Final Draft: The Countdown

"The Countdown"

The New Year countdown began. My mother, older brother, and I were ready to welcome 1991 as we sat in our living room with my coloring books and crayons scattered on the floor. My favorite teddy bear with one arm and black button eyes sat there beside me as I colored outside the lines, transfixed on making the perfect picture that had just the right amount of blue, green, and red. Amongst the clutter of drawings, toys, and my two family members, I noticed there was someone missing from this picture. I looked up to my mom who had just turned on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve countdown and I said, “When is Daddy going to get here?”

I knew if he didn’t arrive soon he would miss the great big ball drop. He would miss the fireworks, and the popcorn my mom made, and my brother falling asleep, and the picture of a bear with a giant red heart in the center I was just about to finish coloring. My four-year old mind knew the very first second of 1991 wouldn’t be the same if he wasn’t there to hear Dick Clark shout amongst the crowds of people in New York City, “Happy New Year!”

I remember the excitement from the people on the television screen. I remember hearing a wave of shouts and laughter from people I did not know who were dressed in Eskimo-like jackets and glittery sunglasses. I thought to myself, “If it’s so cold there, why are they wearing sunglasses?” However, I remained silent as I watched the television show clips of people waving hello to their loved ones back home, people clapping with large gloves that looked like oven mitts, people laughing, people crying, and people kissing. What type of person was I? I looked to my brother, and he was one of the people who decided to eat all the popcorn himself. I looked to my mother, and she was one of the people crying.

I climbed onto the couch and placed my head on her shoulder. Together we listened to Dick Clark talk about New Year’s resolutions and jokes about people kissing that I didn’t understand.

“What is a resolution?” I asked.

My mother rubbed my forehead and kept me close as she described that people make resolutions to bring in the New Year. “They are goals,” she said.

Goals. I have heard people shout, “Goal!” during a soccer game, but I knew somehow that it wasn’t the same thing. I then asked, “What is your resolution?”

By this time my brother had dozed off and his head was rested on my mom’s other shoulder. She held him close too, and there we all were. We were like the people on the television screen who bundled up close to keep warm. My mom replied to my question in a quiet tone that made me feel safe, “To keep you happy, to keep you safe, and to keep us together.” She then gave me a hug so tight I thought I would burst like the big giant ball would when the countdown ended.

I liked hearing the word together. Together. I wanted to be sandwiched in between my mom and dad and feel their warmth. I wanted to smell the collage of scents coming from my mom’s hairspray and my dad’s work clothes that smelled of fresh produce. I wanted to have one hand hold onto my mom’s slick hands that she recently put lotion on and my dad’s tough hands with dirt under the fingernails.“My New Year’s resolution is to give Daddy the picture I colored,” I spoke to no one in particular.

I slid off the couch and landed on top of a mound of childhood masterpieces. Each drawing inferior to the one I was coloring for Daddy. It has to be perfect; I picked up a midnight blue crayon and made a border around the teddy bear. I smiled with pride because its completion was nearing.

Suddenly, the television beamed loudly with excited screams I have never heard before in my four years of life. The ball was about to drop! I was seconds away from seeing that silvery disco ball of lights flash the numbers 1991. Could I put it on pause? Could the clock roll back time? The ball cannot drop without my say-so!

Then there was a knock at the door. Maybe just maybe my dad wouldn’t miss everything. Perhaps, everything would be as it was the previous New Years. I could see it now—my dad would rush in the door, but my mom would stop him saying, “Take your boots off first,” and he would. He would pick me up and then place me on his lap. Together as a family, we would countdown, “Five…four…three…two…”

“Stay on the couch” My mom was standing at the door now. Her voice was elevated, and I thought I was in trouble, but I still wanted to follow her.

My brother woke up and turned down the television so we could hear who was at the door. I wanted him to scoot closer, but he didn’t move when our front door opened and the January wind blew inside the house. My eyes squinted, but I couldn’t see who was at the door because my mom was blocking my field of vision. I wiggled on the couch, tossing my head left to right. My hands clutched down on the couch cushion, and I threw my head over my shoulder to look at my brother. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His eyes were wide, and his thin lips were closed tightly shut. He didn’t seem excited, and I wanted to know why. I opened my mouth to speak, but he snappily put his finger up to his lips as an indication for me to stay quiet. I reached out to give him a much needed punch on the shoulder but…

My mom cried, “Don’t come back, Bob…”

It was my dad!

Without notice, I heard glass crash onto our porch. It would almost be beautiful if the song it sang was not a sad one. I wanted to know what the sound was. Did Daddy drop a gift for me? Did he brings a dozen bright yellow sunflowers for Mommy, and the vase fell? Or, was it the glass bottles I have seen before—piled high in our recycling bin while Daddy sat motionless with his face flat against the dinner table.

No one ever told me what shattered onto the concrete, but I always knew. I knew Daddy never would bring a dozen flowers for Mommy anymore. Daisies, a spring tulip, roses—they would always find their way in the trash along with the “I’m sorry” card attached to the stem. So, I guess that night Daddy decided to bring a strange bouquet of a dozen glass bottles for himself. I knew what it was even though my mother stood in front of the door as if it was a shield from the person on the other side of it.

She looked unfamiliar as I saw half of her body was inside and the other half was outside. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but the part of her that was outside was moving threateningly. Her hand pointed and waved accusingly. It was like she was two people—one half calm, the other half hysterical. The other half took over.

“Don’t take a step into this house smelling like that. Your children are here. I won’t give you any more money. Go away. Go spend New Years where you came from. Just go! Just go…” I heard the front door slam, and a car speed away into the night. It was silent.

My eyes filled up with tears, and my face got tight as I grinded my teeth. I stared at my mom as I complained, “Why did you go and do that? Let Daddy come inside! It’s not fair that you made us all miss the ball drop! It’s all your fault!” I ran to the door and held my hand out to it. It was icy cold. I wanted to open it, but I could not reach the top lock. I stood on the very tip of my toes, but it was useless. I was trapped.

My mom just sat down, and looked at the television while my brother gave her a hug. Why would my brother do that? She sent Daddy away! He came home but she made him leave. By this time there were multi-colored glitters of fireworks blasting into the night sky on the television screen. The television was still on mute, so I couldn’t hear the blasts, the people cheer, and Dick Clark wish me a Happy New Year. All I could see was lots of lights amongst the faces of people. They were smiling so wide with their arms so high up into the air.

Then I directed my eyes to my living room. It wasn’t the same as New York City. That night I saw my mom and brother hold each other and cry. I searched for the picture I colored of the teddy bear with the heart in the center, but I could not find it in the collage of coloring books. I got down on my hands and knees and tossed pictures into the air, shuffled them into piles of paper, and looked under the couch several times. I couldn’t find it anywhere. For a brief moment, I forgot about the yelling at the front door and thought I already gave it to my dad. But, no. The picture was missing. It was lost. It was gone, and I gave up looking.