encountered not a single other car in the darkness. She was much more relaxed now, though the rain and wind continued to pound her aging car and whip the tall Georgia Pine trees around. She watched the passing signs, still in awe of the infrastructure that surrounded her. She wished she could live in a quiet country place like where she had come from—or, even better, not to have moved at all!—but she ended up choosing the Atlanta area so she could lose herself in the anonymity of multitudes of people. Before three months ago, she had never seen so many people in one place at one time in her entire life.
Things were finally going Tammy’s way at last. She had no traffic to contend with. Her baby slept peacefully. Her body felt relaxed. She let the music pour out over her like a warm, happy wave on a sandy beach. Then her car just stopped running as she cruised along at 70 miles an hour.
"How can it do that?" she wondered aloud, perplexed. She let the car coast across the six empty lanes to the shoulder. Then she tried to start the motor again as the wind howled all around her. Finally, she gave up on it. She grabbed her purse and the baby seat and began walking toward the next exit. She became drenched immediately.
As she walked along, Tammy huddled herself into her coat and kept checking to make sure the baby was fine as well. The cold wind picked up speed, and Tammy distinctly heard the quiet wail of a baby. She stopped and turned toward the sound. Greg still lay sleeping. She pulled his baby seat closer to her then marched toward the new sound.
Lying amongst discarded trash sat a small, closed packing box. Tammy opened it to reveal a two-month-old baby girl who had wound herself up and now cried for all she was worth. Tammy stared at the little bald head and the quivering chin as the baby cried herself into a stupor. Blankets surrounded her in the would-be tomb, so she was not cold. She was, most likely, hungry. Tammy closed the lid. She hooked Greg’s car seat handle over her arm and picked up the baby in her box.
As Tammy walked back to her car, she shouted at the wind and the rain like some forgotten Ahab. Anyone who saw her might have thought she was insane, but no one drove by. By the time she got back to the car, the wind had calmed down and the rain became more of an unpleasant drizzle than a torrential downpour. She set the box and the car seat on the front seat then slid in herself.
"Now," she cooed as she picked up the crying, abandoned baby, "let’s see what we have here." She let the baby nurse and closely looked at the baby’s head. She could see a very light brown birth mark on the top of the baby’s head in the distinct shape of a mushroom. "Just as I thought, little one. So, your parents did not make it, did they?" A tear slid down Tammy’s cheek. "Don’t worry, Christina," she breathed. "You will have a home with me."
She lifted Little Greg's blankets back just enough to see the little mushroom-shaped birthmark on top of his head, then let him alone.
She started the car with no problem at all, and drove off into the night.
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