Bloomfield, Canada: Last Day In North Carolina (Fan Fiction Farming Simulator 22)

The porch swing creaked and groaned beneath me, the tired wood protesting my weight. Early morning sunlight glinted off thousands of dew drops clinging to blades of grass and trembling leaves. The breeze whispered like a lover’s secret. Occasionally, a fish rippled the surface of the pond, breaking through for a careless insect.

These were the kinds of mornings my dad had loved. A chill in the air, steaming coffee in one hand, the newspaper in the other. Sometimes a stogie instead. Now, the space beside me was empty.

An icy hand walked up my spine, one finger after the other. Goosebumps chased it.

“Here, this’ll knock that chill back.”

Mom had slipped through the squeaky screen door, a steaming cup in hand. “Your father wouldn’t want you to be like this.” She nodded toward my legs. I pulled them in tighter so she could sit.

“Like what?” I asked, taking a sip while eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Black and bold—Sumatran dark roast. The heat burned my tongue just enough before it sank into my chest and pushed the cold out.

“You know what. Don’t play coy.”

Her voice was firm, with just a trace of heat behind it. Enough to warm me further.

She was trying to be strong—for both of us. But Dad’s death sagged her shoulders, slowed her steps. Her grief was deeper than mine, hidden behind fake smiles and relentless busywork: pulling weeds, polishing china fifteen times in a week, laundering linen that hadn’t been touched in five years. Anything to keep her hands moving. Anything to outrun memory.

It showed. Mom seemed to have aged a year for every month since Dad passed. Her skin bruised easily now, her crow’s feet were now hawk’s talons, and the luster in her gray eyes had dimmed.

I looked across the pond—the ripples had settled. Songbirds were in full chorus. The dew was nearly gone. I took another sip of coffee and imagined myself shrinking, small enough to fall into the cup and disappear into its blackness.

“The longer you hold in the pain,” she said, “the harder it’ll be to shake it. Your father doesn’t want that for you.”

I sat upright, too fast. “Don’t you mean didn’t!”

The words burst out before I could stop them—raw, bitter, with the kind of thick, black fury sadness leaves behind. My throat tightened on the tar. I cleared it twice before speaking again. “I’m sorry. It just came out.”

Mom had already turned back toward the house. She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder.

“It’s okay to cry.”

“No, it isn’t,” I said, still crass. “Dad never did. Jacob never did. And I won’t.”

Jacob, my older brother, had died during a training exercise ten years ago.

She disappeared inside, then returned a few minutes later holding a diary in one hand and a box of tissues in the other. She sat beside me and patted the spot next to her. 

“Do you remember when you broke your arm?”

“I was six, so…vaguely.” I sat down, feeling the edges of suspicion creep into my mind.

“Your dad and I used to talk every night after you kids went to bed. That night, after we got home from the clinic, I tried to get him to open up. He was so upset...”

“I don’t remember that. I don’t remember him being upset at all.”

“Why would you? You were distracted by the cast—it was like a shiny new toy to you.” A small smile lifted her face as she thumbed through her diary. When she found the entry, she handed it to me.

I found Robert in the barn. He was slumped over the workbench, holding himself up with shaking arms. His chest was heaving. He was crying. I walked to him and put my arm around his shoulders.

“What is it?” I asked, cupping his face in my hands.

He poked his chest with one finger. “It’s my fault.” Weak, defeated.

“What is?”

“Maddy’s broken arm. I turned my back for just a second.” He pinched two fingers together. “I heard her hit the ground. I heard the bone snap. I grabbed the bridle and hurried Jess away—didn’t want my horse panicking and stomping her. You know how skittish Jess is. When I got back to her, she was already trying to stand. But one arm…”

“Go on,” I said, my heart already splintering.

“Her arm just dangled there.” He paused, then looked at me. “My job,” his voice broke, “is to keep her safe. And I didn’t.”

I shook my head. “No, no, no. It was an accident. Maddy doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you.” I held him until the storm passed. After a while, he spoke again.

“I wanted her to cry. But she wouldn’t. She never does. I wanted to be her rock. I wanted to tell her it would be okay. But she just held her arm and said it hurt.”

I didn’t finish the rest. I couldn’t. I closed the diary and handed it back.

“I didn’t know.”

“Of course not. Your dad didn’t want you kids to see him cry. He didn’t want you to think he was weak.”

She reached out and placed her hand on my arm—right where I’d broken it so many years ago.

“You can cry, Maddy.”

Then she stood and went inside.

I sat there for a long while, turning over the pages in my mind. The box of tissues sat next to me on the swing, a quiet invitation. A final hint.

I stared blankly over the water. But I didn’t cry. Not then.

Maddy’s Journal 9 (fan fiction Farming Simulator 22)

What do I actually remember about that day is a question I’ve asked myself for many years. Like so many memories, some of the ones that soldered into the wiring of my brain have simply failed to secure the connection. Or short circuited and I’m not certain if they’re memories of true events or more like false memories. The false ones created by combining what we actually do recall and what others have told us or muddied up for us. Like when people say the remember their first step. It’s only a memory because so many people have told you about it. Think about it, no one remembers their first time using an actual toilet. Your first step is always more joyous than the first time you went to the bathroom anywhere other than in the clothes you’re wearing. I’ve heard it said the potty training is often the most traumatic event of our lives. So much so, our brain’s physically block the memories. We only understand where the appropriate places are to tinkle or pooh and not the training. 

Without question I remember the stomach churning smell of burning flesh and singed hair. In fact those aromas would become permanent enough for all of us that my parents sold the car to the scrap yard. Partly as a sort of soul cleanser and partly because the stench just wouldn’t dissipate enough for any of us to ride comfortably. At least that’s how it felt. 

I also believe my parents scrapped the car as a way to prevent future buyers from asking questions about the burned smell. And in a way, I think my dad needed the car to be crushed as therapy. Put all those horrifying moments in the compactor and destroy them. He needed relief from his nightmares. But he never did get rewarded. It’s a wonder my parents are still married given his terror-filled dreams. 

***

My brother and I used to play the typical travel games (license plate game, Slug Bug, even Trivial Pursuit) when he and I were in primary school during longer road trips. Longer road trips. Those words seem funny now that I’ve traveled into the Midwest and closer to the mountain states. The distances between towns and cities are certainly longer than those in the east. Even “rural” North Carolina is more tightly packed than the population centers in Ohio, Iowa, Indiana, and others. That’s saying nothing for the vast distances LW told me about in South Dakota, Nebraska, and Wyoming. He said it takes a full eight hours to span Wyoming from east to west and over six hours north to south. And he said you could travel for hours on some roads and not see another person. 

But the morning of the fog (on the way to Chattanooga) we didn’t play any games. We didn’t even talk. Both of us in our own teenager thoughts that little—if anything—had to do with each other. Or anyone. 

There are times when our minds play vicious little tricks on us, and it asks us questions we simply can’t answer (and maybe don’t want to answer). For me, two things stand out as the most common: what horrors lie in fog, and how would I have turned out if I hadn’t fallen asleep that day? 

One question I can never answer because…well, time travel is still in the testing phase. 

As for what horrors lie in the fog, I’m still searching for all the answers. But I do have a few answers. 

***

What I woke up to was screaming. In my grogginess, you know the type of discombobulated feeling of nodding off for a nap but not getting fully asleep before waking, or the zombie-like feeling after waking up from a NyQuil induced sleep, I thought it was Mom lashing at Dad for his driving. Again.

As it turned out, it wasn’t my mom screaming at my dad. But there was screaming. Metallic and human voices both.