Chapter 7: Zenaida
Sarah's young adult novel, "Peacekeepers/Truthbringers," continues
Sarah has written a young adult novel, “Peacekeepers/Truthbringers,” and we’re excited to share it with you. As a holiday gift, we’ll be serializing the book—releasing a new chapter every week. We’ll also continue to post occasional non-fiction reflections as inspiration and news arise.
Gaster brushed his teeth first thing once he arrived back at the double-wide he shared with his dad. He needed a few minutes to gather himself, and the bathroom had a door that locked. He went in and locked it. He felt traumatized, scared. His insides were still shaking, bruised from half-scrambling and half- falling out of a spindly ten-foot pine as his father watched. And he was embarrassed, of all things. Once he was down from the tree, his dad had hugged him hard and hustled him into his beat-up pickup, which Gaster had entered with such relief that he had cried, wrapped up in the old wool blanket his dad used as a seat cover. He had no idea how he’d gotten into the tree or what had happened to his boots. With his customary wisdom, his father hadn’t asked. Yet.
Gaster had no idea what was going on. He walked straight into the bathroom and locked the door. He needed to think. What was he going to tell his father? And why did he feel guilty? He gazed at his reflection in the mirror and assessed himself. He looked the same as he had when he glanced quickly into the bathroom mirror this morning, if a little pale. Yet it felt like the world had turned upside down. He could, what, talk to birds? Or understand them at least? He looked out the window. Birds were still assembling in the dirt driveway. He was… being stalked by birds? And he could… what? He was afraid to even think how he had gotten away from the Job Corps. He consulted his phone; it was only 10 a.m. And yet, his life was upside down.
“Gaster? You alright, son?” His father’s voice was on the other side of the door.
“Yeah. I’ll be right out, I’m just… brushing my teeth.”
“Right. Well. We should probably talk, buddy.”
“What about?” Gaster asked. They both laughed. “Ok, just give me a minute.”
He found his dad hunched over the stove in the galley kitchen, scrambling eggs. If he could just freeze this scene, somehow keep from going on to the next moment, maybe he could convince himself that nothing was wrong, that it was a normal morning, and he would be running to the bus in a few minutes. His father slid steaming eggs off of the pan onto two plates, along with buttered toast. He handed one plate of eggs and a mug of steaming coffee to Gaster, then slid onto a kitchen chair. The smell of good food alerted Gaster to how hungry he was, and he wolfed down his breakfast appreciatively. His father waited for him to finish, then cleared the plates and sat down again.
To his surprise, his father started talking, awkwardly, rather than questioning Gaster. “I know I’ve told you stories about your mother. You were so small when we lost her. She sure loved you. She would be proud of you, the man you are becoming.”
He was quiet, hunched slightly in his chair, looking intensely at his hands. Gaster felt embarrassed, for himself and for his dad, who rarely shared about his mom. Gaster barely remembered her and usually didn’t get much out of his dad when he asked.
