Double-length flash tale - "Late"

Blowing Rock, North Carolina

Christine runs. The childish footwear, pink flowered sandals, slow her down, and so she kicks them off. And then she is running away from the house and across the grass that is wet with dew. There is something so freeing, so thrilling about this act of disobedience – Christine is not allowed to leave the house by herself – until she remembers who made that rule.

Daddy.

She slows, out of breath. She stops, hands on her knees and then she turns around, looks back at the cabin. She should go back, confess, and take her punishment. Or she could just go back and say nothing? Creep back into bed and wait for Daddy to wake her?

The possibility – both of escaping consequences and of having her morning cuddles – buoys Christine’s mood, has her take several steps towards home – until she looks down at her and sees how muddy and grass-stained they are. And then she remembers two very important things: one, she’s not supposed to run around outside without shoes on, and two, Daddy’s not a good person.

Daddy is trying to make Christine into a babbling, helpless idiot. Ever since she arrived here in Blowing Rock, which was supposed to just be a couple days, just for a work thing, but it’s been longer than that, and she’s just so tired trying to remember everything.

And that’s why Daddy keeps telling her it’s okay to forget, it’s okay to be silly and sweet, because Daddy will take care of Chrissie, he will feed her and dress her and keep her safe.

Christine smiles. And then screws up her face. Because she doesn’t want all that dumb baby stuff. She’s a big girl!

Besides, Daddy isn’t really Christine’s Daddy. He just keeps saying that he is, he just keeps cuddling her and talking to her like she’s a stupid baby, and dressing her in stupid baby dresses and-

Christine looks down at her outfit. A pink Bishop dress with the hem above her knee, showing off her training paints when she twirls or runs. The ruffled sleeves. The smocking with yellow flowers. It buttons up the back. Daddy is in charge of buttons.

It’s Chrissie’s favorite dress. She will bounce on Daddy’s lap, and he will hold her and tell her what a pretty girl she is, what a pretty princess, and she will giggle and-

Christine swallows.

Don’t think about that. She can’t. She has to be smart. Which means she shouldn’t think about anything. She should run.

So she does. Never mind her dirty feet because Chrissie…Christine is in charge of her feet. Never mind breaking Daddy’s rules because he’s not really her daddy.

Christine runs, away from the house and towards the road, the stretch of blacktop that will have trucks and cars, it will have people passing through, and they will have to stop for her. A helpless little girl…a big girl, but a big girl on her own who needs help.

Who needs her feet washed. Because they’re wet, because of the dew. Christine knows that grass won’t be wet like this if it was cloudy overnight. Clear nights allow heat to escape into space and air temperatures drop to mee the dew point. So grass is wet when the sun comes up.

How does she know this? Do all big girls know about dew?

It’s not something Daddy told her about. No, Daddy talks to Christine like she’s stupid, he just cuddles her and bounces her and tells her that she’s a sweet and silly princess.

Christine runs. The fear is good for her, it keeps her moving. She should be afraid because she keeps forgetting that she’s a big girl. She needs help from the people in their cars, the ones beyond the trees. Christine looks forward to telling them the whole story. That she needs help, not because she is a stupid, dumb baby, but because she is super smart, she is a real-life scientist, but she got drugged and a man took her and then made her wear silly princess dresses and.

She needs help because she’s super smart, but she keeps forgetting things, and because she’s had so many bouncies and cuddles that she doesn’t talk good anymore.

And because she thinks maybe she needs to tinkle. And because her feet are so muddy. They’re all grassy and muddy and…because she needs a bath! Chrissie needs a bath with bubbles! Someone nice will stop on the road and they will take Chrissie home and give her a bubble bath.

And maybe a snack?

Christine slows down to a jog, her cheeks warm, perspiration making the cotton of her dress stick to her skin. She wipes at her forehead. She stops.

She missed breakfast. Daddy’s special pancakes. She missed pancakes because she had to run away because Daddy isn’t Daddy. But now she’s tired and hungry. And she definitely needs to tinkle; she can feel the weight pressing between her legs.

Still, other people have pancakes. People in cars who will stop on the road. And they have bathrooms as well. She definitely needs the bathroom because she’s not wearing a diaper – Daddy said she should wear one today, but Chrissie said no, she isn’t a baby, and when Daddy made her wear her special thick panties instead, she took them off when he went into the kitchen. She took them off and then she ran away. Because Daddy’s trying to make Chrissie into a dumb baby, and she isn’t.

The thought of it, the thought of everyone knowing that she was just a silly, mindless tot, makes Christine moan with anxiety. And now she needs to go potty, and she almost wishes she had the diaper after all, because she could just let go and not worry about it, but of course that’s how a dumb baby thinks, not a big, smart girl like Chrissie. Christine.

She reminds herself of the advice she swore not to forget when she was slipping out of the house.

Don’t go back. The people on the road will help you.

She whispers aloud, her lips dry.

“The drivers will save me. I’m a big girl and I’m not going back to Daddy.” She glowers back toward the cabin. “Not back to him.”

Her stomach rumbles. But don’t worry about pancakes. There are plenty of pancakes. And there are plenty of bubble baths. She just has to make it to the road. That’s all. People will see her and know she needs help. Because she’s so little. Because she’s such a good girl.

Christine frowns as she runs, shakes her head violently. Her long, blond hair flies from side to side. She’s so untidy, because Daddy brushes her hair after breakfast, not before. Chrissie gets to choose, pigtails or a single ponytail, that’s up to Chrissie, and then Daddy takes care of it. So she can be pretty as a princess.

Christine moans. She’s run a long way, but she can still see the cabin. Her legs feel weak. She could sit down right here, sit down in the damp grass, and she could just cry. Stupid baby. Stupid, helpless, moron.

And the shame is her friend. Embarrassment pushes her on. She wipes hair out of her eyes and pushes on to the trees between Daddy’s land and the road.

And this is better. Because Christine knows trees.

She giggles. That’s a silly thing. Everyone knows trees! She giggles again, and her running becomes less coordinated, and she’s going to fall into the grass, she’ll faceplant into the butterfly weed.

And then she stops giggling. Butterfly milkweed. A great choice for a meadow garden, with orange flowers clustering its stems. You can pair it with other plants native to North Carolina, ornamental grasses and wildflowers like asters or coneflowers. Butterflies love it.

How does she know that?

She stops in her tracks, puts both palms to the trunk of a red maple. Acer rubrum. Suddenly, she knows it all, or close enough. Because she studies microorganisms, she works to identify new plant species, she wants to create and improve existing plants. Christine remembers that she is two years into her doctorate in Botany at Duke. Because she is all grown up, and she came to Blowing Rock to bring back samples to Duke’s field station in Durham.

She turns around. The cabin is out of sight. Just a little further and she will be free.

How long has it been since she arrived in Blowing Rock? Two days? Two weeks? Longer? She came here for her research and met a man, a man who said she was trespassing. He was handsome but so bossy, so patronizing that Christine couldn’t resist showing off her expertise, pointing around her at the wildlife, instructing him about how the dogwood acts as a larval host plant for monarch, queen, and milkweed moth caterpillars.

Would the man take offense, being lectured like this by a stranger? On the contrary, he seemed to soften, and then he was friendlier, even invited her back to his cabin where they sat on the porch, and after drinking the sweetest of sweet tea, Christine talked far too much, her words tripping over each other in her eagerness to tell the man just how much she knew and then she was almost tearful, telling him how lucky he was to have this meadow, that with the flower dogwood, it might as well have been designed especially for butterflies.

Christine remembers the man laughing, telling her that it was no coincidence, that he loved butterflies, almost as much as he loved pretty little princesses.

Which was such a funny thing for the man to say.

And so Christine giggled.

And then everything got…tickly in her head.

“Dreaming?”

Christine jumps at the sound of the man’s voice, right here in the meadow. He’s about 15 feet away.

“You looked like you were remembering something,” says the man, “had that sweet, faraway look in your eyes.” He smiles. “Thinking about princesses and fairies?”

Christine shakes her head. “No,” she whispers. She looks at his hands, at the white object. He’s holding a diaper.

“Stay back,” she says, louder this time, but her mouth is dry.

“Look at you,” says the man. “Out here in your bare feet like a country girl, where's your shoes at?” He doesn't look angry. “Still my pretty princess, though, in your pink dress. Careful you don’t get it all muddy, running around wild like you are.”

Christine tries to tidy her hair with her fingers. “I’m not wild,” she mutters. “I’m a sci…” She pouts as her tongue grows clumsy. “Sci-en-tist,” she says, and she folds her arms across her chest. “I’m smart!”

The man makes a tutting sound, and Christine remembers, it’s the sound he makes when she’s done something silly like spill her milk or not know her left from her right.

“Not that smart,” he says. “Else, you wouldn’t have been running around in circles this whole time.” He makes a twirling gesture with his free hand.

“No! I been…I was…” She points urgently in the direction of the road. Or rather, what she thinks is the right direction. Because there’s a tickle in her head, so faint and mild, but definitely there, and in this moment, Christine isn’t at all sure which way she should run.

“It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s been keeping his eye on you. Daddy wouldn’t let you wander out into the road.”

Christine shakes her head. “I’m not…you’re not…” She takes a breath. “You’re not my daddy!” she shouts, loud enough to scare the birds, and the butterflies too, no doubt. There, she said it, and it feels both good, and tremendously naughty, at the same time.

The man smiles. “It’s okay darlin’, Daddy’s not mad. They said this might happen, you getting a little one of your memories back, a li’l flash, before they all go away. But that’s why you gotta get your diaper on, sweet girl! You’re about to get really, really little for me. You’re about to get all sweet and innocent for Daddy.”

Christine turns away from the man, so he can’t see her blushing cheeks, and so she can look towards the road. But which way is it? She can’t see that far in any direction, because of the dumb trees. The maple tree and the…other ones. They all got fancy names; Christine knows that. She wrote them down in her notebook when she was learning about them. But the learning, just like the notebook, all feels like it’s a long way away.

There’s that tickle in her head, more insistent that time. Christine closes her eyes to focus, and there, she can hear the passing traffic. Gets busy this time of day, and in a few yards she could make it, run out into the road, and take her chances.

But this realization comes too late. Because instead of getting ready to run, she giggles. Shocked, she covers her mouth with a hand. But then she giggles again, chortling through her spread fingers. Because the tickle is just so…ticklish.

“There you go,” says the man.

Christine opens her eyes to find the man is closer now, almost close enough to grab her. But he won’t grab. He’s not mean or violent.

He’s not a bad daddy.

“You’re feeling it now,” he says, smiling. “Right there between your pretty little ears. Setting you straight. That’s my sweet girl.” He holds up the diaper. “Let’s get you back home, Chrissie.” He grins. “I made pancakes, just the way you like ‘em.”

Christine feels a docile smile tug at her lips. Pancakes are good. Almost as good as the tickles that are knocking language and the ability to form complex ideas from her mind.

And then the rumble of a truck makes Christine turn her head. That way. That’s the way to the people in the cars. She glares at the man. “I don’t need diapers. I’m not a bay-bee.” She stamps her muddy feet. “I’m smart!”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, you said that before, as I recall.” He tucks the diaper under his arm. “Before you tried my special sweet tea.” He points to the tree beside her. “So if you’re so smart, honey, what kind of tree is that? You tell me its fancy name, and I’ll let you wear your panties instead of this here diaper.”

Christine puts a finger to her lips as she gazes at the tree. She could name it easily, if it weren’t for the tickles in her head, deafening her, dazzling her, as her intelligence dims, corresponding with the look in her eyes. “It’s a…” She puts the finger in her mouth. “Issa wed one,” she mumbles.

The man laughs. “It sure is. Guess it’s panties for you then.”

Christine stares at the man. Does he mean it? Did she pass the test? Or is he teasing her? Christine’s uncertainty only lasts a handful of seconds, before the tickles do their work, and she loses the ability wonder about something so complex.

She grins at the man. “I’m a big girl,” she says, without a trace of self-consciousness over her diction. Imma bih giwl.

“You sure are,” replies the man. “And a pretty one too. Daddy loves you in that dress, even if you did get a little muddy.” He winks at her. “Let’s get you home for pancakes and then I’ll draw you a bath. You want bubbles?”

Christine’s mouth drops open in surprise. She’d forgotten all about her bath with bubbles! She claps her hands together. She’s getting everything she wants! She really is such a clever girl!

And then she remembers something else. She holds up her hand. “Gotta go potty.”

The man nods solemnly. “Of course, sugar. Big girls have to go potty, because they don’t wear diapers, do they.”

Christine nods in agreement. And perhaps she would make it back to the cabin, if not for the distracting sight that captures her attention as the leave the meadow.

Colias eurytheme, fluttering through the air on its way to…well, wherever orange sulfur butterflies go.

“Look!” Christine exclaims in delight – Wook! - flapping her hands gleefully at the butterfly. And in her mind, she tells the man that has turned her into an innocent simpleton about the four-winged insect, but in truth her speech has diminished to the babbling nonsense worthy of a two-year-old.

“Wookit dah-dee! Buh-fy!”

All she can see is the beautiful butterfly, all she wants is to share the moment with Daddy, and so Chrissie can’t be blamed for emptying her bladder, and the man doesn’t point out the urine running down her legs.

“So pretty,” says the man. “Just like my princess.” And when he cuddles her, Christine feels not trapped but freed, and she giggles, her reduced mind filled to capacity with thoughts of butterflies, pancakes, bubbles, and of course her daddy.

THE END

“An arrogant city girl needs to be put in her place, and the men of Blowing Rock know just how to do it.” - Byron