The Fortunate Unfortunates

CHAPTER 6

She turns back to the pot on the stove and picks up a wooden spoon to stir it, while I remain speechless and hurt. How selfish I am. Even now, I still want an answer, but that makes me feel even more sullen. I should have waited, and I want to apologize, but I'm afraid to break the silence with a "sorry", in fear that I won't get an answer if I do. It may be what the moment needs, but it also may be a distraction causing them to think I don't want an answer, when I really do.

Gosh! I've never been so selfish! What is this causing of me? Maybe curiosity is dangerous.

Tears start streaming down my cheeks, but don't give into them. I remain silent, hoping they'll stop sooner, and I even avert my attention out of the window, over the sink, aside mother, for distraction. Then this sight causes a sensation of bad nostalgia. Reminding me, every year around this time I'm curious, and it's the secrets themselves that's caused this all. They're what's dangerous, and they've been swelling up between each of us for too long now. This is the explosion of truth that was unpreventable.

"I guess we're all a bit to blame," says mother, and I catch my father nodding from the corner of my eye.

"No," I say, though I feel a part of it is true, I am most responsible, and I'd feel way too guilty for them to try to carry any of my fault. "I am sorry," I finally say.

"Well, what's done is done now. You may as well ask your question," she says.

I inhale in surprise, and exhale confusion. What one question can I ask, when I am dizzy with so many? There are several I have about the separation between our community and the towns; and another ton about the war; and some on why our community wasn't affected. I can't ask all of that though. So what is bothering me most? What thought do I have, that's interesting me even more than those?

"Have you two," one question finds its way onto my lips, "have you two heard of Vandora?" I ask.

"We have," smirks my father.

Alright, then they must know about the parade and the island. "Okay, then the town children, who're selected. They go to an actual island?" they nod at me and I continue, "and they... never return? to home, I mean?"

Mother turns off the burner of the stovetop then sits in the stool on my left side, and with my father on my right, I feel secure and at ease between them.

"Most of them don't have or home, or one worth coming back too," says mother.

"So they just stay there forever?" I say this and fold my arms onto the countertop, "Then no wonder Vandora's over capacity..."

"What makes you say that?" asks father.

"Well," I say, "she assured if there were more room, she'd take more people with her. Or was that a lie? Now that I think of it, she's promised to run the island and parade for more years to come! and how can she say that if she's full? Maybe..." I continue without a pause between my speedily chatter, "I thought she seemed honest and giving, but maybe it's something reels the town's people along every year with that untruth."

"Mel!?" mother spits in attempt to slow my thinking.

So I start speaking slower, "I'm only saying that I don't understand it. Does it make sense to you two?" I look at each of them and then away again. "And wouldn't the adults return to help their own town's people. That would offer more room and help everyone."

"What adults?" asks father, "You're getting ahead of yourself." He grumbles.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I mean the kids who've grown up. If she's done this for almost thirty years, that'd mean..." I quickly calculate it and say, "There's at least a thousand of them over twenty-five."