Last Stop, Coney Island

By Will Ruch

After the death of his baby sister, ten year-old Trevor's mother disappears and he must search for her on the Coney Island Boardwalk, helped by the mysterious people he meets. Trevor lives in the Coney Island Houses with his mom and pop. At ten years old he’s finally going to have the baby sister he’s been waiting so long for. But something goes terribly wrong, and the small family’s hopes are dashed. Trevor’s mom spirals downward into depression, finally turning to drugs and alcohol on top of her medication. Trevor is torn; he sees what his mom is doing, but she makes him promise not to tell Pop. Trevor is a good boy and wants to do as she says, but he’s so worried for her safety. He and his pop stick together to try to help his mom. Suddenly, one day she goes missing. A little girl with pink and white beads in her hair appears in Trevor’s dreams; the little sister he never had. Then while he’s out looking for his mom he sees her—the little girl with pink and white beads in her hair! Who is this girl? Is she real? Can she help Trevor find his mom?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781631927676

Book preview

Version)

The Baby’s Dead

The baby’s dead.

Wha—?

Pop stood there in the doorway, out of breath from running up the stairs. One foot was still out in the hallway, and keys were hanging from the lock in the door. Beads of sweat popped on his dark forehead, mixing with the tears coming out the sides of his eyes. His face was wet and messy, and his clothes were wrinkled and crooked. I had never seen him looking like this before.

But, but what happened? I blurted out. My eyes got wet and my throat was tight. I was confused and scared.

Pop pulled the keys from the lock, stepped in, and let the door slam shut behind him. He walked over to the couch where I was sitting and dropped down beside me, throwing his keys onto the glass top of the coffee table in front of us. He put his elbow on his knee and his wet forehead sank into the palm of his hand; his other arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me in tight.

Oh, God, Pop sighed, shaking his head in his hand. He then lifted his face, resting his chin in his palm, his eyes on the big pink balloon that was floating in the corner of the room. It said It’s a Girl! I got it at the Dollar Store that morning for him to take to Mom, who was in Coney Island Hospital.

The cord was wrapped around her neck when she came out. They couldn’t do nothing. She’s dead.

What about Mom? I asked, my voice cracking. The water that was in my eyes broke and ran down my cheeks. I put my hands up to catch it, then shook my head to keep it from coming again. I was 10 years old. Now was no time to act like a crybaby.

Trevor— Pop’s voice broke and his hands made the same trip mine had just made. He shook his head, then sniffed and cleared his throat. She’s okay physically. Was a short labor, nothing went wrong. But the baby came out dead. Pop stopped, his forehead sinking back into his palm. She’s takin’ it hard. Started to scream and cry. Wanted to hold onto that little girl. Now Pop started to cry for real, not even trying to hold it back. All I could do was hold onto him tight, shocked and scared. This was too confusing to be real. It was like Pop was a kid and I was the grown-up, trying to give him some kind of comfort that I didn’t feel myself.

We sat there like that for a minute or two, then Pop wiped his eyes. They let her hold and kiss that baby for more than an hour. I held her, too. Tiny. But then your mom wouldn’t let go. Started to talk about wanting to feed the baby, to take her home. The nurses and some sort of social worker, they let her hold on for a while, and tried to get her to see that the baby was dead. I did, too. Finally they gave your mom a shot to help her sleep, and we took the baby away.

Where’s the baby now? I asked.

Still at the hospital. That’s why I came home. I have to make some sort of arrangements—like we did for Grandma Rose. Came to see if I could find the papers for the funeral home and cemetery. Pop stood up and started to move toward the bedroom.

Will there be a funeral, like for Grandma? I asked.

No, probably not, especially with the way your mom’s taking it. Maybe the man from the funeral home will say a few words at the grave side. We’ll have a stone next to Grandma Rose’s. Someplace for your mom to visit when she feels better. Then Pop stood and disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the sound of drawers opening and closing.

I sat there, not knowing what to do. I felt relieved that Pop wasn’t crying beside me on the couch, but useless and alone. I couldn’t help Pop find the papers, which from the sound of it he couldn’t find, either. What could I do? Where could I go? My eyes fell on that big pink balloon. It was hard to believe that I had only gotten it a few hours before. I remembered my happy talk with the lady at the Dollar Store who put the air into it, and tied it with pink ribbons that she made curl up by running them between her thumb and the side of the scissors. The guys hanging out in front of our building all teased me when I walked up the sidewalk with that pink balloon bobbing beside me.

Waa, waa, waa. Yo, Trevor gonna be changing diapers soon.

We all laughed.

"Waa, waa, waa. I want my bottle. Trevor, man, you ain’t gonna be getting no sleep. Word, when my sister came, I had to go to the stairway to get any peace and quiet."

That’s okay, I joked. I know whose couch to sleep on.

You don’t even know. She two now, and that girl is off the hook. Come and jump on me till I get up and turn on the TV for her.

Yo, boy, get ready, she gonna put you through it.

The sound of Pop ransacking the bedroom looking for papers brought me back from my daydream. It was crazy how fast everything had changed. But that big pink balloon still floated in the corner of the room.

I knew what I had to do. I got up and went to the corner, grabbing the balloon. It seemed like getting rid of that big pink balloon would help make everything seem normal again, would help us all forget what had just happened.

Where you goin’? Pops asked, sticking his head out the bedroom door, a stack of papers in his hand.

I . . . I gotta get rid of this, I said, looking up at the balloon. "I’m gonna go to the Boardwalk.

Oh. Okay. Go to Ms. Ortiz for something to eat for dinner; I’ll stop in and tell her to expect you. I’ll be back after visiting hours are over.

When will Mom come home?

It depends. In a few days, probably. I’ll know more tonight.

I nodded. Bye. Then I opened the door and ran out of the apartment, not wanting to talk anymore, just wanting to get out into the open air on the Boardwalk. I ran down the stairs, not wanting to wait for an elevator, and not wanting to see anyone with the balloon in my hand.

I opened the front door of the building and ran across the street, to the ramp that would take me up to the Boardwalk.

One of the guys, I didn’t look to see who, shouted out, Yo, where you headed? You gonna walk to the hospital?

I shook my head, but kept moving, not wanting to say a word. Not wanting to risk turning into a 10-year-old crybaby in front of the guys.

I ran up the ramp and onto the Boardwalk. A light blue scarf, looking for an owner, was tied to the rusted railing beside the ramp. The sky above me was light and whitish, a high layer of clouds and haze way up, covering the sun. The breeze smelled like the water. I walked away from the building and from the stares of the guys hanging out in front. I looked up and down the Boardwalk, its zigzagging wooden planks dusted with sand and scraps of trash. A tall row of buildings, mostly red brick projects, stretched into the distance, with the Parachute Jump peeking out from in between them, a tiny light flashing on top.

When I looked the other way, I saw to the end of the Boardwalk, then sand and water. A rusty red cargo ship, stacked high with containers, crawled across the horizon, barely moving. Only a few scattered people walked and rode their bikes down here—nothing like it would be in the summertime, when the Boardwalk and beach were crowded with people. I faced into the breeze, away from the projects and Coney Island, toward the sky and the water, and the rusty red boat. I walked onto the beach, bits of sand stinging my cheeks and eyes, the balloon pulling on the ribbons in my hand.

My mind went back to feeling that baby kick inside Mom’s belly, and all of my happy plans about being a big brother. Seemed like every day for months I’d gotten a different idea of something fun we could do together—me pushing a stroller, or playing together on the pirate ship in the Nautilus Playground right outside our front door. Or even giving her a ride on my scooter up and down the Boardwalk. When I shared my plans with Mom and Dad they both laughed, and told me that I might have to wait a few years before the baby was old enough. But we were all happy, a family sitting together looking forward to a new baby. Now nothing. I felt stupid and tricked. More than anything else in the world, I wanted us to be that happy family again. Me, Mom, and Dad, smiling and laughing, and making plans for fun. What I didn’t know then was that our problems were just beginning, and that in some way our happy family died that day in Coney Island Hospital, along with that baby girl.

The wind on my face brought me out of my thoughts. I was alone on the sand, and I stopped and looked up at the balloon. It seemed like I should say something before I let it go.

Bye-bye, Baby Girl, was all I could think of. I let go of the