Sue lay sprawled on her stomach.

  The flower's hand embroidered cotton sheets rumpled beneath her elbows.

  Her black laced mourning dress had been washed, ironed and hung inside her closet.

  After a week, the scent of lavender detergent was absorbed by other items in her room; the old stuffed animals she still hugged and the ballet shoes she tried on once in a while to see if they still fit.

  She straightened both of her arms like a cat and rolled onto her back in boredom.

  The curtains were shut tight, but the vibrant early summer dusk still had a way of getting in, and it danced lively on the oak wooden wall as the curtains moved with every breeze.

  The cries of animals pierced through the walls; chicken fussing, cows lowing, Barnes barking at nothing.

  She blinked at the ceiling.

  For a long while, she just listened.

  There had been an indescribable alienation in the farm since her mother left.

  Stephen managed to do all the farm work with the help of Finn, the farm’s help. Sue took care of the cooking and helped with chores and taking care of the animal like she always did. It all seemed to carry on as it always had - steady, unchanging, like a machine that needed no oiling.

  Sue used to avoid thinking about death.

  But when she lay in bed, alone, the silence pressed on her like an invisible force, pushing her to the place she hated to go.

  It was not exactly that Sue did not know where her mother had gone.

  She was at the cemetery behind the Church; six feet under the tombstone marked Georgina Carlans.

  It had been a week, and what had become of her mother terrified her.

  When Sue was still a small child, five, or maybe six, she found a bird stuck in the creek after a storm. Its tiny body bloated, its face lying down. The feathers had fallen away, leaving patches of exposed skin. The broken, deformed thing was covered with thick, black clouds of buzzing flies. The stench was like a mixture of rotten fish soup, sour milk and cheap perfume, curling in her nose.

  It had been days, maybe more, since the rain stopped. The creek was slow and sluggish with the remnants of the storm. The water had risen high enough to carry the bird further into the stream, but it had not been enough to wash it away.

  She stood there, watching the swarm of insects, trying to make sense of it.

  Finn had found her squatted by the creek late that afternoon.

  “Oh look, a cuckoo bird!” he bent down beside her, hands resting on his knees. “Must’ve been dead for days! Why are you still here anyways? The smell’s awful!”

  He pulled her arms, lifting her to her feet.

  “You haven’t seen anything like it, have you?” he said as he was holding her tiny hand and led her towards the farm. “That’s what happens to everything after death”

  That image of the deformed, rotten bird, with its greased feather, bloated body and patched skin had been haunting her lately. It was the law of nature. The ultimate end of every living creature.

  Including human.

  Including Georgina Carlans.

  Her mother was like a lady who had walked out of a vintage film poster. There was no denying her beauty, but more than that, it was the elegance in the way she moved, the way she talked and how her lips curled up and her eyes squinted when she was amused - that’s something Sue had only seen in those old films that Stephen took her to watch when they were in town, the kind with smoky jazz and actresses who never seemed to touch the ground when they walked.

  Sue blinked at the ceiling. Her throat was burning and every of her limbs felt isolated. She had to do something to escape from the thoughts.

  She flipped onto her stomach and reached under the bed for a lidless cardboard box. Before Sue pulled it up on her bed, she gently blew off the dust and wiped away the spiderwebs that clung to its edge.

  Inside, there were some of her old mini dolls with tangled hair and missing shoes, some stubby pencils, faded birthday party invitations and a stamp album, which was wrapped in the brown paper like how it came to her seven years ago as a birthday present from her father.

  The album had been filled even before she turned eleven, but Sue had the habit of returning to it whenever it was near her birthday.

  Sue peeled the paperback hastily. The edge of the wrap was dulled, and the fibers soft from years of handling. Her name was written across the top in thin purple ink - Suzanne Leslie, not Suzanne Carlans, like the school registrar had always mistakenly assumed.

  She unfolded the first page.

  The stamps were still there, in their neat little plastic sleeves. Ten of them filled the first page, most of them historical. Four were rare, made to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the Grande Victoire of the Holy War

  Tucked between the pages was a postcard.

  Branwick - the old capital, misty and golden, its river like a ribbon of melted light. Her father’s hand writing was still strong and careful:

  My dear Sue,

  Happy birthday!

  You're ten now. There won’t be long until you become a lady!

  I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you on your birthday. My job takes me all over the world. But that’s also a good thing — I’ve seen places most people only dream about. Still, nothing is quite as lovely as Branwick, the heart of our motherland. I hope you’ll go someday. To Branwick, and beyond.

  Until then, you can collect stamps in this album. I remember how much you loved collecting things — even bugs, once, which gave your mom a real fright. Until you can see the world yourself, believe me, dear, the stamps you collect will take you places — maybe even beyond your imagination.

  Love,

  Dad

  Sue wondered if her father knew about her mother’s death. He was not at the funeral, and Stephen never said anything about informing him about it.

  Maxwell Leslie-That was her father's name. Sue could only see him in the only photo she had with him, when she was a baby. For Sue, time froze when he was twenty - two. In the photo, he was carrying Sue on his shoulders, hand holding her belly and was laughing. He was slender, and probably of average height; he also had curly red hair and freckled cheeks. His eyes were sea-green instead of amber like Sue’s. Although her parents were of the same age, he looked a lot younger than her mother. Almost like a teenage boy.

  Stephen said that was the reason why they divorced.

  Sometimes she wondered what he looked like then. They split when Sue was two and a half. She only heard about him once when he sent her that stamp album for her tenth birthday.

  It felt almost like the death one was him, not her mother.

  The cuckoo clock in her room struck six.

  The wooden cuckoo bird, with blue torso, red head, and yellow wings poked in and out of the little door under the circle with Roman numerals.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Sue was so lost in her thoughts that she forgot about dinner.

  She threw the album back into the box, not even bothering to wrap it again with the brown paper, and rushed down the stairs.

  Luckily it was Friday. They had leftovers on Fridays.

  She opened the fridge: half a loaf of black pepper meatloaf, some mashed potatoes from yesterday, and a few pieces of cajun fried chicken. She checked the top shelf - there was also some cornbread and butter.

  Sue quickly got down to work.

  When she turned the stove on, it was like the house had regained its breath.

  Under the slow march of the night, the kitchen came to live with its soft, warm yellow light and the clatter of pots and pans. It smelled like the end of a long week - butter sizzling in the pan, something starchy warming in the oven, and the alluring scent of cajun spices rising from the fried chicken now gently reheating the pan. Sue stood at the stove, stirring a pot of baked beans soup with one hand and nudging the mashed potatoes with the other, checking if the cheese had melted properly. She was not sure if there would be enough meatloaf and fried chicken to go around - Stephen always ate more when he was in a mood - so she had opened two cans of baked beans soup just to be safe.

  The door creaked open, and in came Finn, still tracking in bits of the day on his boots, mud crusted up to the ankles. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and there were overripe peaches bulging in his pockets, a couple threatening to tumble out as he crossed to the table.

  “You forgot the time again, didn’t you?”, he asked, nodding toward the bubbling pot of soup.

  Sue did not turn.“It’s leftovers night anyway.”

  Finn reached for a knife on the counter and started slicing the peaches.

  “M'ster Stephen said he’s cutting down those peach trees tomorrow,” he said, carving thick half - moons into the soft fruit. “Found these earlier. They’re last season’s - kinda bruised, but sweet as honey.”

  “Finn! You have to wash those! And you’re dripping mud again! I just scrubbed the floor yesterday!” Sue snapped, her voice rising a pitch or two.

  “Good Lord, sorry Sue, I’ll clean it up now!”

  Finn stood up, grabbed the rest of the peaches, dumped them into a plastic bowl in the sink, and turned on the tap. Then he rushed to the door, kicked off his boots, and came back in barefoot,

  “Here. You better hurry up before Stephen comes back.” Sue muttered, tossing him a rag.

  Stephen came in just as Finn was still mopping the floor. Barnes trailed behind him, making a beeline for the kitchen counter where Sue had just set down a steaming dish of cajun fried chicken. The old buddy propped his two front legs up on the counter, tail wagging and pink tongue lolling in anticipation.

  Sue, in the middle of setting the table, caught him in the act. With a quick step, she snatched the dish and lifted it high above his reach.

  “You two spill something?” Stephen asked as he hung his straw hat on the hook and shrugged off his jacket.

  “No Sir. Just some water from the washed peaches.” Finn said, getting to his feet. He tossed the rag to the side and knelt by the sink, where he grabbed the face towel hanging from the window hook. He ran it under the tap, wrung it out, and handed it to Stephen.

  Stephen took it with a small nod, wiped his face and neck, and pulled out a chair at the table. “Smells like something good in here.”

  Dinner went on with conversation focusing on how stubborn Kimmy was and she even kicked Finn in his stomach when he tried to milk her and how much they could sell the peach trees.

  “Sue, child, would you like to go downtown with me this weekend for something for your birthday?” Stephen suddenly changed the subject.

  Sue was munching on her cornbread with butter; she looked up at Stephen, and then at Finn. Stephen sure looked expecting.

  “I…uh… I don’t know. Why don’t you surprise me?” She shrugged.

  “There’ll be an exhibition this weekend. I just wanted to make sure you’ve got something you really like.”

  “Oh…about that…”, Sue murmured, looking at Stephen the same way Barnes did when he dug a hole in Stephen's garden after his master had planted something or when he chased the chicken around the yard with their feathers flying like leaves.

  Stephen put his spoon down in his soup bowl. Finn was sipping on his cold beer, but immediately put the aluminum cup down.

  “There’s an art exhibition tomorrow, before the farm exhibition on Sunday. Can I go?”

  “I’m not sure, kid. The man who bought the peach trees said he’d come to take them at two; I’m not sure if we can make it in time.” Stephen scratched his beard. “Sorry kid. But if I finish the work early, I can take you there.”

  “I can go on my own. I can ride my bike.”

  “No.” Stephen shook his head in disagreement. “After the crash that killed your mother? No.”

  “Finn can take me. You said he’d go downtown tomorrow with Jake.” Sue raised her voice and looked at Finn. She frowned, almost like signaling him. The boy was tapping the table with his point finger, trying not to make any sounds.

  “It’s alright, M'ster Stephen. She can go with me. I can drop her at the exhibition, go get the gadgets and come back to pick her.” Finn answered her signal, glancing at Stephen nervously. “Or maybe I’ll go get the gadgets real quick and go with her if you’re…”

  “No is no.” Stephen interrupted. “You with Finn is fine. But that kid Jake? No.”

  Sue’s hand was tracing down the embroidered hem of her shirt during the conversation. Affected by Stephen's stern disagreement, those small hands stopped and clutched tightly to the fabric.

  “I’m full.” She gently pushed her plate. There were still half a piece of cornbread and a chicken thigh. She pushed her chair backward and stood up. “Finn, can you help me with the cleaning? I’m kinda exhausted.”

  “Yeah, sure. You can…”

  Finn was interrupted again, this time by Stephen’s cough. Sue was on her way upstairs. She stopped and turned back at Stephen.

  “Suzanne, how many times have I told you not to leave when we’re in the middle of something? Your mom hated the same thing.”

  “Does it even matter now?” She murmured, trying to keep the words under her breath.

  “Suzanne? You come back here immediately!”

  “M'ster Stephen, please…” Finn stood up and moved between them. He sensed the rising heat.

  “Finn, kid, just leave us”

  The boy glanced at Sue, stood up and gently left for the porch. Barnes, who had been curling in the corner, stood up and left right after Finn. Before Finn closed the door, he glanced at the small figure who was still frozen on the staircase again.

  “Suzanne?” Stephen called out for her again, a few seconds after he heard the door closed.

  Sue moved toward the table. Though she tried not to, she was stomping her feet against the wooden floor. She pulled the chair out and threw herself down.

  “First of all, kid, that’s not a way to talk to your parent. Your mom told you that. You don’t walk away when adults’re talking.” Stephen seemed to have eased the heat himself. “Plus, I’m just worried about you, kid. You know traffic these days. Your mom was just crossing the road, and she even had looked around when that madbull jerk head hit her. Trust me kid, if anything happened my old heart would explode and I’d be the next one to leave.”

  “And…” the old farmer continued, “That kid Jake, I don’t like him. I saw the way he talked to the girls and the way he smiled at them. He’s 27, kid. Way older than Finn. And haven’t married. And the way he boasts around girls your age, I just can’t stand it.”

  Stephen went on explaining his point to Sue, but every one of his words traveled through one of her ears and out in the other. Except for this one word. Parents.

  “That’s no way to talk to your parents.”

  The sentence repeated and repeated all over again in her head.

  “I know you’re not happy, kid. But like I said, I was just worried. Maybe tomorrow if Finn’s back earlier, or if I’m done selling the peach trees, I’ll take you. Kid?”

  Sue startled; she was caught between thoughts.

  “You’re still listening?”

  “You're not my father.” Words came out of her mouth like an exhale.

  “Please don’t try to act like mine”

  “Kid?” Stephen frowned, his voice raised slightly. “So you’re not listening? You didn’t get anything?”

  “No, M'ster Carlans. I did listen. And I got everything just right.” Sue stood up, both of her hands supporting her shoulders on the table. “But there’s just one thing. You’re not my father, M'ster Carlans. You never were. Why are you even trying to lock me away from everything?”

  “Kid. Like I said. I’m not trying to control you. I’m just worried.”

  “That too. Why do you even have to worry that much? I’m just not your kid!”

  “That’s it. Suzanne. You’re being a terribly spoiled child.” Stephen yelled. His hand clenched into a tight fist. “I’m not your father, right. But who’s been raising you? Who’s been taking care of you and your poor mother? That man who only sent for you once, didn’t even bother to even sign his name properly in the letters and didn’t even come to your mother’s funeral? Kid, you don’t even know his face. You don’t even remember him in real life!”

  Sue had already been biting her lips without even realizing. The pain distracted her from bursting into tears.

  “I’m Suzanne Leslie. Not Suzanne Carlans, yes. And that M'ster Leslie never comes, it’s true!” she started yelling back at him in tears. “But why can’t you just let me be?”

  Stephen’s eyes were opened wide, flabbergasted.

  He had been married to Georgina for 13 years, and he’d known this kid for most of her life. But he never thought that a fragile looking child could burst such a temper.

  Silence was even louder than the ringing sounds of crickets and cicadas.

  Tears streamed down her face and dropped on the black wooden table, one by one following each other.

  “You’re grounded.” Stephen said, his eyes still opened wide. “No more discussion. You’re grounded until you can contemplate your actions and your words.”

  Sue kicked the chair out and stomped to her room.

  The door was shut so loud that Barnes started barking from outside under the porch.

  Stephen let out a sigh. He fell back, head rested against the chair, hand covered his eyes.

  Georgina would know what to do; he thought. She always knew.