Page 38 of River Wild

River

Twelve Years Old

Gran has her record player on. Some band called The Flying Pickets. The song currently playing is called “Only You.” Gran really does like some crap music. But, as songs go, this one is okay, I suppose.

We’re in the workshop. Gran is over at the crucible. She’s been going back and forth from there to the crushed glass she’s using to create a vase she’s been commissioned to make. She doesn’t need me at the moment, so I’m finishing off the piece we made yesterday.

Using a grinding block, I’m buffing off the sharp edges on the bottom of the glass balloon. Well, it’s a lampshade shaped like a balloon. It’s varying shades of blue, going from light blue to midnight blue. It’s for Mama. Blue is her favorite color. Not that she can have the lampshade in prison. But, when I make stuff for her, I take a photo of it and bring the picture to show her, as I now get to visit her every month after Gran convinced her that I needed to see her.

Mama likes our visits and the pictures a lot. She tells me that she has all the photos hanging on her wall. She tells me that she’s happy that I’m doing glassblowing with Gran. She says I make her proud.

I know that’s not true.

How could she be proud of me?

She’s in that place because of me.

But, when she gets out of prison and we’re together again, I’ll make up for what I did.

Until then, I’ll just keep making things for her and making her happy in the only way I can.

I glance at the shelf where all the things I’ve made for her are. It’s starting to get quite full.

Gran starts singing along to the song while she works. She’s a terrible singer.

I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile on my lips.

The bell chimes in the workshop, telling us that someone is at the front door. Gran had the doorbell set up to ring in here, so she could hear when someone rang the bell because she’s out in her workshop a lot.

We both are. I love working in here with her.

When she first made me start helping her, I thought I would hate it, but I actually really like doing it.

Because of the extreme heat involved in glassblowing, Gran won’t let me do any work on my own, so my job is to do the blowing while Gran shapes. But the idea for the pieces come from me, and Gran helps me bring those to life. I sketch out what I want to make and show her the picture. I do enjoy the drawing. But creating it is the fun part. Glassblowing requires focus, meaning there’s no time to think about how much I miss Mama or the reason she’s in prison or how much I hate school and my life in general.

“I’ll get the door,” I tell Gran.

I carefully set down the glass balloon and grinding block on the workbench. I leave the workshop and head into the house.

As I move through the living room, I can see who is standing at the front door through the frosted glass window, and my pace falters.

A police officer.

My heart starts to race in my chest. Palms going clammy.

I curl my fingers into my hands and press my nails into my palms. The bite of pain helps a little.

The bell rings again.

The officer can see me through the glass, so there’s no hiding.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself, and open the door.

“H-hello.” My voice trembles. I hate that.

I force some spine into my back.

“River.”