Riverson

1...2...3...4...5. Time is all about counting. Count the seconds until the school bell rings, until you get your lunch break, until you finally fall asleep—or don’t. Counting until the day ends. Until it all ends.

All I did as a kid was count. It helped the time move faster. 6...7...8...9...10. Each second that passes is one you will never get back to. Some people don’t have enough time. Others waste what they have. I think I always knew, even back then, that time was fragile. Destructible. Something that could collapse under the wrong kind of pressure.

I used to count on keeping myself still. Now I am writing to remember what I shouldn’t forget. 11...12...13...

October 4th, 2014.

Fourteen seconds left on the clock.

Fourteen seconds until we knew if we were walking champions, or if we’d carry this loss with us like a scab, we couldn’t stop picking. I remember the gym’s lights humming, the way the court squeaked under every step, and the shout that cut through it all—Coach’s voice ringing in my ear like a fire alarm.

“I don’t care if you must push her to the ground—do not leave your opponent unless you want them to score on you. Are we clear?!”

I was sitting on the bench when he said it, sweaty palms pressed against my shorts, heartbeat racing in sync with the bouncing ball. My teammates all turned toward me. Shaya, who sat next to me, gave me that same look we always traded—half amusement; half is this guy for real? I mean, it was the elementary school basketball championships, not the NBA Finals.

But Coach didn’t care. He never did. Winning was winning, no matter what the stage.

The whistle blew, and Shaya and a few others jogged onto the court. The crowd was a loud blur—cheering, stomping, chanting. I could feel the noise vibrating inside my chest.

That’s when the Coach pulled me aside.

“Charli,” he said, “I haven’t coached anyone like you before. You can win this game. This is your team. Lead them—on and off the court. I’ll give you the plays, but you control the ball. So, control it.”

He meant it. He always did. I’ve known Coach Milowski since I was five years old. I am eight now. He hadn’t changed. Just the words.

So, I stepped on the court.

Everything felt distant. The crowd, the court, even my teammates. Like I was underwater, peering out from a glass bowl. But I locked in. Fourteen seconds. We were down two. 34–32. Just enough time.

Shaya was guarding the point. My teammate to the right pressed up. The left stayed back with me in case they tried to rush. And our best defender shadowed the top scorer—the one with nearly as many points as me. Nearly.

The ball flew across the court—exactly as I thought it would. A high pass. My teammate intercepted it. Timeout. Smart play.

The coach huddled us up. Drew the next move. Gave us the layout like we were clockwork soldiers.

In those few seconds, I looked up at the bleachers.

There they were.

My dad’s arm draped around my mom, who looked—gorgeous. Always. She had that kind of beauty that wasn’t about looks. It was how she was doing. Elegant and gentle. She made life look light, like it never weighed her down. I wanted to be like her. I still do.

She was smiling down at me. That smile—the one that always cracked the lock on my fear. In that moment, I knew exactly what to do.

The whistle blew. Shaya inbounded the ball to me. I waited. Drew the defense close—then cut past them in one clean move. The screens my team set confused the rest of their defense. I faked left, went right, and scanned the court.

Shaya was posted low, but she was too small for the matchup. We locked our eyes. I gave her a signal.

She bolted to the opposite wing. Wide open. I drew the defense under the basket, then whipped the pass out to her—clean. She caught it. Set. Shot.

The world held its breath.

And then...swish.

The place exploded. Our team swarmed each other. We were elementary school basketball champions of Nevermore. Families rushed to court. Photos were snapped. Shouts rang out.

I ran into my parents’ arms.

“My beautiful girl, I am so proud of you!” Mom beamed.

“You were born to lead, Charli,” Dad said. His arm still wrapped around her like she might float away.

“Let’s take a picture!” Mom shouted. “Come on, come on—one with all of us, then one with you, Shaya, and Lio!” She pulled out this ancient camera—no home button, no screen, just film printed on a white strip. We took so many pictures they had to kick us out of the gym.

Outside, the cold breeze made us sweat. It felt perfect. My mom held my hand, firm and warm. Dad walked on the other side, cheeks red from yelling during the game—or the wind.

“So,” Mom said, crouching beside me near the car, “what’s next for my little champion? How should we celebrate this win—and the many more to come?”

I shrugged, flushed from all the attention.

“Can we make brownies?”

“That’s all?” Dad called out from the trunk, laughing.

“Can we watch Home? On the big screen?” I shouted, grinning. Mom raised an eyebrow, smirking.

“Okay, how about this,” she said. “You go with your father, wash up, maybe build me a new house on Sims...” She paused, wiggling her eyebrows before launching into a tickle attack. I squealed, squirmed, laughing too hard to breathe.

We laughed so loud, our voices filled the whole parking lot. Dad’s laughter drifted from the trunk while Mom kissed me all over my face.

Eventually, she picked me up and buckled me in, kissing my forehead one last time. And in that quiet second, something in my chest tightened. I didn’t know what it was.

I looked at her longer than usual—like I was trying to memorize her. Her eyes sparkled, but not from leftover game-day adrenaline. There was something else. Something quieter. Heavier. Tiredness, maybe. She worked hard.

Dad returned from the trunk, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her off the ground. Mom squealed the whole time, laughing until he spun her and set her back down.

“You’re crazy, Lloyd,” she said, laughing.

“For you? Possibly,” he replied, kissing her again.

“That’s disgusting,” I groaned. They both turned to me, exchanged a look—and then attacked me with kisses again, calling me “our little champion” and “my baby all grown.”

We drove home to the sound of old-school R&B—Aaliyah on the speakers; the windows cracked just enough for the wind to hum along. We sang like we didn’t have any care in the world.

Dad was my protector, my motivator. He pushed me to do my best, always.

When we got home, I tried to bolt the computer—my Sims world wasn’t going to build itself.

“Yeah, no, Charli. Upstairs. Shower. You stink.”

“But I almost reached a new lev—”

“I don’t care,” he said, looking up from his phone. “You stink. Go. Or I’m taking the computer away.”

So, I did. Because Sims meant that much to me—and I’d already done my homework.

I had just made a whole Gravity Falls world. Mystery Shack and all.

I walked into my room. Posters covered the white walls. My desk overflowed with books. I pulled open the drawer and grabbed a CD. Popped it into the player. Pressed play. Music filled the space, covering everything else.

I picked out fresh socks, sweats, and an oversized tee. Laid them on the bed. Then I walked into the bathroom, steam already curling out from under the door, and turned the water up just enough.

And I sang along with the music like nothing in the world could go wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I reached downstairs afterwards all I saw was red and blue lights outside the window, I go into the kitchen to tell dad, only to see two police officers sitting at the kitchen table with him. They all turned to me once they noticed I was in the room.

“What’s going on dad?”

“Go upstairs Charlotte, I’ll come up right after, okay?” My dad said, but I saw something. He is usually laid back and charismatic. But now? He looks scared, like something bad happened.

“Where’s mom?” The moment I asked this question, I saw the two officers looking down. Pain was all over their faces. “I’m not going upstairs,” I declared, feeling something weirdly twisted in my stomach.

My dad sighs and nodded as he pulled out a seat for me to sit in, right across from the officer who has honey blonde hair and black mustache. Who told him that he looked good?

Dad took my hand and squeezed it. I looked at him scared about what was about to happen. Was my dad arrested? If so, what did he do? Where is Mom? Is she okay? Can I still play my Sims game after this?

“This is about your wife, Astrid Riverson, Mr. Riverson. Are you sure you want your daughter to be here?” Officer Blonde asked. I don’t like this tone; I don’t like this conversation.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of my daughter, I taught her to be strong when life tests her.” My dad said, looking down at me and nodding. With that I sat up and faced whatever was about to be thrown at me.

“There is no way to say this easily, Mr. Riverson. We found your wife dead in front of a lake. It seems she has committed suicide due to the intensive search that was conducted, and we are sorry for your loss...”

I tuned everything else out. My mother? Dead? Suicide? What is suicide? Something you have genetics for.

What was that? I cannot breathe; it is like nails are being swallowed every time air hits my lungs. I have to go. Anywhere. Anything but here.

“What the fuck do you mean intensive search?! What happened to my baby? No, she would not choose this. We just saw her about an hour ago, who the fuck hurt her?” My dad yells out, pulling out my thoughts.

In an instant the blue table with the lacy white cloth, the one my mom picked out, was thrown across the room. Dishes broke and chaos entered the room.

I could not move, I could not blink, and I could not breathe. I was stuck, frozen, because I wanted to. If I move, then that means I must face the reality that my mother is dead.

I felt an arm grab me and I could see my dad getting pinned to the ground, but nonetheless he was too strong. The officer, blondie, that was grabbing me by the shoulders set me down in the living room that was attached to the kitchen only to return to help his partner. From the living room I see two officers pinning down my father, his screams ringing in my ears. It’s too much. I need to go, so I do.

I run out the front door, as fast as I can. I need to find my mom. I yell louder each step as I run.

“Mom! Mom!” My ribs hurt; my lungs and my heart ache, reaching for something not there.

“Mommy, please! It’s scary, dad is going crazy!” I was getting out of breath, my footsteps never slowing their pace. I can hear and see my neighbors coming out their doors, mumbling and my dad yelling at me. All I hear is my name. Charlotte. Charlotte. Stop Charlotte. But none of them sound the same. So, I push faster and faster until I am out of the block.

My legs were almost falling off, but I couldn’t stop. The pain from my chest down to my feet was the only thing distracting me, distracting me from the fact that-

No. I need my mom. I ran so much that I ended up at the basketball court, where my dad taught me to dribble the ball, and my mom took a picture. Where she made sandwiches for us to eat after a workout, smoothies too. It was where a park was attached with swings and a playground, a table, and my family bonded with the sun beaming on us.

Now it is dark, the clouds covering the stars and nothing but the streetlight glowing over the empty court. I was breathing so hard that I could barely breathe. No. No. My mom is still here. No, those officers are lying. They always do.

I didn’t realize I was pulling my hair until I felt the headache forming towards my front temple. I go to the bench and sit down, rocking back and forth, legs tapping, and hair grabbing. It felt like some sumo wrestler was sitting on my chest and would not let me get up. Worse than that.

My breathing stopped the moment I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Dario, one of my closest friends. He carries a look like he was crying, seeking a place to redeem just like me.

“Why are you crying Charlotte?” He asks sympathetically. His hand stays on my shoulder until he sits next to me. There it is again. My name; the one where my mom called me Charlotte baby, always her Babygirl.

“Why are you, Dario?” I asked back, seeing the tear stain on his face and his puffy eyes.

“If I tell you, will you tell me?” Dario asks, his dark green eyes lingering on me waiting for my answer.

“I promise.” I said, trying to force a smile, voice cracking.

“You don’t have to be fake with me River,” Dario breathes out. “It’s okay I can hold you up until you’re ready.”

Dario puts the rest of his arm around my shoulders as I lean on his chest. Sniffles exchange between the two of us, both of us at the same time at certain points. We see cars passing by, but they don’t see us by the bench with the tree blocking.

“My dad told me officially he never wanted a family and does not want a relationship with me anymore. It has only been a month since my parents separated, but it feels like it has been a year,” Dario says, still looking ahead but now his face is like stone. What happened to my friend? Dario is always laughing and making jokes with Lio.

“I’m sorry Dario.” I say as I squeeze his hand, that’s hanging off his shoulder.

“It’s--it is okay, Charlotte. I’m--I am okay,” he pauses as he takes his arm off and turns to me. “You do not have to tell me if you do not want to. I want you to be comfortable.”

I face him, trying to find the words of what to come next. Thinking of the whole afternoon. Three hours ago, I was getting ready for my basketball game with my mom, now her soul has been taken. How can time be so deceiving?

“My mom is dead,” I said bluntly, trying to fight the tears from my eyes. The remaining question keeps popping in my head repeatedly. I sense Dario’s eyes on me that I try to avoid.

“Dario, what is suicide?” I asked. Clinging onto his answer as I waited.

“Charlotte, come here,” he tried to pull me into a hug, but I rejected. I just want an answer.

“No, Dario, please tell me and if you don’t know it’s okay, I just need to find someone who does,” I say as I get up from the bench. I maybe got up two centimeters before I was pushed down by Dario.

“No Charlotte, I will tell you. I am here for you though Charlotte, always.” Dario responds before hesitating to continue. “Your mom took her own life by killing herself Charlotte.” He just stares at me as I stare at him.

It must’ve been minutes, maybe more before I realized I was crying silently. Dario wiped it away but kept falling more, eventually he pulled me into the tightest hug I can imagine, that is when the silence turns into sobs and then turned into screams, and Dario just held me.

The person who gave birth to me, the person who carried me, and the person who loved me unconditionally are dead. My mother is dead. What I didn’t know at the time was that I lost two parents on the same day.

I became an orphan.