Flytrap | WATTYS 2022 SHORTLIST

20 | Seed

Blowing a warm breath over the frosted window, Barbara wiped the glass with her sleeve before peering inside. Her eyes darted around the darkened room, searching for any sign of life. But unless a moth fluttering around the empty tables counted, this place was as dead as a graveyard.

"I don't think anyone's here." Harleen shivered from behind. "Can we go somewhere warm now?"

"It's nearly thirty minutes past ten." Barbara checked her watch and frowned. "Mrs. Kringle is never this late. She's usually here an hour before."

"Well, maybe the lady slept in." Harleen shrugged as her teeth continued to chatter. "Or maybe she took a fall. Old people tend to do that, ya' know. One time, this old man came into the clinic-"

"Wait, you might be right." Barbara couldn't believe she said that, but Harleen did have a point. Mrs. Kringle was elderly and lived alone. What if she had fallen? What if she had been on the floor all night, scared and injured, wondering how long it'd be before someone stopped by? Hours? Maybe even days? "I should check if she's okay."

"All right, but can you make this quick?" Harleen danced on her tiptoes like she was standing on hot coals instead of a pile of slush. "I need to pee."

Barbara groaned, moving back from the window. "Why didn't you go before we left?"

"Because I didn't need to go then!" Harleen followed behind as Barbara wheeled herself over towards the nearby payphone. The same payphone she almost used from the night before.

Barbara shook her head, reminding herself that was over and done with. The past was the past, and it needed to stay dead. What she needed to focus on was the future, like how she could even begin to explain to Mrs. Kringle that her treasured newspaper had been stolen from her.

After inserting some pocket change into the slot, Barbara was only thankful she wore mittens today as she lifted up the germ-covered and possibly tetanus-infected phone.

"Hello? Operator?" Barbara spoke into the receiver, holding the phone as far as possible from her face. "I'd like to speak to a Mrs. Isabella Kringle in Gotham City."

As she waited, listening to the shrill ringing on the other end, Barbara watched as Harleen drew smiley faces on the clouded window with her finger. At least one of them was in a good mood.

"Hello?" An unfamiliar voice answered, one that sounded as if it either had a cold or smoked one too many cigarettes.

"Hello? Mrs. Kringle?" Barbara brought the phone closer to her mouth. "It's Barbara Gordon."

"Barbara Gordon?" The voice croaked. "The girl from the library?"

"Um, yeah." Barbara knitted her brows. Just how many Barbara Gordons did Mrs. Kringle know? Oh man, maybe she was in worse shape than Barbara originally thought. Maybe this was the beginning stages of dementia. "I just wanted to call to check up on you since I'm here at the library and it's still closed."

"You haven't heard?" There was a loud sniffle on the other end, followed by the sound of someone blowing their nose.

"Heard? Heard what?" The phone was dangerously close to her ear now. "Wait, who is this?"

"This is Mrs. Kringle's daughter. She passed away this morning," the woman replied with another sniffle.

"Passed away!" Barbara exclaimed, drawing the attention of Harleen, who by now had stopped drawing on the windows.

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way-"

"Wait, that can't be possible!" Barbara pressed the receiver against her ear; germs be damned. "I just saw her yesterday! She was fine!"