Page 1 of Jacob Michaels Is Not Jacob Michaels

‘Everything Little Thing She Does Is Magic’ by The Police was playing on the little radio on the kitchen counter when I walked into the room. Bright summer sunlight was pouring through the windows in the house, making everything look white and golden and nearly celestial. All of the curtains and drapes had been pushed back on their rods to help welcome the first day of summer. The house was sparkling clean and smelled of Oma’s favorite lavender cleaner. I staggered down the stairs, all wonky elbows and joints, my hair surely sticking up in spikes all over my head, rubbing my fists into my eyes. My bare feet padded down the stairs and then across the floor of the living room towards the kitchen. It was my last summer before I started Big Boy School. Talks had been given to me over and over again about what to expect, the friends I’d make, the teachers I would love, the things I would learn. All I cared about that summer morning was getting some of the food in the kitchen that was scenting the house from top to bottom: bacon and eggs and butter and maple-y goodness.

When I entered the kitchen, I immediately saw her standing there, back turned to me, poking around in a skillet on top of the stove. My eyes lit up as an evil grin came to my face, and I tiptoed across the linoleum floor in the kitchen, sneaking up on her. I grabbed ahold of her sides, my head barely coming up past her butt, making her scream out in feigned shock. She had heard me walking up behind her, but it didn’t matter. She let my five-year-old self pretend that I had snuck up and startled the daylights out of her. She spun around, hand to chest, gasping as she looked down at me with wide eyes. Then her face broke into a smile, and she dropped to kneel before me. Her arms went around me immediately as she smothered my face with kisses.

“Good morning, Robbie!” My mother managed to get out between my squealing and squirming as she smothered me with her kisses. “Good morning my little ray of sunshine!”

“Mommy!” I squealed, pretending that I wanted to get away but I was really wanting my mother’s kisses to keep going until I was exhausted and collapsed in her arms.

I wanted to feel my mom’s arms around me, comforting and loving me, leading me to the table for my breakfast. The smothering kisses and squeezing arms lasted for what was a very long time, but not to a five-year-old. Finally, my mom pulled back, her hands going to my shoulders so that she could get a good look at me. Immediately, one hand went to my head, to try and pat down the multitude of cow-licks in my hair. She smiled to herself as she gave up after a few seconds. My hair never wanted to do what she wanted it to do, and that was a battle she was slowly losing. Her hand went to my chin, pinching it between her fingers as she winked at me.

“Did you leave your appetite in bed or is it here with you?”

I giggled. So silly.

“I’m so hungry, mommy!”

“What do you want for breakfast, baby?”

“What did you make?”

“What do you want?”

I giggled. This was our game.

“What did you make, mommy?”

She smiled widely.

“What do you want?”

“I want eggs and bacon and pancakes!” I crowed towards the ceiling, excited for a new day, full of endless possibilities and wonder.

The way a five-year-old lives each day…with possibility.

“Well,” Mom kissed my forehead quickly, “you must have read my mind. That’s exactly what I made.”

Cheering, I headed over to the table, my mom patting me on the butt as I turned away from her. I sat down, yawning and rubbing my eyes again as my mom got a plate from the cabinet in Oma’s kitchen and went over to the stove to serve my breakfast. That was probably the best thing about being so young—no real responsibility, all the wonders of the world, and your mom served you breakfast. As I sat there, listening to the spatula scrape against the cast iron skillet, I couldn’t help but wonder where Oma and my father were. They always had breakfast with us in the morning. In fact, Oma was usually the first person down in the kitchen. She usually made our breakfast. Sometimes mom did…but not very often. Frowning to myself, I rubbed my eyes with my balled-up hands again, trying to chase the last of the sleep away.

Just as I was turning in my seat to peek at my mother over the chair back, I felt it. The rumbling in the floor. At first, it just felt like a train passing nearby, though there were absolutely no train tracks anywhere near Oma’s house. My eyes grew wide as the rumbling turned into shaking and the whole house seemed to shake with the movement. A low roar began, then louder and louder until it sounded like a tornado was about to rip the house apart. I looked at my mother in terror as she turned to me, the half-filled plate in her hand, her own eyes wide with concern. No…with absolute terror.

“Mommy?” I squealed as loudly as I could over the sound.

“Stay there, Robbie!” My mom replied desperately, her hand unsteady as she reached out to set the plate on the kitchen counter as the house shook.

The plate clattered to the floor, shattering, food flying everywhere as I grabbed onto the chair, trying not to fall off of my seat. Next, it was the small radio falling off of the kitchen counter, its crash to the floor muted by the roaring and shaking. The roaring and shaking increased until I knew that I would fall from my seat to the hard ground below. My mother held onto the kitchen counter, trying to stay on her feet and also not step on the broken plate shards or chunks of greasy food. Suddenly, as though it had never even started, the roaring and the shaking stopped. We were left in Oma’s deathly quiet kitchen, me holding onto my chair, terrified, and my mother gripping the kitchen counter as though her life depended upon it. Slowly, she turned to look at me, her face ashen, concern etched all over it.

“Muh-mommy?” I peeped.

My mother’s mouth moved but whatever came out was muffled, as though she were speaking underwater.

Then the roaring and shaking were back, and green light filled the room.

“Robbie!” My mother screeched.

Whispers.

Whispers everywhere.

My vision was blurry as I looked up at the moon peeking through the clouds and tree limbs overhead. The moon was like color trails in my vision, haloes of red and blue and green, especially green. Shutting my eyes tightly, I pulled my arms away from the muddy ground to slap my hands over my ears. The whispers continued, indecipherable, indiscernible, coming from everywhere but nowhere at all. Were they coming from inside of my head? Who was whispering? What were they saying? I grimaced and shook my head as I held my hands against my ears. Slowly, the whispering tapered off. My heart was in my throat, pounding like a jackhammer. I could hear it inside of my head, replacing the whispers as the memories ducked in and out of the vault in my head.