A Second Pair of Sneakers

 


I knew something was amiss when my six-year-old daughter Sara fixed herself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and dropped a chocolate Pop-Tart in the toaster.

“You’re hungrier than usual,” I said.

“Sabrina’s tired of cereal,” Sara said.

“Who?”

“My new friend.”

“What new friend?” I asked, looking at the door.

Sara put her bowl on the table with a napkin and spoon. Then she put the Pop-Tart on a plate, placing it next to her with a napkin, knife, and fork. While I packed her lunch of a PBJ and apple, I heard her giggle.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Sabrina. She’s making squares of her tart.” There were ten tiny squares (really rectangles), two across and five down. After closing my daughter’s Hello Kitty lunch box, I turned around and the partitioned Pop-Tart was gone.

“Don’t forget to make her a sandwich too,” Sara said and left for the bathroom, whispering behind her hand.

I was a single mom. Shortly after Sara’s dad died in a car accident, Sabrina showed up. There were three of us again. The psychologist said not to worry. “For children who’ve lost a parent, it’s not uncommon for them to create a friend they can talk to, play with, and together fend off creepers in the night.” So whatever I did for Sara, I did for Sabrina. I bought two of everything—stuffed Teddy bears, blue sneakers, and pink puffer jackets.


When Sara was sixteen, I decided the pretense must stop.

“Sara, can we talk? Privately?” I asked.

“Sure, Mom.”

I led her onto the patio. We stood there looking at each other. A quizzical expression on

my daughter’s face.

“We can’t afford Sabina,” I said. “I’m working a second job to buy two of everything.”

“We don’t need new clothes. We can share,” Sara said.

“Honey, the insurance money is gone,” I said. “This . . . has to end.”

Sara started to cry, and I took her in my arms.

“No one loves me like Sabrina,” she said.

I hugged Sara tighter and held her while tears soaked my blouse.

That night I heard muffled noise from her room—ohs and ahs, followed by sighs of satisfaction. The next morning was Saturday so I slept late. By the time I went to the kitchen, the coffee was ready.

Across from Sara was another girl in identical lavender PJs. She jumped up and threw her arms around me. As my arms reciprocated, I felt her body, smelled her scent, heard her soft breath, and wondered who was really there.

 

Chella Courington (she/they) is a writer and teacher whose poetry and fiction appear in numerous anthologies and journals including X-R-A-Y Magazine, New World Writing, and The Daily Drunk. A Pushcart and Best Small Fictions Nominee, Courington was raised in the Appalachian south and now lives in California.

--

Adele and Tom: The Portrait of a Marriage

In Their Own Way
 

 










 





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