Shauna Checkley works at the Public Library in Regina, Sk. She lives with her daughter and Their cats. She is 58 years old. THE MIDDLE GROUND Panting, Jaye nearly collapsed on the top step of her apartment. She took a deep, ragged gulp of air. Like always after her daily run, her pink LULU Lemons stuck to her like a second skin. She felt a finger of perspiration tickle down her spine. Her legs were as limp as noodles. She almost floated inside, feeling high as a balloon. From the hallway, she could hear her phone ringing. What the hell? Who’s that? She rushed to her door and fumbled with the lock. Then the lock gave and she was inside. Like she had stumbled into the epicenter of a sonic blast, instead of just her tiny apartment, Jaye recoiled at the cacophony that would soon reset her whole being. It was her landline. Jaye saw it lit up past the scuffed wooden floors, on the window ledge in the kitchen. A row of potted plants stretched sentinel-like beside it, cactus, rubber, and aloe. One of the stalwarts that still held onto tradition while others crinkled their noses at all that wasn’t mobile, Jaye believed in a home phone for safety if nothing else. She hurried over to it and picked up. “Hello,” she said. Her breath was still ragged. Perspiration dropped from her forehead and onto her cheek then zig zagged to her chin. One drop hit the taupe tiles below. She noticed a chip in its grouting. “It’s me Becca, turn on your TV!” “Why, what for?” Jaye knew that their Father’s show, “The Middle Ground”, wasn’t aired right then. Mind you, it could be just about anything really… “Trust me. Just turn on your TV to the news channel.” “Which one?” “Pretty well anyone I guess.” What kind of craziness is she onto now? Jaye thought. Billie Eilish? Kardashians? Other assholes that I don’t care about! She was all too aware of her older sister Rebecca’s absorption in celebrity gossip. Becca was like Etalk! and TMZ and sugar.com all rolled into one. Mind you, we are a bit of a celebrity family ourselves so what can you expect from her? Besides, this is an age of high narcissism, selfie stick and all. Snatching up her remote from the trendy, black coffee table, Jaye flicked the big screen TV on. What! Dad? In one larger than life poof, her father had manifested on the big screen, the CTV twenty-four-hour news channel. She saw his unmistakable graying profile, the short, squat man built like a gulag prison guard. It was him. No other. Underneath the running caption read, Sex scandal in Sports casting-Doug Petry. Jaye felt that earlier sonic boom now fire through her whole being. Her nervous system thundered. “What! Is that Dad?” Jaye gasped. “Yeppers.” “Oh my God! What’s going on?” There was a slight pause, and then Becca chuckled derisively and said, “I guess dear old Dad has been busy.” “What?” “Yeah, he charged an escort service to the company credit card and got caught.” “You’re kidding!” “I wish that I were. It’s over every channel.” “When? When did this happen?” “The other night I guess.” “Dad was with an escort!” Jaye gasped. “ ’Fraid so.” “Listen, maybe phone Mom. Poor mamma Peg needs a shoulder to cry on right now and we’re really all that she’s got. She’s too embarrassed to deal publicly with the whole thing. You know how she and grandma are…image conscious and everything. ” “Yeah,” Jaye agreed. Jaye had a sudden vision of their mother caught in that same sonic boom, though in her case it would likely be on a much grander scale, a juggernaut of epic proportions, something like a nuclear meltdown. What would Mom be thinking? Feeling? Broadsided by her husband’s infidelity, she would be caught in the epicenter of that blast. Jaye inhaled deeply. Willow, her cat, appeared seemingly out of nowhere and began rubbing up against her legs vigorously. Though she normally loved that sonorous sensation, Jaye was presently too upset to revel in it. She pushed Willow away. Becca continued, “Tommy’s freaking out as you can imagine. He’s threatening to punch Dad’s lights out. He and Mother are not taking it well.” “So, what’s next?” Jaye gingerly asked, though part of her was afraid to even hear. “We’ll just have to wait and see I guess.” They paused. Then Jaye piped up hopefully, “Do you think he really did it? I just can’t picture it.” Jaye heard her older sister exhale deeply on the other line. “Credit card receipts don’t lie m’dear.” “What if he just went for coffee with the escort, just wanted to talk. Some old guys do that y’know.” “Doubt it.” Jaye groaned. “I just can’t believe it! Keep me posted ‘kay Becca.” “I will. Or just turn on your TV. It will update you as good as anything unfortunately.” “Okay bye then.” “Bye.” Jaye set her cordless phone back on its stand. The light was dimming in the kitchen. It made the moment seem all the more surreal, as that late afternoon retreat was slowly settling in. Toronto was fading away. The row of potted plants suddenly seemed forlorn. The dated eighties cupboards seemed stiff, sad. Staring into space, she was frozen in thought, frozen to the spot. What now? Of all the damning revelations! I suppose I should call the others. Yet she dreaded the thought of doing so. But she dialed Tommy’s number anyways. Upon hearing it ring busy, she was relieved. Thank God, I don’t have to hear from him right now! Her older brother, the middle child, could be brash, outspoken, and Jaye really didn’t feel like dealing with his truculent nature right then. She wasn’t surprised that Becca had said that Tommy had been raving and threatening to punch out their dad. That was so like him. Besides, Tommy was such a momma’s boy it went without saying that he would rush to her defense. Their Mother/Son bond was undeniable. With his ginger hair, that soft shade of red that their Welsh clan had been wanting for generations and his urchin looks, he was their mother’s trophy baby. She coddled him to this day. Taking time to squeeze any blackheads that cropped up on his nose or neck or shoulders, sending healthy foodstuffs his way when ill, she had a nurturing sense that continued into grad school and beyond. Jaye then tried phoning her mother. Busy. Probably calling each other right now, she guessed. She pictured the two of them or possibly the three of them, Becca included, venting and raging in some conference type call. Once more, she felt relieved and set the phone back in its stand. Think I’ll just sit this one out and get in touch with them later… Wiping away the sweat that hung from her cheek, nearly stumbling over her irrepressible cat, Jaye then collapsed on a nearby recliner. She peeled her socks and runners off. She recoiled at the sour odor of sweaty feet. Hers. Though almost frightened to look at the TV, she glanced its way again. But the news story had long since shifted to a pair of moose that were running loose down the main drag while being tracked by helicopters overhead. Thank God, it’s gone…But, moments later, her father’s story appeared in the running caption below, Jaye felt her stomach sink once again. Iconic Sportscaster Doug Petry in sex scandal... So, she snatched up the remote and shut the TV off with one decisive click. She stared at the opaque screen and saw her reflection, a faint outline, in return. Yet it seemed in keeping with her minimalist décor, the less is more way she arranged things in that tiny, stylish apartment. It bothered her immensely that she lived in a world where the borders between public and private were dissolving as quickly as the glaciers. Why does Dad’s business, our business, have to be everybody’s fucking business? Says who? Shame and scandal were never the family’s strong suit. For the Petry’s could gracefully rise and shine in the light but fell hard whilst in the dark. Still, she didn’t know what to think. Did he really do the nasty? Or was he just one of those dud tricks who order club sodas and rail about not being able to open up to their wives? Becca doesn’t think so but who knows? Just maybe? Hopefully? She groaned. Feeling parched from the run and beginning to get the awful tension of a stress headache, she wandered to the kitchen. The tiles were cool and refreshing under her bare feet. She drank a tall glass of ice water and popped a 12-hour Advil. God knows, I’ll likely need it this next while, she thought, disconsolately. Though she usually did cool down stretches post-run, then showered, it wasn’t so today. She was thrown completely off pattern, broadsided. She went to bed and collapsed. So now what? There wasn’t just the reaction of immediate family there was also the issue of friends and co-workers and others too. What would Auntie Bronwyn say? She could just see Auntie’s fallen visage, features pinched sharp. She would likely take the matter personally, with her one degree of separation from her wronged sister, Peg. And how would she face everyone at work? Would she end up like fat Cathy at work? The cruel office rumor has it that the urn on Cathy’s desk holds her cat’s ashes. What would be said about me now? Daughter of Pimp Daddy? Li’l Pump? Just what? Would he become the new “Dad” joke? And most of all, why were they all still stuck in the “open office” arrangement when it had been voted out and everyone opted to return to their soulless cubicle? It would be so much better to just be able to hide out in her old box by the corner, right? So why had that decision still not been enacted? Still, there were some advantages to working at Fairford Industries. Besides, of course, having access to an inexhaustible supply of knobs and switches,(You never know when a good widget will come in handy), there were even more subtle perks. The fact was that everyone was relatively easy to read at work. The cat lady. Porn guy. Soccer mom. The social justice warriors. Family man. Church spider. They were an eclectic collection that operated above the grid, along recognizable lines. But with her family, it was a much different story. They hid feelings, hoarded emotion. Like cats, they were ready to spring, sharpening their claws on grievance or whim. Sometimes they even seemed to play roles like victim or martyr or helper, relishing the chance to dramatically display their own inner voice. She frowned. Rolling over, Jaye clutched her pink, Hello Kitty! Pillow. Its white lace fringe had grown grubby over time, clung to over many a sweaty night of tearful introspection, including now. She sank soft into the cool, white sheets underneath her, high thread count glory. She wondered about her lack of anger at her father. She had only been perturbed momentarily when she first saw the whole debacle being televised. Yet, it struck her as curious. Why am I not as livid as the rest of them? She could almost feel the other family members rage and disappointment vis a vis the ether, the cosmic give and take that settled upon one like unwanted radiation. After smarting momentarily, she had pretty much returned to normal. Her biggest issue was having to weather the storms of the others. Especially Tommy. That’s all. Is there something wrong with me? Should I be as angry and ashamed as the rest of them? I wonder why I’m not. She disliked having to second guess herself. One often victim to self-defeating thinking, that no one likes me/I hate everyone and everything/life sucks/ mindset, Jaye had to frequently tweak her thinking, adjust her attitude. Anti-depressants and reality checks were her strongest allies, yet she also held faith in the killer work outs, those extra-long jogs that gave her that endorphin rush to happiness. Still, was she becoming a little too obsessive with that too? Others had been giving her frowns, worried looks when she shared about her workouts. Or the health cleanses she sometimes did. She made a mental note to deal with the jogging issue later as she presently had too much on her mind. If it’s not one thing, then it’s the other… She sighed. Her work outs had to do with more than just mental health, though. Having always been surrounded by beauties, she was a little insecure about her appearance. She fretted over her weight, the squat, blue collar body that she had inherited from her dad. But she also knew that now was not the time to dwell on her looks. This was about Dad. Wonder how he’s doing right now? Just what is he thinking, feeling? If he really did it, then does he have any remorse? She grabbed her phone and texted him. Love u daddy I heard about in on TV Hope all is ok Instantly, she heard the ping of an incoming text. XO XO XO So very sorry JJ. First time I ever did that, last time too! Do u want to go for coffee & talk or anything? Not now. But I’ll text u soon Feeling a sudden pang, she closed her eyes. She felt them moisten, almost tear. But she didn’t cry. She believed him. She knew he wouldn’t do it again. Even the very best dogs get grace over one bite after all. So why shouldn’t he? It was only fair. Still, she felt that last flicker of faith in him promptly go out. He really did it after all! He admitted to it even! So that was that, moving along, for the family and media circus that was about to unfold would move along on its own accord now. There was really nothing she could say or do. Instead, she recalled the last time they had been together, father and daughter. They were seated in the outdoor patio of London Dairy, a local hot spot that sported 101 exotic flavors of ice cream. Though they had little else in common, they both shared a ravenous sweet tooth. So they would sometimes slip there together. It was their guilty secret. It was their place. “You didn’t get your usual,” Jaye observed. “Nah, I thought I’d finally try something new,” her father said, licking the melting greenish-blue ice cream that was running wantonly down the waffle cone. “Well I’m sticking to the tried and true, cheesecake ripple,” Jaye joked. “That’s just like you J-J,” he said. At that memory, she nearly choked. Jaye had always been in awe of her successful, high profile father. The nationally syndicated TV segment, his ramrod posture and no-nonsense air, the tailored clothing that made him somewhat of a dandy amongst his colleagues, it all worked to create an almost severe image in her mind. Though he wasn’t the dreamboat dad like some of the other patriarchs, most notably her friend Karli, who had the tanned, hunky, surfer father, he commanded respect if nothing else. He was the adult you listened to, deferred to, not the pushover hippy teacher or the eccentric neighbor or even emotional mom. He was the real deal. And though he worked long hours, was gone a lot on the road while she was growing up, Jaye still managed to establish connections with him. She did realize that it was more her seeking him out than the other way around usually. The Loneliness of the Long Distance Daughter. Yet, he was still available, present as the watches with the oversized faces that he always wore. (It seemed that everything about him was larger than life somehow). Jaye secretly enjoyed having a celebrity for a father. It had always given her an edge especially with boys or adults. When quizzed about Doug, usually by prospective suitors, she would cock her head coyly and feign disinterest in the whole thing though she was preening within. Her trademark remark eventually just became, “Watch The Middle Ground and see for yourself.” Still, it did have a downside. Like now. She had surmised through bits of “adult talk” gleaned through the years, picked up when she and Tommy hid behind large recliners or in deserted hallways and eavesdropped while her parents sipped cocktails and exchanged secrets and searching looks that there was one overriding irritant with him. Her father was angry at his own family for disavowing him for becoming establishment, the face, and franchise of corporate culture. “What was I supposed to do? I was son number four. There was no place on the farm for me” But to his socialist farm family he was nothing more than a sellout. It was a sticking point with him that led to a near cutting of ties with his own clan, just grim nods and distant stares. That’s all. As his side of the family became coolly ignored, Jaye and her siblings became enmeshed in her mother’s side near exclusively. Yet, her father derided them for being Welsh and rather odd. “What do you expect from people with names like Crydwyn and Bronwyn and LLewlyn and what have you?” They had an old world sensibility about them was endearing to some and annoying to others it seemed. Still, on those occasions after one too many cocktails, he’d wax nostalgic about life on the old homestead. “Yup, you can tell I have three older brothers by all the BB scars on my ass!”. Then he would break into thunderous laughter while his martini dripped onto the hardwood floor. Peg, her mother, then would admonish him to wipe it up. Jaye heaved the pink pillow across the room. She felt numb. Spent. She realized that she was likely his lone supporter. Who else was in his corner? His own family is distant as ever and our family is furious. Even the corporate knives have shred him. Recalling the paper people she used to fold and cut out as a kid, those flimsy things she’d then decorate the living room with, so she saw Doug. Paper Lion. Paper Man. Emerging from behind the tall potted plant in the corner, the cat appeared. It sniffed. Paused. Then Willow made one huge leap onto the bed, snuggled in beside her. Jaye felt instant comfort. The warmth, that purring black ball, it soothed her like nothing else. A rather sensitive, high strung young woman in her mid-twenties, she sought comfort in all the right places, running, and health products. She eschewed the usual weed and social media of her peers. Her cell phone made her especially nervous. She knew she was addicted to it, that it had split her in two, stressed both by it notifying her or not notifying her. These days, she just used it sparingly if all. Gotta replace FOMO with JOMO somehow. (Fear Of Missing Out with Joy Of Missing Out) She sniffed her essential oil bracelets deeply from her wrist. Running them slowly across her nostrils, she paused over each black, charcoal bead. Ah, frankincense! She loved that refreshing scent and she truly believed that it did give her the mental clarity that it was touted for. Gotta take care of myself…If I’m gonna survive this whole nightmare…If we all are…The biblical wisdom of frankincense. The gift of the Magi. Who would have guessed? Then the loud ring of her cell phone shattered her peace. Azalia Banks. 2in1. Tommy. “Yeah, Jaye we need you to come home as soon as possible. We’re gonna have like a family meeting,’kay?” It was Tommy. He sounded breathy, hoarse. “Who?” “Like all of us uh…except Dad. We just need you and Becca to get here.” “Okay. I’ll come right now,” she agreed. Quickly topping up Willow’s dishes with extra cat food and water, as she wasn’t sure when she’d be back, Jaye mentally prepared to leave. Got my purse. Got my keys. Got my phone. Ready to go. Jaye drove directly to the freeway. She was glad to see that there were none of the usual accidents that normally slowed Toronto traffic down. Rather, it was smooth sailing down the QEW until she pulled up to her parents’ home a half hour later. She yielded as ever at the last turn where the big yellow sign stood that said SLOW DEAF Child. Who was that kid anyhow? She never did know. Spying Auntie’s navy blue Honda parked across the street, she slowed down to pull up. There was only one spot left in the driveway and she took it. Next to Tommy’s pimped out black Jeep. Their three story colonial style house was titanic amidst a lawn and bushes trimmed as precise as a military haircut. But then it had always had a certain regal splendor hadn’t it? Now, though, it seemed to only sport a grim, ironic air. For the god had fallen from Olympus, that lesser hero spoiled, soiled, and down. It was her happy childhood abode. She recalled the birthday parties and throw rugs, Tommy’s race car shaped bed and the princess canopy beds that her and Becca slept in, the ones with silky pink sheets. The cozy social rituals of their Cascadia neighborhood, snowbirds, dinner parties, golf weekends, poodle play dates. It all went down in that gated community, amidst the man-made lake, the bubbling fountains. Those were the days, she sighed. Yet how would slick and sleepy Cascadia take it when one of theirs was being burned at the stake? Would they divide along the same lines as the rest of the country? Coffee row static as palpable as any media live wire, yes that on-line in overdrive, the eye of the nation blood red. Jaye sensed a storm brewing all about, electric, familial, and otherwise. I don’t care if he’s tarnished his name. Our family name even. Who cares what other people think? Screw them! But the rest of the fam will be adamant that I know. They will likely be in damage control mode while dad will be back pedaling for his life. Uh-oh they’re all here. Jaye looked all about as she entered the front door. She had been to these kinds of conferences before and figured all would be alternating between tearful pep talks and bouts of guilt and reason, the usual family fare. Everyone had gathered in the living room. Their Mom, her sister Bronwyn and their mother, Grandma Crydwyn, Tommy, Becca and her husband Stuart. A scent of freshly made coffee was in the air. The mood was dour. “Oh, Jaye,” her mom sobbed. Chi-Chi, her Chihuahua, barked. “Gimme a hug.” Becca and Stu smiled weakly at her. Tommy glared, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Her aunt and grandma sat stiffly, with long, disapproving faces. “Hello dearie,” Grandma Cryd cooed. It was the sad gathering of the clan. As she went to pour herself a coffee, Jaye wondered if their ancestors generations earlier would have joined together to mourn a failed crop or a lost battle, testaments to Welsh heartbreak. Instead, here they were immersed in a tawdry sex scandal. That’s all. Socially conservative, fiscally liberal, and generally complacent, so they are. They were a cornerstone in the neighborhood. Jaye returned to the living room and sat on the couch beside Grandma Cryd who smelled faintly of lavender and mint (as most old ladies seem to). As ever, Cryd wore her jacket with the three old buttons of pictures of them as kids on it. Jaye recalled that was her kindergarten photo. Cryd had been complaining as of late how hard it was to do simple things like dress or use the stairs. So she opted to keep her jacket on. Jaye looked around. She saw that no one was on technology, though phones were within arm’s reach, drawn pistol like. That was a first, rather, everyone sat stony faced. Silent. The living room, which looked like an ad for House Beautiful, was as immaculate as ever. Jaye knew that when stressed her mom opted to clean rather than eat. Yes, the proof was all about her, in the nooks and crannies sans dust. And Jaye even thought she still saw grooves in the carpet from a recent run over by the Hoover vacuum cleaner. Tommy ripped open a bag of Cheezies with his teeth and began to munch. “So, I guess we’ll bring you up to speed first thing,” Auntie Bronwyn said. She had her arm around Peg. The two sisters were close confidants of one another, always had been. They looked like a pair of anguished book ends. Auntie had her wavy locks pulled up in a loose bun as ever, with a colorful head scarf. It had seemed to become her signature look over the years. Yet her green eyes had set hard. “Wait, when did this all happen?” Jaye queried “Two nights ago.” Becca and Bronwyn spoke in unison. “Where’s Dad?” Jaye asked “Who cares?” Tommy snapped Jaye looked at him and frowned. “Apparently he’s at The Knights Inn. Some flea bag motel I imagine. Y’know out in motel village by the airport.” Bronwyn said “He calls every so often,” Peg added. Jaye mentally pictured him in one of those low rent motel rooms with tacky bed spreads and hot plates tucked in the corner, crammed between thrifty travelers and local riff raff. She wondered if by slumming it, he was somehow punishing himself or even clamoring for redemption. Who knows? “Let him stay there and cool his jets,” Becca added Rubbing her temples, Peg said, “The last day has been a nightmare, with reporters phoning me, even coming to the door for God’s sake. And I guess they’ve been talking to his escort as well. Wonder what she’s got to say? For a moment there, I thought I was going to have to contact our lawyer.” Grandma Cryd shook her head, frowned. “Who tipped the press off?” Stu queried. “They have their ways.” Becca said flatly. Her mother and auntie nodded in agreement as if they knew. Then Bronwyn, the unofficial leader of the meeting, cleared her throat and continued. “So to bring you up to speed like I said, your dad has been caught with this Jade Blu Afterglow person. And he’s been fired from The Middle Ground, in fact there’s talk of cancelling the show. But the network is holding a press conference where they are giving him the option to just resign. He wants us all to attend apparently.” Bronwyn spoke with a dry, angry air like she was the one who had been personally affronted. “Bullshit,” Tommy scoffed. He popped an extra-long Cheezie in his mouth and scowled. “Why should we do anything for him after what he just did to Mom?” Tommy and their mom exchanged soft, sideways looks. Chi-Chi yipped again. “Shhh!” Becca chided the small dog. Sniffing the Cheezies, Chi Chi trotted over to Tommy and began to beg. Tommy gently pushed the pet aside. Jaye understood Tommy’s rancor at their father, as who needed a scandal after all? Their clan was prone to close ranks to prevent one. Jaye knew that much. And she also knew Tommy’s fury at their father for hurting and humiliating their mom. Since whatever affected momma bear certainly was felt by boy cub. But she surmised that the friction between them went much deeper than this very revelation. The two had just never got along. Absalom, Absalom. Like that Biblical son, Tommy had the same disobedience. Though he tended to charm everyone around him, especially mother and grandmother, Tommy never quite had that effect on their dad. Jaye heard their dad often say, “That kid never listens. Cuts in line everywhere. Just drives me nuts. I think he must have ADD or something.” Or on other more ominous occasions, Doug would say, “Y’know I brought him in this world and I can take him out too.” Tommy who expected to shine, to lead, often was undermined by their dad, leading to all the ensuing power plays between them. Father and Son both seemed to be guided by the same axiom. A straight line is the shortest distance between two points. Once, a twelve-year-old Tommy was so angry at their dad on a family ski trip that he threw his skis off the gondola in a fit of rage. This of course, led to their dad booting his ass all the way back to their pricey hotel room once they were back on terra ferma. It never did help either that Tommy was best buddies with, Trey, the class stoner. Jaye recalled the time she was with her dad and they had to drive over to a seedy neighborhood to transport stuff that Tommy and Trey had bought at a heavy metal garage sale. Garish looking metal spiked boots and a battered fog machine. Yet it was seeing the pentagrams drawn in Sharpie on the wall and fashioned out of masking tape on the cement floor that made her dad’s lips go thin. Just what are you rotten little bastards up to? Stu retrieved the coffee pot and politely made the rounds topping up everyone’s cooling coffee. He was dressed very country club, polo shirt, khaki pants. “Such a dear,” Grandma Cryd said. “Awesome dude thanks,” Tommy said. Becca beamed at her new husband. Stu was mild mannered and gallant, in sharp contrast to the alpha males that Jaye had grown up with, Tommy and her Dad butting heads like rutting rams. Continuing to crunch loudly on the Cheezies, Jaye glanced at her older brother. She saw one roll on his orange stained tongue as he chewed. “So, what do you want, Peg? Tell us.” Bronwyn asked her sister, one arm still draped protectively around her. If Tommy looked like a thunder cloud, their mother appeared like a sad, grey sky. The light had seemed to go out of her eyes which were vaguely red rimmed. Her countenance was flat. She clutched her beloved Chi-Chi like a child clinging to a teddy bear. She was a classic beauty more so than the rest of them. Her blonde hair had now gone champagne gray. But she still looked and seemed remarkably youthful otherwise. Only the gravity of this moment, the heaviness of betrayal, was wearing on her. Was mom raging and wrathful ? Or just saddened and embarrassed? Probably all of it, Jaye imagined. An ugly cocktail of emotion, it had likely knocked her for one helluva loop. Lately, her mother’s life had been all about book clubs and focus groups. Gluten-free this and that. These were things that Jaye found somewhat uncharacteristic of her mom. Maybe she’s struggling too? But with what? Perhaps aging and the subsequent empty nest? Some personal problem? Who knows? Maybe it’s the both of them even? Mom and Dad. Had they hit some wall, had their relationship run its cycle, turned off course? Jaye wondered if her Mom blames herself. Wondered if she feels responsible for him seeking an escort? Women sometimes do. But Jaye didn’t sense any second guessing of herself on Peg’s part. She didn’t seem like her integrity had been compromised at all. She still had her full, blooming presence like the beauteous flowers she nursed in her garden out back, just wilted feelings as could be expected. Peg shook her head. Shrugged. Mom looks more tired than affronted, Jaye thought. What is she thinking? Jaye suspected that her mom was not likely to do anything drastic. She never did. Cautious and conservative by nature, Peg had an old school sensibility, home and hearth, loyalty and family just like grandma (so what happened to fidelity?). Only Auntie was likely to take a roaring stand. For Brownwyn grew up singing I am Woman, while Peg likely hummed Stand by Your Man. “I say we boycott the press conference,” Tommy said, “That’ll show him.” A ripple went through the room. Wonder what’s going to come of this? Jaye hoped it wouldn’t lead to divorce, to a fractured family existence after all their history together. She was pleased that unlike so many others, her family had stayed together, weathered every storm imaginable. She feared a breakup. Please God no! Just for a moment, she felt her inner light flicker, falter, like a candle blown on and nearly extinguished. The last few years, their mom had found herself with an empty nest. All three of her children had grown up, moved out. So, she began chumming with her divorcee friends more and the newly separated Auntie Bronwyn. Jaye observed her mom become mired in single woman chaos and drama. The tearful late-night phone calls. The never-ending glasses of wine. Cups of tea. Girl talk. Peg the sounding board for everyone else’s problems. Good old Peg… But would she become one of them? Join that ever growing circle, chorus about her, those sirens beckoning, calling? Now she’ll likely need their support in turn! Don’t let them egg you on into becoming like them…The gay divorcee and all…They just want you to be single and foot loose too. Misery likes company. That’s all, her Dad said to her mom. He was clad in his bathrobe, his hair still damp, slick from an earlier shower. He was sporting a frown. Those sirens will just drown you. That’s it. But, in retrospect, Jaye wondered if he had just been projecting his very own dark impulses onto mom? Just maybe hmm… Clearing her throat, Becca said, “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m pissed at him. That’s for sure.” “Me too!” Tommy roared. He gave Jaye another stony look but she just ignored it. “He says he’s sorry. And he only did it the once,” Jaye piped up, hopefully. Tommy looked like a thunder cloud. “Have you been talking to him?” “Texting,” Jaye admitted. “Hmmph. Not surprised,” “But why would they fire him over one slip? It doesn’t make sense.” Jaye implored “Arnie,” Peg said, flatly. Another murmur passed through the room. Others nodded. Arnie. Yes. Arnon Friedman was the network head honcho and someone Doug had clashed with on a semi-regular basis for years. So whenever Doug referenced dick head himself they all knew who he meant. “Arnie was probably just waiting his chance,” Peg opined. Crinkling his upturned nose, Tommy said, “Yeah, Arnie is a real douche and so is his son Scott. My buddy Trey beat Scott up once in high school, in the parking lot of Burger King where we all did our noon hour scrappin’.” Tommy grinned, giggled. “That’s not funny Tommy,” Peg said “Look, it really is Peg’s call, I think,” Bronwyn opined. Stu nodded thoughtfully. He rubbed his chin as was his awkward habit along with plunging his hands deep into his pockets. He always had a slightly stunned, deer-in-the-headlights look when he was with the Petry clan. They were so different from his own close knit family. Sighing deeply, their mother then paused. Then she said as her neck strained, stretched, “Look, it’s not really about me. It’s about family and we need to rally together through this. I’m going to the press conference tomorrow and I hope the rest of you will attend as well. We can do this.” She clapped her hands weakly. Half smiled. It was a familiar gesture Jaye had witnessed prior to hockey games, curling matches, hands moving as adroitly as her eager, fruity breath froze, held in the winter air. Grandma Cryd nodded glumly. As her head bobbed, her neck fell into accordion like folds. The Welsh matriarch looked like a dried and cured mermaid, something that had swept in from the coast. “I suppose so,” Auntie Bronwyn deferred. Tommy scowled. “I ain’t going anywhere!” “Dunno...Yet,” Becca chimed in. “C’mon Becca,” Stu urged. He nudged his wife with his shoulder. Tossing his bag of half eaten Cheezies aside, Tommy threw Jaye a poisonous look and said, “Whadda ‘bout you, Daddy’s girl? You’ve been pretty quiet this whole time.” Jaye sipped her coffee. Shrugged. “Huh daddy’s girl, tell us,” Tommy goaded. Jaye threw Tommy a dark look. He returned it. Then he smirked and said, “C’mon I wanna hear it.” But her lips thinned, tightened. Chi-Chi then broke into a wild fit of barking that upset both the peace and the injured nerves even further. He spun in circles on the hardwood floor that his toe nails clicked on. “Shut up Chi Chi!” Becca shrieked. She was the least tolerant towards the tiny, yappy dog. But it only excited the Chihuahua even further. He lapsed into hysterical barking reminiscent of the time he and Peg were both spooked by a strange noise that turned out not to be a trespasser or home invader but rather a stuck robot vacuum. Probably privy to some noise outside that only he can hear, Jaye concurred. When the dog finally quieted, Tommy said, “See Jaye, even Chi Chi isn’t buying it.” Jaye bolted upright on the couch. “Look who’s talking! Trey told me that at his stag you won the door prize which was a blow job.” Tommy reddened, went slack jawed. Throwing her hands up in dismay, their mother cried, “What can I do with the whole lot of you!” Peg appeared as distraught over the disclosure as the act itself. Bronwyn pulled Peg in tighter. “Tommy!” Auntie chided him. She, along with their father, was one of the few to ever really discipline Tommy. Becca frowned. “Well I ain’t going anywhere! Fuck it. Come on Chi Chi let’s go,” Tommy said, as he scooped up and cradled the dog in one arm and then disappeared downstairs. “That wasn’t necessary Jaye. This is about Dad’s indiscretion and not about the rest of us,” Becca said. Jaye was dumbstruck. She resented the bossy, abruptness of Becca, something her sister felt entitled to as the eldest child. Jaye had always referred to her oldest sibling as Little Miss Bossy. Shaking her head, Becca continued, “Please just get with the program. You don’t need to take his side y’know.” Jaye glared. “Who said I was!” “Aw cmon. It’s pretty obvious.” “Is not! Shut up!” “You shut up,” Becca retorted. Stu blushed. Even his ears became pink points. “Enough, girls!” their mother blared. Jaye’s mouth opened like she was about to say something then just as quick decided against it. Still a million fuck you’s flew out like black bugs from a corpse. Grandma Cryd clicked her tongue in disapproval. Tch. Tch. Silence fell on the group. Then taking the last sip of her coffee, their mom said, “He’ll be like this for a day. Then he’ll come around. Tommy’s always been like that.”’ It was true. Both father and son had irrepressible natures. They would hold a joke or anecdote even a piece of gossip all day long, Tommy at school, their Dad at work, each dying to come home and say it. Still, it was Tommy who would then search their faces for response or approval, usually around the supper table that hummed with life. Laughing weakly, Peg said, “Well we’ve exchanged our fucks and shut up’s as usual.” Yet an underlying pain, powerlessness and betrayal could be heard in that flat, hollow laughter. She appeared wounded, persevering like a war widow. Jaye felt a wave of empathy for her mom. Like a sudden warming light. She wanted to hug her again. Inside Jaye was a clumsy juggling act of emotion, sympathy for her mom, anger at the rest. Yet it was all as inevitable as the moment itself. Her mother, though usually quite fashionable, was still clad in her golden Calvin Klein housecoat. Jaye reckoned that after getting the early blasting shock from the morning news on TV, Peg didn’t bother to dress. Why bother? The day, if not the life, is fucked now! Their mom stretched her legs out in front of her. “Well I guess that’s it then…Jaye why don’t you sleep over than we can all go together in the morning?” Jaye nodded ever so slightly. The family meeting had come to an end. There was a shift in energy. Those left stretched or smiled, set their empty cups in the sink and lingered about hopefully. The earlier angry energy had given way to complacency of feeling and manners. Peg and Bronwyn fell into a sisterly embrace. Becca and Stu hugged. Grandma Cryd smiled and looked from side to side. Sighed loudly. Jaye made a bee-line to her old bedroom. The familiar sight of her princess canopy bed both comforted her and angered her somehow. She flopped down on it. There were now faded, yellowed spots on her wall where the posters of Justin Bieber and Eminem used to be. Screw Tommy and Becca! They’re so damn bossy! They make me so mad! To hell with her “get with the program” pronouncement, I’m my own person. I will do my own thing. That’s it! That’s all! I know how I feel and that’s all that matters. It’s no Sophie’s choice or anything. But I’ll still go with my gut. I’m going to the press conference tomorrow because I love Dad. I’m not going to try and keep up appearances like the rest of them are doing. Hah! Then she burst into tears. Sobbing lightly, she felt wound in a knot of emotion that she was wont to unravel. But it didn’t last all that long. And she turned to other matters. At least I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. Thank God, it’s the weekend! That’s one small blessing. Even though there is the press conference tomorrow. It will be awhile until the Sunday scaries come. Though she usually did stomach crunches this time of day, snhe opted not to. I’m fine right now. So why bother? Besides, I think I’ve become too much about health and working out. All of that running and pushing myself to take my fitness to the next level, set ever higher records that I do. But for what? Where does it ever end? And how? Also, people have been hinting to me that I’ve perhaps been over doing it. Even fat Cathy at work gives me funny looks sometimes and that never used to be the case. Besides, a new plan had been forming within her. She had been trying to reach a middle ground in her life and mind simultaneously. Gotta move away from the edge and return to the center. Gotta tweak my life somehow. Her plan was twofold, first, find herself, and then next, find a husband. It should be do-able, she judged. And for a moment she felt a spark of hope. She couldn’t wait for the latter especially. The moment when she caught him staring at her like she was the one. Whoever he happened to be. Still, she recalled her dad remarking once. Yeah, you make plans alright. Then life decides otherwise... Will this happen to me too? Will my plans be stymied? Will I end up victim to strange circumstance? Just get through tomorrow, that’s all I need to do, any of us for that matter…But I’ll do it on my own terms, in my own way. Not theirs. If I had been unsure before at least it’s all clarified now. Her mind did a sharp, painful U-turn back to her dad. The specter of her father still lingered on. Jaye could see him and feel him everywhere. The hallway seemed naked without him. Rooms empty of the booming voice and laughter, his indomitable presence. Even his smell, the pricey Hermes cologne that he slapped on liberally, uncaring of its effect on others, whether or not it sent them into an allergic reaction. For if it did, it would likely send him into a laughing fit. He had physicality, a presence that was surely his signature gift. No wonder he became the absolute face of sports casting, who else could? A gifted athlete, a man’s man, he was a character unmatched, unleashed into a world like some tidal wave. But now he was gone. Maybe only temporarily, but still. It was almost unfathomable. And it hurt. It really did. Jaye suddenly had that feeling of I want my father, my parent, that thundering need that transcends, time, age, circumstance. It didn’t matter that she was in her early twenties. She still had the need to be seen, heard and loved by him. She felt her eyes moisten once again. Yet, she only briefly wept. It was like she had choked on an ice cube of emotion that had not fully unthawed. Should I try texting him again? Nah. He said he’d get back to me when ready. Besides, I’ll see him tomorrow at the press conference anyhow. The youngest of the three children and perhaps, possessing the least difficult nature, Jaye hadn’t been favored by her father. But she was the one that he would take with him on errands, those little side trips to the store, to pick something up or drop something off. It didn’t go unnoticed, however. Whatta little suck the other two would complain. All the time. In. fact. Would Tommy and Becca have seen that as him being emotionally distant? Physically absent? Could that have been the genesis of their resentments? To him? To her even? God knows, that trio, Father and Becca, and Tommy all shared the same high power needs, to be seen, heard, deferred to. What a triangle they are! Auntie Bronwyn also. She put an edge on things as well. Such a family of fighters, type A personalities forever bumping, clashing into one another. It was often operatic in intensity, cursing like arias, dramatic personas everywhere. However, Jaye knew she recoiled from conflict. But it wasn’t that way with the others, most notably her siblings. They fought like tigers. Jaye recalled the time as children when Becca and Tommy were squabbling in the kitchen. They knocked against the fridge which had the fishing tackle box on top of it, fish hooks spraying down and puncturing their scalps, red locks and red pin pricks of blood dotting bewildered faces. Everyone laughed. Yet that moment seemed to set the standard for all the future moments yet to come. Hearing a knock on the door, Jaye looked up. Her mother entered the bedroom. She was on the phone but paused and held it away from her ear as she said, “Becca and Stu are making supper. Come have some.” Then her mom returned to the phone call in progress. “You think you’re going through something right now Doug? What about me? What about all of us!” “That’s always been your problem Doug! You think everything is always about you.” “Whaddaya think! You hooked up with a hooker for fuck’s sake! Probably no older than your own daughters.” No more sad grey sky! The thundercloud has burst! Jaye followed her mother out of the bedroom and down the hallway into the kitchen. “Resign and do some community service! Hah!” her mother scoffed, “Try learning Spanish in jail!” Her mother broke into derisive laughter. “You shut up!” “No, you!” “So what if I laid down when the Christmas tree was being set up!” “You’ve never been able to see your own flaws, Doug. Just everybody else’s. That’s all.” Without really wanting to, Jaye listened to, followed the phone exchange. Once more, she felt a wave of sympathy for her mom. Jaye knew that her mom was the one who would be there for you in a clinch, the one to suffer, sacrifice, to eat or wear scraps while her dad would likely grin and order a steak. Yet Jaye still loved him regardless. The Electra complex and Freud be damned. Grandma Cryd and Auntie Bronwyn were seated at the solid oak dining room table. Becca and Stu were at the stove unthawing a block of homemade soup and making grilled cheese sandwiches. The island had a bowl of mixed berries, a bowl of potato chips, a small plate of pickles, and a tray of Nanaimo bars, all the favored family fare. Tommy was meeting an Uber delivery guy at the front door for his pizza. Then he disappeared back downstairs with it. When he and Jaye made eye contact across the room, Tommy flipped her the bird. Jaye stuck out her tongue. Grandma Cryd beamed at Jaye. Though she tried not to notice it, the unsightly nevus that had developed on Cryd’s eyes bothered Jaye. Then Cryd remarked to Bronwyn, her daughter, “I never did like his big Roman nose y’know… That Doug.” “And that obnoxious cologne! Does he bathe in it or what?” Bronwyn added “Such a horse’s ass!” Cryd grandly concluded. Jaye hung her head. She hated hearing her dad being dissed like he was, though she knew that he had it coming. Just gonna eat fast and get outta here… Cryd and Bronwyn continued to dissect and deconstruct Doug. Jaye squirmed in her seat. It reminded her of how after some blow out at work, everyone seemed hateful, suspicious. Yes, those times when it was trying to even return another’s gaze as she whisked about Fairford Industries. She felt like speaking on his behalf, saying that unlike many, at least she grew up under a father’s wing. At least I had one unlike so many that I went to school with. Don’t have any daddy issues like all those pole dancers do…Maybe Jade Blu Afterglow too, who knows? Doesn’t that count for something in his favor? Besides, there was also that matter of no one being perfect. Superman had kryptonite. Achilles had his heel. Why couldn’t her dad be granted some grace for his flaws too? Most of all, Jaye wanted to remind the others of their flaws and foibles. She knew their collective penchant for being cranks. Wouldn’t that straighten those pinched features, sideways attitudes? But she thought better of it. Don’t wanna add any fuel to this blazing, crazy fire… Still, she wished to point out to Cryd her years of playing family members off, one against the other one. She was notorious for instigating things then backing quietly away. And what about Auntie? Bronwyn is beginning to sound more like grandma all the time, with her assertions that everyone’s nuts and everything’s just a scam, y’know. They were two peas in a pod really. Thankfully before it went on too long, Stu and Becca began serving the soup and sandwiches. Jaye was still smarting from the earlier exchange with Becca. So she refused to make eye contact with her sister or even mumble thank you as she was being served a butter drenched sandwich. “We must dine at home. God knows we can’t show our faces out in public.” Grandma Cryd griped. Bronwyn snorted. Peg scoffed, “No kidding we can’t.” Chi-Chi ran into the dining room. Standing upright on his hind legs, he yipped and begged for scraps like always. Grandma Cryd slipped him her crusts when she thought that no one was looking. She even slipped the dog one half sandwich which was sure to cause an uproar, just like whoever had the audacity to reach for the last slice of pizza. As they all sat down to eat, including their mom who was off the phone now, Jaye searched the faces around the large, oak dining table. She looked for any signs of warmth or reconciliation but saw none. In fact, her older sister was sporting “The Becca Bitchface.” Uh-oh, Jaye thought. She has that look again. The shoulder length dark auburn hair framing that penetrating gaze, English fine lips. It was as deadly as it was dazzling. Jaye bolted down her supper. Then she returned to her bedroom. She lay face down. That sad, longing feeling returned to her. It almost felt like there was a death. Though, she supposed, that in a sense there was a sort of passing with that sudden lack of innocence in the family. It heralded a change to that already fragile ecosystem that was their home. Whoever would have thought we would end up gathered over something like this? And what would happen to her dad in the aftermath? Would he become one of the scarlet letter men who have to ring door bells and announce, “Good day. I’m your neighbor. By law, I’m required to inform you that I’m a registered sex offender.” She winced at that thought. Sure hope not. Oh right, that’s only if charges had been laid and none were. Thank God! Jaye was especially sorry that he had lost his job. She knew that so much of his identity was wrapped up in the network. She had always pictured him as an old man wearing his industry medals since there had been no war for him to distinguish himself in. That would have made him so happy and proud. Instead, he’s now forced out. The fall from grace will be televised. .. What were his demons about anyways? She didn’t know. As far as she knew, he had always been a model husband and father. He was no player. Was anything hidden from us while growing up? Jaye didn’t think so. But you never really do know for certain. Just those funny episodes with their old cat Penny who enjoyed being smacked on the bottom with the fly swatter, that’s all. They had discovered Penny’s pervy proclivities by accident one day. Out of sheer frustration at being steam rolled by the unrelenting feline their dad smacked the cat on the bum. But the cat purred and came back for another swat. Her dad roared with laughter. Then anytime someone picked up the fly swatter, Penny would come running for the masochistic abuse. It became a running joke in the household. Polymorphous perverse Penny. Channeling Freud. Were there any other signs? Jaye wracked her brain. She recalled that creepy TV documentary not that long ago about rare delicacies. When her dad said that he wouldn’t mind trying the Ortolan Bunting, dining on a rare songbird eaten whole while under a napkin to keep the aroma sealed in (or was that the shame of God kept out?), Jaye found the whole affair rather unseemly. Who could do that after all? But other than that, there was no behavior that she found suspicious. The songbird affair was just ghastly not sexual after all. Jaye suspected that, as humans, dissatisfaction propels us. It unites us, separates us, and everything in between. Sometimes it even provides the inertia to keep going. Yet, she was wont to fall into that same trap. I’m not going to be a buzz kill like all the rest of them. That’s so like them to be super cranky and judgmental. Just move on…But knowing them, they never will. They never do. This will be just another dark chapter in the family mythology, the new world chronicles of the Welsh on the skids, damned and descending. Hearing Chi-Chi scratching on her bedroom door, Jaye let the dog in. The tiny Chihuahua leapt into bed with her and curled nearly nose to nose with her. She could feel the warmth of the dog’s breath and body. But it smelled as fetid as ever, even though the dog was regularly groomed at a nearby, upscale doggy salon. Without meaning to, she was soon fast asleep. She began dreaming of her dad who was back in grade school with her. He was whittling sharp a stack of pencils and pencil crayons when no pencil sharpener could be found. It was something he used to do for her in real life. Shavings falling, lilting snowflake like to the floor. *** Mercifully enough, there was a cool summer breeze as they stood outside the network studio awaiting the start of the press conference. The sun overhead was like one unforgiving amber eye bearing down. Glancing over at the adjacent parking lot, Jaye saw it starting to fill. She swallowed hard. Like the butterflies flitting about the lawn beyond, so, too, her stomach danced. They had arrived early. Anxious to get it over with, the Petry clan had gathered en masse. Tommy even came despite last minute protestations, clad in his very best suit and tie. Only Grandma Cryd declined to attend because of tired legs and sore ankles. Jaye showered and borrowed a dress from her mom. It was a charcoal gray Jones of New York. She was careful not to look untoward given the nature of the event. Don’t wanna look like a hoochie mama after all. (Save that for when I go out clubbing haha) Sizing up the grim countenances of her other family members; Jaye knew that she must fall in line with them, with their prevailing righteous air of disdain. It seemed like she must either match their convictions and confidence or get crushed under by them. There didn’t seem to be any middle ground at all. The media had set up for the spectacle, reporters, and technicians buzzing about like insects. Network reps were also in attendance. Jaye recognized some there. Others not. Caught in the media glare, Jaye suddenly felt self-conscious. Is this how the Kennedy or Clinton kids feel? She stifled the urge to laugh. Glancing about her, she spied two maple bugs gamely fucking on a nearby ledge and once more stifled the urge to laugh. How timely, she thought. Her dad arrived. Pulling up in his sleek silver Lexus, he parked in his old, reserved parking spot. There was a pause. Jaye strained to see him. Finally, he emerged and saluted them from a distance. Then he ambled over to the platform. There was an immediate buzz. The paparazzi began jostling, jockeying for position. Most of the media fought for place, mainly as close to the fallen angel, Doug Petry, as they could. The air suddenly became heady with a near hysterical edge. As ever, Doug was immaculate in a white summer suit and silk tie, with a Windsor knot. Tommy grimly inched over. Joining them as several noses crinkled and heads dropped, her dad strode up to the microphone. He cleared his throat. Jaye attempted to make eye contact with her dad. But he was deeply invested in the moment. He nodded quickly to her then returned his focus. He still carried the same air of fierce dignity as always, like a general addressing his troops. “Good afternoon everyone. It’s with my sincerest regret that I’m announcing my resignation. I will no longer be hosting The Middle Ground or will be associated with the network anymore. I’d like to apologize to my family first and foremost, of course. But I’d also like to extend my apologies to the network and to Miss Jade Blu Afterglow. Thank you.” He smiled faintly, nodded. Like a nuclear blast, a volley of camera blasts went off. Lights were near blinding momentarily. “What about the allegations of rough sex?” “What about the biting?” “Cocaine!” Jaye burst out laughing. But she quickly covered her mouth. Her mom and Auntie Bronwyn glared. Becca rolled her eyes. Then she crossed her arms. Tommy frowned. Stu had that same deer-in-the-headlights look as ever. Jaye looked for the two amorous maple bugs on the nearby ledge. She focused on them instead to stifle and distract herself. And she tried to relax in the summer light though it was still intense. LITTLE LEAGUE
Sunning herself on the front step, Clare hoped to extract the last few rays of bliss from the heavens. It was late in the day. The hour was running short. Past five thirty. Seeing the cat across the street also on the front step doing the same, Clare smiled. Could be a good story idea, just maybe? She jotted the image down in her neon green, note pad that was balanced on her right knee. Another to add to my ever-growing list… But then Brooke opened the front door and said, “Supper’s ready.” Then her younger sister closed the door and disappeared from sight. Clare snapped her note pad shut and stood up. Even though the day had somehow advanced more quickly than Clare could understand, with it already being supper time and the Formica table set, she still acquiesced and joined the others. She wasn’t feeling hungry, at least only nominally so. There had been the bowl of ice cream earlier after all. Thus, she half-filled her plate with a bun and some pickled beets and poured a coffee. Clare sat next to her younger sister, Brooke. Though siblings, the rather substantial age gap of fifteen years left them more strangers than sisters. Yet they exchanged faint smiles as Brooke munched on garlic bread and Clare set her neon green note pad on the table. It was her trusty tome that she jotted down all observations and ideas for her story writing. She had even made a list of her favourite foreign or obscure words like sonder, tsundoka, litost. Anything and everything that aided the creative process. These days, Clare felt almost naked without it. “Do you have to bring that every time you sit down?” Lorraine, their mother, wondered aloud, and then frowned. Clare grinned. Their dad looked at Clare curiously but remained silent. It was a tense, hushed time. The air felt constricted. Energy moving in heavy, serpentine-like waves. Clare sipped her coffee that tasted stale and looked about. Her mother appeared distraught with faraway, almost teary eyes that glistened strangely somehow. Then she shifted her gaze downward. Wonder what’s going on? But she looks like that half the time. Always in an invisible battle with stresses that kept her in a semi-stupor, forever in a nervous struggle with spectres from the past, phantoms to come. What’s it about now? What happened this time to set her off? Though she was attached to her mother, Clare struggled to understand her. Those lapses in spirit and focus, mood regulation, that inner mechanism that faltered often like a rusty engine, a leaky valve. It used to make her fearful as a child when she’d witness her mother near collapse or actually in collapse on the couch, curled into that funny, baby-like ball. Back in the day, it could be anything from a scorched omelette to a fender bender. Even a curt remark from a co-worker. Clare had come to expect it eventually. She had begun to anticipate these tiny breakdowns with an Old Faithful level of regularity. The pressure, the build-up, the blow. “Your mom is as high strung as a Siamese cat”, Gary, their dad would observe aloud, after the stomping off, the slammed doors, and the tearful recriminations. She would blubber until her eyes were puffy and red and swollen. Then she would apply concealer to hide it like slapping icing on a burnt cake. And so it was. That serpent wave. “What’s wrong?” Clare finally asked her mother. Her mom shrugged, feigned a smile. Clare eyed her suspiciously. Munching on a beet soaked in vinegar, Clare savoured the flavour. But she continued to stare into a scene that had replayed throughout her life like some untoward news loop, with that same supper hour regularity. In her mind, Clare pictured the orubus, the snake swallowing its tail. She had first feared her mother’s weakness. Even marvelled at the depths it could sometimes take, like that Christmas morning when the cat suddenly died and the turkey supper was called off because of it. But eventually guarded wonder gave way to pure disdain. As a teenager, she grew embarrassed of her mother and all the scenes and meltdowns. She even felt occasional flashes of anger over it. Once, dismayed over her mom crying on a recliner while baby Brooke looked sticky and needy in her play pen, Clare purposefully stepped on her bare feet as she walked past. Her mom yelped with pain and cried, “Right on my sore foot even.” “You would say that!” Clare scoffed. Though not lacking in compassion, as Clare carefully escorted random ladybugs out of their house and onto the safety of a nearby leaf, kept a vigilant eye out for hungry stray cats, she didn’t know how a casual, instinctual kindness transferred to adults such as her parents, her mom especially. Shouldn’t they be capable enough? Shouldn’t mom be a mom like her friend’s mothers who were as composed as judges, as sturdy as the Sphinx? You would think so. “Aww you ate all the beets,” Brooke whined. “I didn’t know you even liked them,” Clare said. “Yes, you did,” Brooke argued. Brooke was twelve and nearly the same height as the twenty-seven-year-old Clare, though neither sister was very tall in fact. Yet, Clare was aggrieved by her sibling’s sullen, difficult nature. Gone were the days when Brooke was the cutesy, little preschooler who anxiously clutched the tiny squares of what was left of her baby blankie. They now fought over the bathroom. Then the TV. Always the computer. It bothered Clare when Brooke would have outbursts over things that she didn’t even dare ask for and then get them somehow. The one hundred-dollar runners. Pink braces. Not having to eat potatoes. Everything. Still, I need to cut Brooke some slack. I think she might have some of those same constricting fears that mom has. Those demons of anxiety that jackhammer the brain. Now is that nature or nurture? Or both? How Brooke frets over the news about climate change, crime waves! Was that even normal for a twelve-year-old? Maybe nowadays given that this is the age of anxiety after all. Who knows? Thank God the kid at least has baseball. What would she do without it? Though she was initially ecstatic as a teenager to hear that her mother was expecting and she would finally get the sibling she always wanted. Clare soon found her role wanting. It seemed that she was just an extra set of hands to keep the baby from tumbling, sticking things into her drooling mouth, wandering off. Whenever they went shopping it was teenaged Clare’s job to be there to help keep the little one from touching things, grabbing off the shelf and this was when she longed to be hanging out with friends at the mall or in the football stands. Brooke ruined my life, Clare once remarked to a school friend as she did homework with one hand and held the baby with her other. But Clare’s real grievance lay in how her mom perceived the youngest child. Brooke gets to be normal. “I had to be indigo”, Clare scribbled once in the journal that the school guidance counsellor encouraged her to keep and the words jumped back at her with an astounding clarity. She underlined them in purple ink. Drew boxes around them. Then turned the page. “But that was 1990, last century”, her mother said in a thin, scratchy voice that hoped to explain itself away. I was a product of fad and fashion. I was sent by the cosmos to usher in a new earth, to read auras, heal and lead and teach. I was a space age Joan of Arc. Brooke came from more circumspect parenting. She was sent to play Little League. That’s all. Their dad covered his mouth to half stifle a burp. “Ewww.” Brooke said He glanced up from his plate like a fish bobbing to the water’s surface. Their mom frowned. Then she brightened a moment later and asked, “Can someone pass the Coke? And the spaghetti, please?” Gary, her husband, obliged. Holding her tumbler towards him, Brooke said, “Pour me some Coke too.” He did. Sipping her coffee, Clare had finished eating. She pushed her plate aside. She looked all about her. Hmm. Clare began to jot on her notepad. “What are you always writing?” Brooke asked, testily. “Hope it’s not about me,” their dad joked. “It’s not actually polite to always be doing something at the table…I think,” their mother faltered. “Why?” Clare said in a defensive tone. Shaking her head lightly, their mom said, “Just isn’t…dunno.” “Well if you don’t even know why.“ “Oh come on,” their dad interjected. “When is your next game Brooke?” “Tomorrow at six. We play The Rockets.” “Then we’ll have to have an early supper. Maybe go through the drive-thru.” he reflected Brooke smiled. At twelve years of age, she lived for take-out fries. “Sure hope I get to start as pitcher!” Brooke added. Their dad nodded. Smiled. “If they start Gigi again I’m gonna be mad.” Shrugging his shoulders, their dad said, “Coach’s kid. Whaddaya expect?” Then he crinkled his nose. “Is gram coming? Should we pick her up?” Brooke wondered. Their dad scoffed. “Crazy old thing. Won’t even hardly leave her house let alone go down to the baseball field.” Clare smiled. It was true. Their difficult grandmother was seemingly becoming even more difficult with age. Whatever…Must be a familial thing. That serpent wave again. Believing Brooke to actually enjoy baseball, Clare was astounded. She remembered only doing things to please others at that age. All that funky looking new age art that she created but was unmoved by. Dalliances into astronomy and folk healing, interests that she had readily discarded and never looked back upon. That was me, indigo wunderkid at twelve. But whatever. Continuing to jot on her note pad, Clare observed her mother’s self-absorption, her dad’s selective attention, and her own emotional absence. Should be good fodder for my next story. I do need to get a good grade soon. Clare was enrolled in an advanced creative writing program at the local university. Picturing her mentor, Molly, in her mind, Clare slightly cringed. She remembered the teacher’s chagrin at recognizing herself in the latest piece that Clare wrote. Though she tried her best to camouflage her protagonist, making her a different race even, Molly saw through the façade and promptly awarded her a B-. It devastated Clare. As she had a vision of being a glowing, straight A+ student, surely an emerging Gallant or Munro, it had eclipsed her sense of self to the point of switching majors. But not for long. Got too much good material all around me. Sighing, her mother stood and gathered up plates. “I’m still eating!” Brooke cried. “I’m not taking your plate,” her mother said. Then she left the dining room. Glancing over at her dad, Clare met his gaze. He was growing so grizzled looking that he was fast becoming a stranger to Clare. She thought he almost looked walrus-like now with his round face and bald head, the gray spikey stubble of a short beard. But at least he looks the part of a geneticist. Or so she believed anyone in that field appears. He worked at the provincial lab. He focused mainly on gene sequencing and sometimes took classes on the side. Yet he had an abstracted awareness that left him seemingly oblivious to the simple goings on about him. If he was a little more on the ball, then maybe mom wouldn’t always be breaking down. But then she also thought that perhaps that was a protective wall he threw up to keep him insulated from the craziness that sometimes erupted around him. Lost keys. Thrown dishes. Loud, cursing words. It wasn’t always like that, true enough, Clare knew. But when that funny serpentine shadow of living came to the family it certainly was. Brooke leapt up from the table and turned to go. “You’re supposed to scrape your dish and put it in the sink,” Clare reminded her. Frowning in return, Brooke did as instructed. Then she disappeared into her bedroom. Speaking leisurely, almost rhetorically, her dad said, “Well, that’s enough of pasta I guess. Gonna go see how the Blue Jays are doing.” Then he, too, disappeared into the living room. He sat in front of the big screen TV as he did nearly every night of the week. Supper was over. Clare flipped her note pad shut. Need a break from it, she judged, at least for a while. *** The next day, as they drove to Connaught baseball field, Clare sat in the back seat beside her sister. Clare clutched a large to-go coffee in one hand and her trusty, neon green, note pad in the other. “You’re not bringing that thing, are you?” Brooke said. Clare threw her a dirty, sideways glance. Leaning forward in her seat, Brooke said, “Mom, Clare’s gonna write in that stupid book through the whole game and embarrass me.” But their mom didn’t respond. “Mom, Clare’s gonna embarrass me with that!” Brooke protested. “Oh come on,” their mom finally said. It wasn’t apparent who she was directing her disapproval at, though. “Well, if you weren’t all so crazy then I wouldn’t have to take notes, now would I?” Clare scoffed. Everyone fell silent. Clare could feel the air squeezing serpent-like again. Maybe like the hydra that Hercules laboured over? Brooke threw her an insolent look. But Clare chose not to respond. She knew that Brooke was at the age when appearances were everything. Insecurity as ubiquitous as a walked batter. Or a foul ball. Clare also knew that Brooke had lately developed a wicked case of eco-anxiety. Brooke often conjectured aloud about, what if the earth heats to the point where it catches fire or what if the coast lines flood over and we all drown or even freeze to death in an ice age. All of that environmental stuff along with her persistent fear of home invasions had made her little sister somewhat of a nervous wreck. Poor kid… At least she wasn’t saddled with the expectation of somehow saving and redeeming this embattled world. Indigo Like Me. Lol. Do they even realize the fallout I felt from the whole indigo experience? Or the cultural trend to raise kids and students with oodles of self-esteem, that sense of being special? Fall down go boom. That’s all I have to say. Clare looked at her mother. Their mom was still tense and moody, an emotional hang over that Clare suspected might last for days. She sat stiff and silent in the passenger seat of their SUV. Their dad drove. Pulling into the parking lot next to the field itself, they scrambled out. Then they headed for the stands. Brooke went and joined her little league team, The Salt Queens, in their dug out. The stands were pretty much full by the time they got there. Clare ended up having to sit directly behind her parents who managed to huddle together on the hard wooden bench. Sipping her coffee and with her note pad on her lap, Clare settled in for the game. It was supper hour. The sun was bright and eye level. Clouds decorated the sky in a curl of calligraphy. Though Regina was notoriously windy, there wasn’t any this late afternoon. Many in the stands had arrived with take-out drinks and meals. Subs and to-go coffee especially. Clare saw that the fans seemed as concerned about eating and updating their phones as they did about the actual game. It did have a social feel though, showing up for one’s child or grandchild’s sake as to be expected. Still, there was a generalized sense of comradery that appealed to Clare. She was glad to be outdoors and in the sun. Academic life afforded her few opportunities like this. Sometimes she hardly saw the light of day. It felt like a luxury to be leisurely sipping coffee, kicking back for a glorious evening of nothingness. Who knows, maybe I’ll even get inspired to jot a few things down… Besides, the whole baseball thing is so important to Brooke. I should show her some support. God knows, I haven’t exactly been the best older sister. But then Clare saw her mother’s strained expression as she turned towards her father. Clare sat directly behind them so was privy to all they said or did. “But you don’t understand Gary,” she choked. He stared straight ahead. Clare saw the cords in her mother’s neck stick out like tightened pins. “I’m on probationary status now. The next time uhhh-“ “Would’ja lookit that! They’re starting that Graves girl as pitcher. I knew it,” he scoffed. Clare glanced to the baseball field ahead and saw Gigi Graves at the pitcher’s mound. Aww, poor Brooke. She wanted to be the starter pitcher so bad. Then the game began. “So typical. The coach’s kid gets to start. Watch she’ll probably pitch the whole game. And who says little league isn’t political? Hah!” Throwing his hands up in the air, he fumed. Catching a sideways glimpse of her dad’s face, his features were pinched, sharp. Boy, he’s mad, Clare knew. She knew that he had been a washout in sports except for as a goalie in hockey. Lisa Simpson style. As the first batter trotted up to the mound, Clare tapped her pen on her notepad absently. The batter immediately hit a grounder and got to second base. Fans clapped, whistled. Turning to her husband again, Clare watched her mother tug on his sleeve and hold up a damning text to him. “Just read what my supervisor sent to me. Just read it,” she beseeched him. “Lorraine, I’m trying to concentrate on the game. We can talk about this later.” Clare saw her mother shrink from him. Then she watched her mother become absorbed on her phone. The next batter dragged both her feet and the bat on her way to the mound almost like she had a grudge against the ground. On the first pitch, she slugged the ball and hit a home run. The stands erupted. “Did’ja see that! Brooke wouldn’t have opened like that.” He shook his head. Stamped his foot. “I oughta go over there and tell Coach Graves what I think of him.” Clare watched her mom. Teary eyed and pleading, with her long, thin, very beautiful neck tightening once again into those ghastly cords, she leaned over and said, “For God’s sake Gary this is more important than a ball game. I could be losing my job.” Clare continued to tap on her note pad. She realized that she was watching her parents more than the ball game. But what can I do? Mom seems so upset. Why doesn’t he just hear her out? She would probably be less dramatic if he would just give her the floor. As the next batter got walked to first base, her dad exclaimed, “Hmphff! It reminds me of what they did to me in hockey. They’d start someone else in net just because his dad was the coach and his uncle was the ref.” Once more, he threw up his hands in disgust. Clare was somewhat surprised by his outburst. Being a mild mannered geneticist by day, she had never suspected he would transform into the likes of a baseball dad at a little league game. Was that even a thing? I thought it was like tennis dad and hockey mom for that matter. But she saw how his thin, English lips were puffed and protruding in mild outrage. Overhead, more clouds filled a darkening sky. The curlicues and wisps of earlier were now being replaced by a solid, dark grey shield. Another batter, a tall loping redhead, made her way to the mound. She was promptly walked. A polite patter of clapping ensued. With her jaw clenched in anger, her mother said, “If it was you losing your job now, it would be a different story!” He threw her a dirty look. Clare listened as her parents became sidetracked by an argument over who put more into their professional lives, which then led to their marriage, and finally the relationship itself. Like so many of their disputes, the narrative was endless and circular in nature like the serpent swallowing its tail. Fuck, they’re really going at it. She sipped her coffee and jotted a few points into her note pad. She had lost interest in the game like a meal that had soured upon pulling a hair from it. But then her dad abruptly stopped arguing. He returned his attention to the game. “Poor Brooke, sitting on the bench as ever,” he loudly lamented. “C’mon Gary, it’s just a game. This is real life,” Her mother said, thrusting the cell phone in his face again. “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” he retorted. Her mother broke into tears. She began to quietly cry as she sat there. With her shoulders slightly slumped, she appeared defeated. Seeing others in the stands turn to look at her with long, questioning faces, it didn’t faze her one bit. But her dad turned and said, his voice lowered. “Lorraine, people are looking…even Karen Graves y’know, the Coach’s wife.” “Oh, who cares!” her mother snapped back. “She spent the eighties going to the bar with no panties on. Plus they’ve had that same dead Chev up on cinderblocks in their driveway for God knows how long.” Clare watched her dad flush red and straighten back into his seat. But then The Salt Kings managed to catch two pop balls, one after the other. The beleaguered Salt Kings were now one out away from closing this brutal inning. The score was already 3-0 for The Rockets. But Clare no longer cared. She watched her mother’s meltdown with a painful clarity. In the past, Clare would have thought that her mother constantly posed as a victim, perhaps even in hopes of being saved or rescued. But now Clare recognized her mother’s vulnerability, fragile as if her spine was fashioned out of stained glass rather than bone. It’s just her anxious nature. That’s all. Besides, who did mom ever have to hear her or help her with her nervous sensitivity? Dad didn’t. Nor did I. It was then that an even more painful realization seized Clare. She then understood how hard she had been on her mother. And a grief and a guilt that defied reason struck, that wound all about her in its dark, painful logic, tightened her in its coils. For the serpent had entered the baseball field just like it did the garden. Could she send it away? As she pondered the situation, only grimmer clarification arose. Even grandma was no help, with her miserable, paranoid nature, always believing others were stealing from her, talking about her or watching her. She lived mainly shut in, apart from the family and most of society for that matter. And when she wasn’t accusing others of misdeeds, she was simply a hypochondriac cluster of aches and pains. She puffed on cigarettes, complained to the wall. She usually had more than one ash tray lit up. She lived alone with her bird. They argued steady with one another. Mother snake to the masses. The old grand dame herself. There had been no support for her mom there. Not ever. Have I just been a luftmensch to mom, the whole family even? (Another great word to add to my collection). What with my pretensions towards writing and all. Should this starving artist just leave the nest and finally give everyone a break? I’m beginning to feel like a pain in the neck luftmensch, that’s for certain. Food for thought… Clare looked about. The sky had darkened. A light wind emerged seemingly from nowhere. The weather was beginning to change. Clare looked towards the heavens for answers. Her mom’s body was heaving, with deep heavy sobs. Others in the stands began to murmur. They began to huddle under hoodies, slip their hands in their pockets and zip up their jackets. Clare crumpled the empty cardboard cup in her hand. Seeing a garbage can off to the side of the stands, she tossed it in. Glancing at her mother who wept, Clare had the sudden urge to embrace her, comfort her. But it wasn’t physically possible right then. So, she just stared at the angel in ruins, beauty in ashes, fallen queen. Clare then understood that apart from her excesses, she had been a good mother. She kept us in food after all, hadn’t she? I’m not dead or in jail. And as far as that whole indigo child thing went, that was just the product of a high strung, young woman who only dreamt and hoped the best for her child and creation itself. She meant no harm. She even meant well, like the old saying goes. She was just in her “earth mother”, hippy dippy period as mom likes to explain it. Back when she used to dress in a folky way, Birkenstocks and bangles and tie-dye skirts, her signature. That’s all. Besides, hadn’t the new age of Aquarius done a number on us all? Clare knew it had been troubling to her. And she balked at her peer’s interest in drugs and occultism. Clare recalled her mom telling her about the bliss of an uninterrupted bath. Or being able to squat on the toilet in peace without someone pounding on the door. Had to always lock myself into the bathroom to keep you and the cats and everybody out, she quipped one time. Ah, the life of a mother… Most damning of all, however, was that oft repeated low point her mom liked to recount. It was how once in the earliest days of their marriage, when Clare was new born and they were very broke and starting out. The fridge was nearly empty one morning, sans milk. And out of sheer desperation she squirted breast milk into her cup of coffee. Yet, when things were better, she saved Brooke’s umbilical cord blood in a tissue bank, set aside funds for their future. She worked. Did it all. Gardened. Blended the vegetables they refused to eat, thinly disguising them in other food stuffs. Hauled them off to swimming and skating lessons even as they howled in protest. Everything. Maybe I should be mad at the wider culture and not mom? The feminism that forced her into a corner of professionalism that was strangling her and breaking her spirit? Yes, the politically correct culture that was hard on the family, that mocked and derided the institution every chance that it got. On TV, in both academia and the government, everywhere these days, that venomous agenda. Fathers especially. But mothers too. So, sad, intentionally bad! Rain began to lightly fall. Thrusting her hand out palm side up, Clare felt it begin to spit. “Rain,” someone groaned. On the field, everyone seemed to freeze in recognition of the sudden change in the weather. Then the sky revolted, burst. It had darkened overhead like it was protesting the coming night. Rain fell in heavy, apocalyptic waves, like sheets of nails pouring down. Shouts sounded. The game was immediately called. The stands, the field and dug outs emptied. Everyone ran to the parking lot and drove off. With the windshield wipers pounding a steady, scraping rhythm, they drove. Inside their SUV, Clare could smell that damp, porous, rain odour. “Rain always has to ruin everything,” their mom groaned. “Yeah, it sucks,” Brooke agreed. Brooke was panting beside Clare. Rain was trickling off the end of her aquiline nose. They drove home. As they pulled into the driveway, they clambered to get into the safety of their house. Spying Clare’s notepad left on the seat, Brooke said to her sister, “Don’t you want your book?” Clare glanced at it lying abandoned. Its neon green colour was darkened by rain drops. But it whispered of misappropriation and shouted of misunderstanding. Private family fodder, that should perhaps be held in a different, gentler regard. She paused. Blinked. “Fuck that thing,” Clare said. Then Clare held the car door open for her mom. She lifted her jean jacket high to shield her mom as much as possible from the rain. They both hurried inside.
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G. Roe Upshaw is an orchardist and writer by passion, neither by occupation. If he were to die the instant he hit send on this email, he would be succeeded by: an anxiety-ridden dog, a forgettable cat, a formidable collection of basketball cards, and a small forest of spindly, fruitless apple trees. Parable of a Superior Man |
Katherine Lewis was born in a small coastal town in New England. With a BFA from NYU for Film & TV Production and an MFA from USC for Writing for Screen & TV, Katherine lives in Los Angeles and works in the entertainment industry in children's media. She is co-author of the upcoming book Convergence: Incarnation, the first in a planned series. www.theconvergencebooks.com |
A Ghost Story
The last time I kept a journal, I was a little kid. Every entry began with “Dear Diary” because well, wasn’t that what you were supposed to do?
I found those diaries a couple years ago cleaning out my childhood bedroom. Reading that little girl’s deepest thoughts was cringey. The things she hoped, wished, and begged for.
She wanted things so badly. To be an artist. To make a living by making things. To make her mark on the world. She was sure if she just believed hard enough, it would come true. And where did it get her?
In debt, for starters, after going to an expensive art school. That debt forced her to take a job that seemed art-adjacent- working at an ad firm. It was the only way to support herself while she did her art on the side. Soon, she became consumed by that job- the long hours, the hard work. She told herself that she still had time to be an artist. If she just kept trying. Just kept believing.
I’m so much happier now that I’ve let all that go. It’s allowed me to have the life I never realized I wanted. Married. First baby on the way. Living in our own home.
Greg has been a gift. He changed my whole life, even though he wasn’t the kind of guy I saw myself being with. One of those finance guys with a 401K, stock options, and a set of custom-made golf clubs. Sensible. Stable. Solid.
When I got pregnant, he didn’t even hesitate to propose. Where most guys would flee or fumble over what to do, Greg stood his ground and committed himself to me. To us. I couldn’t turn that down.
And I love Greg. Even if he wasn’t what I was expecting. Love is never what you thought it would be, right?
It’s been an adjustment- getting pregnant and then getting married and then getting this new place. But I’m glad to be rid of all the things I had to give up. A dead-end job that I never even wanted in the first place. An overpriced and cramped apartment. Dating apps filled with trashy guys who use you then ghost you (I’ve never fully understood that term- because when guys have disappeared on me, I ended up feeling like the one who didn’t exist anymore).
It’s the end of the first trimester- we’ve just started telling people. I decided I don’t want to know the gender. I can’t even say why exactly. I just want to be surprised.
Greg wasn’t on the same page. He’s a planner- he wants to know everything. So, we agreed- he’ll know the gender, and I won’t. Although now, whenever we’re trying to make a decision together, he often will jokingly threaten to tell me the gender of the baby, if I don’t agree with what he wants to do. He’s got a weird sense of humor.
Anyway, his company just absorbed another, so he’s spending most of his time at the office. But it’s actually been good for us. We seem to get along better, not spending a lot of time with each other.
But it has given me a lot of time to myself, which is new to me. I’m used to constantly being busy.
I’ve been trying to focus on getting our new house in order. Greg bought this place for us and our family. It’s one of those pre-designed models in one of those pre-designed neighborhoods. I should be more grateful, but we’ve been here for almost a month, and to be honest, I hate it.
I hated it from the moment Greg brought me here. When I walked into the house for the first time, my stomach dropped. It seems so generic, with its light pastel color scheme, laminate floors, and marble counters, but I knew immediately something was just… off. A terrible feeling crept inside of me that made me feel small and unwelcome.
But I put on a big smile for Greg. It would’ve been awful to tell him my real feelings.
I thought that by now, it would feel more like home. But that feeling of unwelcome has only grown in the time we’ve lived here.
If it was just a “feeling,” it might be easier to ignore. But then, I’ve been having those dreams. They started from the first night we spent here. When I’ve had nightmares in the past, I could usually remember bits and pieces from them.
But these are so intense, they jar me awake, and when I try to remember them, I can only ever pinpoint a single detail. A bright, searing light. A piercing scream. The sensation of being held in place by an invisible force.
Between the feeling of dread when I’m awake and the horror I experience when I’m asleep, it’s hard not to feel that there’s something in this house telling me that I’m a stranger intruding on a life that I don’t belong in. Something that wants me gone.
But that’s not exactly a thought that’s good to dwell on. I see how crazy it seems, now that it’s written down on the page.
I read somewhere that nightmares are normal during pregnancy, so that’s probably all it is. Greg would say the same thing, if he knew. I haven’t told him about the dreams, the same way I didn’t tell him about my feelings about the house.
He would just laugh at me. He doesn’t even believe in the idea of luck- there’s no way he’d believe my fear of the house and the dreams meant anything other than I was overly hormonal.
I think that’s what I appreciate the most about Greg. He’s always so logical and reasonable. Whereas I tend to react impulsively and worry all the time. I’m sure that without him, I would go crazy for sure.
If Greg knew about this journal, he would scoff at it. And I can’t blame him- I’m not really sure what the point of it is.
Mostly it’s a way to pass the time. Plus, Sharon told me that she kept a diary during her pregnancy with Greg, and it’s one of her most treasured possessions.
Having Sharon as my mother-in-law has been great. Yes, she can be a lot, but she means well. She was a stay-at-home mom, raising Greg and taking care of Greg’s dad, who passed away a few years ago from heart failure.
When I was having doubts about quitting my job, Sharon helped me realize that it was a perfectly okay thing to do. She said there was nothing wrong with choosing to be a full-time mom, and that it would be the most important job I ever have.
My mom wasn’t as understanding. She saw me quitting my job as a waste of everything I had worked for up to that point. Not only that, she told me that I wasn’t being smart- what if things didn’t work out with Greg? I would be broke- unable to support myself and the baby.
When she got pregnant with me, it wasn’t planned. She married my dad after that, but they were too young to really understand the decision they were making. They got divorced a few years later, with my dad just kind of blipping off the radar after that. My mom worked 60 hours a week to support us.
She retired recently though and got remarried. Now she spends her time at home, helping to raise her new husband’s adolescent daughters. She’s all the way across the country, so hasn’t been able to visit the new house yet. But she did fly in for our wedding.
I almost wish she hadn’t come. In the brief moment we were alone together, I caught her staring at me.
When I asked her what she was thinking, she just blinked and said, “It’s just funny, that’s all…” and trailed off.
We haven’t spoken very much since then. She sends packages every so often, with things for the baby. So that’s nice, I guess.
I think that’s why I’ve grown so close with Sharon. She’s the kind of mom that I want to be. So, if she kept a diary, then what’s the harm in me doing the same?
But it’ll be something I don’t share with Greg. Knowing him, he’ll want to read it. He can’t stand the feeling that there are things he doesn’t know. About me. About anything, really.
And honestly, it’ll be nice to have something that’s just mine again. Even something small like this.
May 15th
I never thought time could go by so fast, especially when you have too much of it.
I’ve been going to doctor’s appointments. Grocery shopping. Prenatal yoga. Reading parenting books. Joining mommy blogs and support groups. Researching private schools (well reading the research Greg and Sharon have done about private schools).
Being pregnant is still something I can’t wrap my brain around. There’s a small human growing inside of me. I’m still me, but I’m now also something else. Somehow new and old, at the same time. There’s something primeval about it- the most notable, primal side effect being the ceaseless vomiting.
You’d think with all the medical advancements we’ve made, they could cure morning sickness for pregnant women.
Whenever it happens, Greg is sure to tell me I’m still the most beautiful woman in the world. But he does make me brush my teeth before he’ll kiss me.
Possibly the strangest thing about being pregnant has been feeling the baby moving around and kicking. So far, it’s only happened when I’m alone, and I haven’t told Greg about it yet. Because… well… when I feel the baby move or kick, it always seems to coincide with something bizarre happening in the house.
The first time I felt the baby jerk in my stomach, the lights flickered, flashing on and off and on and off and on and off until it stopped seconds later. Last week, I felt a kick just as I heard soft footsteps creaking the floorboards in the room above me. When I went upstairs, no one was there, and the baby’s kicks subsided.
The last time it happened, I had been reaching for my phone, but found it wasn’t where I had just set it down. When I eventually found it, it was on top of the fridge, even though I hadn’t been in the kitchen in hours.
Sometimes, in those moments, I wonder if the baby is trying to tell me something. But then, sense returns to me, and I think of what Greg would say about all of this. Not that I would ever tell him about these strange little occurrences. He’d think I was crazy for sure.
Not to mention the fact that it’s too early in my pregnancy for the baby to be moving and kicking at all.
Even if I’m imagining these things, they’ve really scared me. It makes it a lot harder to be alone for so long in a place when you’re on edge at all times, just waiting for the next bout of strangeness to happen.
I realized that even if I didn’t want to tell Greg, I could still confide in someone else. I went through the contact list on my phone, pausing on names of friends who I would’ve called months ago. If they didn’t believe what I was saying, they still would have enjoyed the story for what it was worth. And then we could’ve laughed it off and caught up- swapped funny anecdotes, gossiped about mutual enemies, made plans to see each other in person.
Ever since I got married and moved out of the city, I’ve fallen out of contact with almost everyone. Or at least, my friends seem to be too busy in their lives to ever respond. I remember what that was like- being so consumed in my job and personal life that anyone who wasn’t in my immediate vicinity just receded to the background. So, in a way, I can’t blame them.
But in another way, I can’t help but feel that it’s intentional. I always sensed that they didn’t like Greg. Whenever I invited Greg out to dinner with my friends, it just felt like whenever Greg spoke, there was a long pause and then someone would quickly change the subject. Throughout the night, everyone’s eyes avoided mine and Greg’s.
They all came to the wedding, of course. But there was a forced quality to their smiles and congratulations. I kept catching them trading looks with each other, with raised eyebrows and subtle smirks.
After that, my text messages went unreturned. My phone calls went to voicemail.
But I’m sure they’re just busy.
It doesn’t matter though. I’m happier keeping all of this to myself.
May 30th
Greg and I got into our first big fight last week.
I decided to surprise Greg by decorating our baby’s nursery. It was actually a pretty fun project. I picked out the paint, the crib, the rest of the furniture.
I even painted a mural on one of the walls and made the baby a mobile to hang over the crib. It’s the most artistic work I’ve done in months, and it felt really good.
Since I don’t know the gender, I did my best to keep everything neutral- to make sure it would be good for a boy or a girl. In my opinion, a baby is a baby- they won’t notice if their room is pink or blue anyway. So, what’s the difference?
When I had finished, I showed it to Greg, opening the door with a flourish and a “TA-DA!”.
He was furious.
At first, I thought he was joking. I can never tell when he’s joking.
But he was serious. He couldn’t believe I had made all of these decisions without him. Hadn’t even consulted him about the paint color or researched what kind of mobile would be most beneficial to our baby’s development. I had just picked these things on a whim.
Not to mention the fact that I didn’t even know if the baby was a boy or a girl, so how could I know what was right for the room?
I tried to state my case, explain my intentions and the decisions I had made. Even pointed out the art I had done myself to prove I had put thought and care into everything.
He stormed out of the room and slept in the guest bedroom.
I was heartbroken. I hadn’t meant to upset him so much. I was only trying to do something for him in return for all he’s done for me.
When I talked to Sharon about it the next day, she tried to help smooth things over. She explained to me that Greg has always wanted a family. He’s always had a specific image of what his life would be like, with a wife and kids. And so, it wasn’t easy for him to have someone else try to step in and replace what that image is.
She asked me what I had always dreamed of- how I had pictured my future family. But I couldn’t answer. The truth is- I never imagined myself getting married and having a kid. I admitted this to Sharon, and there was a long pause on the other end. I had to ask her if she was still there.
She told me that if it didn’t mean as much to me, what was wrong with allowing Greg to have a say in the nursery? I didn’t know how to answer. Did this mean more to Greg than it did to me? He had certainly gotten more upset than I ever would have if he had surprised me with a nursery.
Sharon also reminded me that it might be better for Greg to be the one to design the nursery, since he knew the gender of the baby.
I relented. When Greg came home from work, I told him he could redo the nursery however he wanted. He was so happy and relieved. It turns out he had already come up with a plan for the room with Sharon and had really been looking forward to putting it together.
The plan was based around the gender of the baby though, so unless I wanted to know the gender, I wouldn’t be able to help. So, I guess I won’t see the baby’s nursery until the baby is born.
He’s getting started on it this weekend. I asked if we could at least keep the mural or the mobile I had made, but he’s not sure if they’ll go with the theme. We can talk about it later.
Maybe this is what being married is. Compromising, even when it doesn’t feel good.
June 9th
I think I’ve spent more time throwing up than not, during this pregnancy. The doctor tells me it’s normal. Some women get morning sickness worse than others, but to just follow the diet regimen and try to relax. He thinks it might be stress-induced.
Sharon can’t understand why I’m throwing up so much- she wants me to get a second opinion. She didn’t have morning sickness at all when she was pregnant. It can’t be normal- there must be something I’m doing that’s causing it. Or at least that’s what she tells me almost every day.
Maybe she’s right. But I’m following all the instructions from the doctor and the parenting books and the mommy blogs as closely as I can.
One mom advised me to ask my mom about her pregnancy, to see if she was as sick as I am- but she can’t remember. The only thing she could tell me was that “it sounds like my body doesn’t like being pregnant.”
Sometimes, when I’m on the bathroom floor, hanging over the toilet, about to puke up everything inside of me, I think I see someone standing just behind me in the reflection of the water. But it’s too distorted to tell. And then my eyes fill up with tears, and I’m vomiting. In that moment, it feels as if my own life is leaving me, piece by piece.
Like I have to be weaker for the baby to be stronger.
And on that note, I have to go throw up again.
June 15th
I just had another dream. I can barely stop shaking to be able to write, but I felt like writing it down might help me remember.
It’s so hard to think- I can feel it slipping from my mind.
The only detail I can remember is the feeling of my legs going to jelly and collapsing underneath me. When I woke up, I found myself on the floor. Somehow, I had fallen out of bed.
Greg was still asleep though- he sleeps like a rock.
I don’t understand these dreams. How can they feel so intense that I throw myself out of bed, and yet, I can’t remember anything about them?
What was it that made my legs give out from under me?
I should get back to bed. Greg might sleep deeply, but I don’t want to risk him waking up and finding me down here, writing in my journal. It’s too much to explain.
June 17th
I’m having a baby.
I’m going to be a mom.
I’m going to be a mother.
I needed to see if the words looked as strange written down as they seem in my head.
They do.
June 30th
The good news is, the vomiting has lessened, finally. Those mommy bloggers know their stuff. I switched to organic supplements. Started meditating. And have limited my time spent on the phone, which includes cutting back on my conversations with Sharon.
Sharon understood, after I sent her the blog for her to read herself.
All the changes I’ve made make me feel much calmer, more like myself again.
The bad news is, Greg knows that I think the house is haunted.
Things have been getting stranger here. I know how this is going to sound, but I swear, I’m not making it up.
Sometimes, when it’s quiet, I think I hear a woman laughing. Not an amused or happy laugh. But the kind of mocking laugh that you’d hear when you’re gossiping with your friends about someone you hate.
I’ll hear the laugh when Greg texts me, saying he’s going to be home late.
Or when I’m trying to learn a new recipe that I saw on a mommy blog, but it’s not turning out at all like the pictures.
Or when I’m reading a book that Sharon recommended- and then bought and had delivered to the house.
I can feel the baby moving around when the laughing happens, like it’s responding to it as well.
I’ve tried looking around for the source of the laugh, trying to find a way to explain it. The laugh always sounds so close. Like it’s a woman spying on me from the other room, and being so disgusted by what she sees, she can’t help but laugh and blow her cover.
If it was just hearing the woman laugh, that’d be one thing. But…
I’m not crazy. I know I’m not crazy. This is what has been happening, and it’s okay for me to write it down here. Of all places.
Okay… I’ve been seeing a woman in the house.
Well, I guess I haven’t been seeing a woman, but just a figure. The shape of a person with long hair. I have just connected it with the woman’s laugh I’ve been hearing.
I’ve never seen the Woman (as I’ve come to call her) fully. She always seems to slip away, before I can make out anything clearly. I’ll see her out of the corner of my eye. When I turn, she’s already slipped into the next room. I hurry to follow, but I’m never in time and find the room empty. I’ll feel her right behind me, but when I spin to catch sight of her, there’s no one. Sometimes, I find myself turning around in circles, sure if I just keep trying, I’ll be able to lay eyes on her. When I go out to get the mail or take a walk around the neighborhood, I’ll see her peering out the window at me, watching my every step until I return.
But the worst is at night. I’ll be woken up by the baby stirring inside of me to find the Woman standing over me. We stare at each other for a moment- I won’t be able to move or scream or look away. Then the Woman will turn and walk out of the room so casually, it’s as if she’s grown bored with me.
I didn’t know what to do. I was sure this was the entity I had sensed in the house all along. The one that’s always made me feel out of place, like I shouldn’t be here. The one that had been making lights flicker, hiding my things, and causing my baby to move and kick. And now she was showing herself to me. I couldn’t make sense of it.
Still, I didn’t want to tell anyone. And I wasn’t planning to. I never should have said anything. But one day it just slipped out during a conversation with Greg’s mom.
Sharon was telling me about the dangers of screentime when you’re pregnant. I’ve been watching a lot of television during the day. I like to keep it on when I’m home alone- it comforts me.
I made the mistake of relaying this to Sharon the other day, and she’s been lecturing me ever since. She was telling me about how the baby can hear anything I can hear, and it can make all the difference in their future IQ. She was asking me if I wanted the baby to be an idiot, when I heard the Woman’s muffled laugh from just beyond the doorway.
Suddenly, I became so angry. It was like a flash of heat went through me. What made this Woman think she could laugh at me like this? What was so funny about my life that she felt like she could mock me, while hiding herself away? As if it’s fair to judge someone but remain out of sight. And so, I yelled at the Woman to shut up.
The words just came out of me- I couldn’t help it.
Sharon, of course, was shocked. She thought I was talking to her. Couldn’t believe I had the audacity to speak to her that way.
I quickly tried to apologize and explain, having to cover my other ear to block out the sound of the Woman’s hysterical laughter, now rebounding throughout the house.
I told Sharon that I hadn’t been talking to her, and she demanded to know who else was in the house with me. And so, I was forced to come clean. I didn’t feel like I had another choice.
I explained about the house- how I had always felt uncomfortable here. About the moving objects. Hearing the laughter. Seeing the figure.
Sharon was very quiet. I told her I knew it all sounded crazy- if someone told me any of this, I would think they were crazy.
She finally responded, telling me she thinks I just have an overactive imagination. Something that was probably worsened by watching TV all day.
All I could do was agree with her. I promised not to watch TV at all, and to go on more walks outside. Get more exercise and fresh air. Whatever it took to clear my mind. She seemed nullified by this, so I thought I had smoothed things over.
But apparently, I was wrong.
When Greg came home from work, he wanted to talk. Usually, he sticks to a pretty tight routine. Wake up at 5:30am, shower, dress, go to work, work, commute home, eat dinner, do some more work in his home office, then be in bed by 9pm.
So, Greg deviating from his normal schedule to talk (something he hates doing), I thought someone might have died.
But then, he told me his mother had called him at work to tell him about the conversation we had that day. Calling Greg at work was only supposed to be for emergencies, I thought. Or at least, that’s what he told me. He wouldn’t take my call otherwise- even the time my tire blew out on my way back from the grocery store, and I didn’t know what to do. When I tried to get put through to him, his assistant relayed the message back to me that he couldn’t come to the phone, but he had instructed her to help me get in touch with roadside assistance.
So, at first, I couldn’t help but feel annoyed that his mom had been able to get through to him for something so trivial. How was that fair? I’m his wife.
Then, Greg launched into why it was impossible for ghosts to exist and a house to be haunted. He told me about how science just didn’t support those ideas. And neither did common sense. He said he thought his mom was right- maybe I was just watching too much TV. Had maybe seen a scary movie or show, and let it go to my head.
I told him that I knew it all sounded crazy. But that crazy things happened sometimes. It’s not that I want to believe the house is haunted, but I wasn’t making anything up. I would love to find another explanation, but I just haven’t been able to.
But this just upset him. He didn’t understand why I would argue with him about something so ridiculous. But I wasn’t arguing, I thought I was just sharing with him and being honest.
I told him that I thought he should still be able to believe in me, even if he didn’t believe in ghosts.
Greg just looked at me for a long time. His expression was like that of someone who picked up what they thought was an apple and taken a bite but realized they had actually just eaten an onion.
He told me that all this getting worked up couldn’t be good for the baby. And that I have to think not just about myself, but about the baby and him. I have to think and act for all three of us, and that I wasn’t doing that. It was just like the nursery all over again.
After that, he went into his home office for the rest of the night and didn’t come to bed.
In the morning, I tried to talk to him again before he left for work, but he wouldn’t even look at me. Just placed a hand on my stomach and walked out the door.
I felt terrible all day. How could I have let this get so out of hand? Why did I push back so hard on what he was saying? He’s right. Of course, he’s right. The house isn’t haunted. Why couldn’t I just let it go?
When he came home that night, I apologized. Told him he was right about everything, and I was just confused and tired and hormonal. He forgave me. We joked around a bit about me turning into a crazy pregnant lady. Some women got weird cravings, I thought I saw ghosts. He thought that was hilarious. I’ve actually never seen him laugh that much before.
For a moment, as he guffawed, I thought things were going to be okay.
But then, I caught a glimpse of long hair disappearing around a corner, and under Greg’s snorts and giggles, I could just make out her muffled, mocking snicker.
July 6th
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I was when I was young and wondering who this baby will turn out to be.
I asked Greg and his mom what he was like as a child, and they both said he was essentially the same as he is now- focused, hardworking, smart. It seemed like an odd way to describe a kid, but maybe what’s weird to me is normal to others. I’m sure if they knew me as a kid, they’d find me odd as well.
Always playing, always active, a little wild maybe but good-natured. Curious, extremely excitable. Overly emotional. I remember sobbing happily after my mom bought me a violin on Christmas because I had wanted it so badly. I never learned to use it- I didn’t have the attention span- but I loved the possibility of it. I always thought that one day, I would sit down and just learn to play it. But that day never came.
When my mom got remarried, she gave my violin to one of her husband’s daughters. I was furious. She didn’t even ask me. When I confronted her about it, she told me I had left it in her house all this time, what did I expect? If I had wanted it, I should have taken it when I moved out. And besides, now, it’s actually being used- shouldn’t I be happy about that?
But I’m not happy. I know I should be but I’m not. I could buy myself a new violin, but that’s not the point. I don’t want ANY violin- I want my violin. I want the possibility of it. I still remember how excited it made me, how happy.
I wish I could feel that much excitement about anything as an adult.
Especially when I found out I was pregnant. I wasn’t excited- I was terrified. It wasn’t something I planned, and there was so much about it that I couldn’t even grasp. What it meant. What it would do to me.
Same with getting married. It was just something that was happening- a step in the process.
I mean, I am happy. I’m happy. I’m glad to be married and pregnant. Just not as happy as I was getting that violin.
Where did that little girl go who was so moved by something so little, she would be reduced to tears?
But isn’t that what growing up means? That things become less special? Less magical? Less meaningful? When you were a kid, if you just believed in things, wanted them badly enough, clicked your heels three times, you would get everything you ever wanted. I guess, as a girl, I really bought into this. And now, having grown up and lived in the world, I realize that you can only have so much. Maybe the truth of growing up is that you only get what chooses you, and not the other way around.
I used to like to think about that little girl and how she would react to my life as an adult. But now, I think it’s better that she’ll never know. She’d never be able to understand the decisions I’ve had to make. The idea of compromising and sacrificing and doing things you never thought you’d do.
And honestly, seeing my life now would bore her to tears. I think the only thing she’d be interested to know about is that I live in a haunted house. She always loved a ghost story.
July 12th
Instead of watching TV, I decided to try reading out loud to the baby. It’s something Sharon suggested. I thought it’d be fun to read some of my favorites first, as a way to try to- I don’t know- pass on something of myself to the baby.
So today, I was reading one of my absolute, most loved books aloud. When I got to the part with the mad woman hidden in the attic, the baby kicked as hard as ever and a vase filled with flowers shattered.
I cursed out the Woman. I could feel her just beyond my vision, sneering at me.
When I threw out the broken glass, a jagged piece sliced my palm. As I scooped up the ruined flowers to throw out, my thumb was speared by a thorn. Then, I picked up my copy of the book, and the paper cut deeply into my finger, my blood staining the page. I tossed the book into the trash, along with the glass and flowers out of spite.
I washed my hand in the sink and watched my blood flow down the drain.
July 10th
Another dream. This time, I woke up feeling like heat was searing my skin, making it crack and bubble, from the inside out. I was covered in sweat, the sheets soaked through.
It made me flash back to how I used to wet the bed as a kid. Up until an embarrassing age. I used to have to leave slumber parties early, out of fear that I’d wet myself and be humiliated in front of my friends.
My mom would show up, a jacket over her pajamas, to pick me up. The ride home would be quiet, almost unbearably so. In those silences, I filled in the blank noise with all of my worst fears of what she could possibly be thinking of me.
Dreading that quiet ride more than the prospect of humiliation, I finally stayed overnight at a friend’s house. I wanted to prove that I could be a normal girl, doing something that’s so ordinary for a girl to do- having a slumber party with a friend. Whispering and giggling late into the night. Waking up the next morning to a pancake breakfast. Riding home with my mom and telling her what a great time it was and begging to do it again next weekend.
But instead, I woke up that night in a puddle, having soaked through not just my sleeping bag, but the carpet underneath me.
Mortified and crying, I had to wake up my friend, who woke up her parents, who called my mom.
My mom showed up, looking as tired as I’ve ever seen her. She apologized profusely for what I’d done. She cut a check to pay to get the carpet I had ruined professionally cleaned. Seeing the amount, I mentally counted the number of overtime hours she’d have to work to recoup that sum.
I wasn’t invited to any more sleepovers after that.
Greg woke up to me sobbing over my soaked sheets. I must have been incredibly noisy, to be able to rouse him.
Once he helped calm me down, he went and slept in the guest bedroom, having to get a good night’s sleep to get up early for an important meeting at work in the morning.
I had a crazy urge to call my mom, ask her to come rescue me from this mess I’d created.
But instead, I cleaned it up myself. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Just a grown woman who had a terrible dream she couldn’t remember that had caused her to perspire an ungodly amount.
This time, when I heard the Woman, she wasn’t laughing. Instead, I heard her give a deep, exhausted sigh.
July 20th
I feel disfigured. I can’t even look in the mirror anymore without having this overwhelming sense of shame. I’m fat. I’m bloated. I’m always sweating, ever since that last dream. I’m not like how I’m used to seeing me.
Greg assures me that I’m radiant. Even complete strangers tell me I have a pregnant glow, and then touch my stomach without asking as if to steal that glow for themselves.
If I’m glowing, it’s because I’m radioactive. Or at least, that’s how I feel. Like there’s an alien that’s lodged itself inside of me, and its alien DNA is infecting my human genetics. Spreading a virus into my system. Slowly turning me into something else.
There’s only four months to go until I give birth. Thinking about that gives me chills. That this creature will soon want out.
But that’s no way to think, is it? That’s not how a good mother thinks. A good mother would never think of her baby as an alien. Call it a creature. What’s wrong with me? How can I write this down?
I hide this diary now. Finding different nooks and crannies around the house that I’ve only discovered because I’ve spent so much time looking around for them.
I kept it out of sight before, but now I’m determined no one reads these words. Because what would they think if they did?
They would think I was horrible. That I was the worst person ever to be pregnant. That I am the last woman in the world that should be a mother.
I do everything I’m told to do. I am a model patient. My doctor tells me so.
I follow every article that Greg’s mom sends me. I don’t watch TV anymore, like I promised. The only thing I do is listen to classical music and read classic literature out loud, to increase the baby’s intelligence. Or whatever it is that’s supposed to happen.
I report to Sharon what I’m doing to be a good pregnant woman. But according to her, there’s always more I could do. And I agree. I let her tell me what else can be done, and then I do those things.
But then I have these moments. Moments where I feel like maybe I shouldn’t be trying to help this baby get smarter or stronger. It already feels like it knows more than I do. Like it’s controlling me without my being able to stop it. It’s already taken over my life. My habits. My actions. My thoughts.
Lately… I’ve started to wonder if the baby is working with the Woman. If they’ve somehow teamed up so that once the baby is born, I get locked away, and they’ll take over my life for good.
Sometimes I worry that together, the baby and the Woman have possessed me. The baby influencing me from the inside, the Woman from the outside. The baby moves and kicks when it’s time for the Woman to taunt and ridicule me. They’re communicating. They’re planning.
It doesn’t help that I can’t sleep. Or that I won’t sleep, is a better way to put it. I’ve started to think that they conspire while I rest. That if I’m awake, they can’t openly plot my demise. Also, not sleeping means no dreams. No terrible dreams I have no memory of.
I tell no one though. How could I? I’d probably be arrested. Maybe I should be.
Instead, I asked Greg if we can move. That upset him.
It made him think I was ungrateful for the home we have. Why was I having such a hard time adjusting? Hadn’t he given me everything I asked for or didn’t know to ask for but needed? Didn’t I realize how stressful of a time it was for him at work? He didn’t have time to think about finding a new home. He had to focus on being able to afford the mortgage on this one, since he was the sole earner of the family. Not to mention all my student loan debt he’d agreed to take on.
Now, he’s suspicious of me. I’ll catch him staring at me at dinner, as if he’s studying me like he would a broken formula on one of his spreadsheets. He’s trying to figure me out. Solve the problem.
Late the other night, he found me wandering in the basement. I had been trying to discover where the Woman might hide out. If there was a secret corner of the house that she resided in.
I had crawled on top of the washing machine and was peering over the back of it when he called my name. I turned around to find him staring at me in horror. He couldn’t believe I had managed to climb up onto the machine in my condition. What could I possibly be doing that was important enough to risk the baby’s health?
I couldn’t tell him my true motives. Instead, I told him that I thought I heard a mouse. That was a mistake- I should have lied differently. He took it as another slight against the house. Against him. That he would allow his family to live in a place with vermin.
He sat me down and told me firmly that he thought I wasn’t putting the baby first. That instead, I was getting too caught up in my own superficial wants and needs, and that in doing so, I was hurting our child. Didn’t I see that I was causing stress for myself, him, and the baby? Why couldn’t I just be easy? Why was I resisting all of the good things I had?
I began to cry, feeling caught, humiliated, and in some way, relieved. So it wasn’t in my head. Someone else could see how terrible of a mother I was being.
Greg sighed, checking the time. Then he patted my shoulder, saying it was probably just hormones. That the emotion wasn’t real and would pass. He guided me back to bed, where I pretended to fall asleep beside him.
The next day, I got a call from Sharon. She would be coming to stay with us, to help me through the next few months.
She moves in next week.
In a way, I’m glad. Now I don’t have to be as afraid of myself.
But in another way, I’m as trapped as I’ve ever been, with only a week remaining until my prison guard arrives.
July 31st
I’m in the final trimester of this pregnancy, and I have officially become “they” instead of “me.” When Greg or Sharon refer to me, it’s always “they did this today” or “do you two want to go for a walk?” I am myself and this baby. We are two in one body.
It’s become much harder to find time alone to be able to write in here. I am under constant surveillance by either Sharon, Greg, the Woman, or the baby.
The Woman has been especially put off by Greg’s mom. I feel her now like a shadow looming over the house. Like she has expanded from a single figure to an ominous presence. I think she sees Greg’s mom as an obstacle to her conspiracy with the baby.
The baby is also agitated by Greg’s mom’s presence. Sharon will often bend down and try to have conversations with my stomach. I think she talks to my belly more than to my face. The baby moves and squirms whenever she does. Sharon interprets this as a sign of the baby loving her, recognizing her voice, and is encouraged to do this more and more.
But I know the truth. The baby is just trying to get away from the noise but is unable to. This is the first time I’ve felt I could relate to this thing inside of me. I, too, find myself slowly backing away from Sharon as she speaks to me, but am also not able to escape.
Greg and his mom seem thrilled to be reunited in the same house. Sometimes, at dinner, I feel more like an audience than part of the conversation. They discuss Greg’s day, his work, his co-workers, his schedule, his wants, his ambitions. Just during one night at dinner, the two discuss more details about Greg and his life than I’ve ever gotten him to share with me in the entire time we’ve been together.
You’d think an expecting mother would be encouraged by a mother and their child having such a close, enduring bond. But instead, it makes me sick to think that this baby would want to connect with me this way for the rest of my life. That after I give birth to it, I’ll have a constant obligation to this child to soothe and nurture and help. Hasn’t this nine months of letting it live inside of me been enough of my time and effort?
And what about the baby? Shouldn’t it want more out of life than me? My input? My advice? There are so many more people in the world for it to connect with, to seek comfort from. So much more to want than to tell me about how its day was at work over dinner, with their spouse looking on in silence.
And besides, doesn’t this thing know that one day I’ll die? Long before it does? So why get so attached to me, to the point where it will cripple them when I’m gone?
I suddenly remembered one summer afternoon, when I was 15, I lost control of my bike and crashed into a tree. My fingers were ripped up and bleeding. I was crying uncontrollably. I ran inside to my mom, who was getting ready to work a double shift. She just stared at my trembling fingers, watched my tears and blood drip onto the floor and mix together.
She told me, “You’re old enough now to take care of this yourself. There’s $20 on the fridge for you to order dinner. Love you.” Then walked out the door.
I pulled myself together then. Cleaned up my hands. Didn’t even wince when I applied the rubbing alcohol to disinfect my cuts. I washed my face, then ordered myself a pizza.
I was old enough to take care of myself.
As Greg and Sharon laughed at a joke Greg had heard from his co-worker, I excused myself from the table and threw up for the first time in weeks.
August 5th
He said it was an accident, but I know it wasn’t. Because Greg is a terrible liar.
He was slipping on my flip-flops for me, as we prepared to take our routine nightly stroll after dinner. My bump is too big now for me to reach my own feet, and my feet are too swollen to fit into any other shoes. I feel more like I’m a blimp in a parade than a human woman getting some fresh air and exercise.
But as he stood back up, avoiding my eyes and slick with perspiration, he stammered, “I hope our little girl has as pretty feet as you do.”
First of all, my feet are ugly. Even pre-pregnancy, they were calloused and rough, my toes so long, they resemble a small child’s fingers. As I was about to chastise him for lying to me about my feet, I felt the full meaning of what he had actually said hit me.
Our little girl.
The baby was a girl.
I’m having a girl.
I was frozen in fury. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so angry in my life.
He finally looked at me, and it was like he just discovered a wild bear had broken into the house. He backed up slowly, all color draining from his face. He apologized immediately and profusely.
My eyes were so wide, I thought they might pop out of my skull. I just let him continue to apologize, knowing already that I would never forgive him for this moment. This is something I will bring up during every fight, every disagreement, every bitter moment for the rest of our lives. It is a wound that will never heal. A betrayal that can never be undone.
Eventually, he stopped apologizing and got himself together. I was being immature, according to him. And I should show him more grace than this. Why wouldn’t I just say something at least? The silent treatment is for children. Couldn’t I react like a normal mother would, finding out what gender their baby was? I should be thrilled! Crying with joy!
I ripped open the door and stomped away from him, taking my anger out on the ground beneath me. He was smart enough not to come with me, I’ll say that for him.
It was during my walk that I realized Greg wouldn’t have told me on his own. He may not have agreed with my wish to not know the gender of the baby, but I had set a rule for him to follow. Not that he liked for me to tell him what to do, but he did love following rules. And so, he went along with what I wanted.
He wouldn’t have decided to break my rule on his own. He would have needed permission. Someone above me in the hierarchy of his life.
His mother.
I came to a stop, as the realization hit me fully.
Of course. Sharon was tired of having to avoid mentioning the gender of the baby.
She had helped Greg put the finishing touches on the nursery and had been so excited for me to see it, when I reminded her that I couldn’t. She became frustrated, demanding again to know why I didn’t want to know something so crucial about my child.
I tried to explain my thinking to her- that I wanted to be surprised.
But if I’m being honest, I knew that knowing the gender would solidify that the baby wasn’t an it but a who. It would change the way I felt about them- not in a good or bad way. Just in a way I hadn’t felt prepared for.
For Sharon, I’m sure she had her reasons for wanting me to know the gender. In fact, I know that part of the reason was the “surprise” baby shower she was planning for me.
I was lured to a fancy tea service, where friends, old co-workers, and Sharon were suddenly shouting “Surprise!” at me. I looked and saw a giant “IT’S A GIRL!” banner. All of the decorations were princess-themed. All of the presents were pink.
I realized then that the reason she wanted me to know the gender was because me not knowing would have ruined the party.
Looking around at the decorations, at the forced smiles of friends who I hadn’t heard from in months, at the expression of smug anticipation on Sharon’s face, I felt the baby kick. It was the first kick that I didn’t associate with the strangeness going on in the house. I felt like this kick was for me. In response to my anger. In response to my disgust. In response to identifying Greg’s mom as my enemy, finally.
And then I realized, this was my first moment with my little girl.
That was the first moment she felt like mine.
I let this feeling shield me from the baby shower, from the people who only cared about me enough to show up for a party.
I found myself wondering what the Woman would think of all this. I wished she could see all of this happening. Hear my thoughts. That we could sit together and laugh about it.
I felt the baby kick again and knew she wished the same.
August 15th
I think that Sharon has sensed the alliance between my baby and me. She has doubled her efforts to talk to my stomach. But I know that all she’s doing is making my baby like her even less.
Out of Sharon’s earshot, my baby and I laugh about her misguided attempts of bonding. It feels good to have someone to gossip with again.
The Woman has been elusive recently. I find myself looking for her around corners, not because I sense her but because I miss having her around. For as much as she terrified me, the house doesn’t feel the same without her.
Now when my baby kicks and moves, I know it’s not an omen of something to come, it’s a message for me and me alone. Sometimes, I think my baby is telling me that she misses the Woman, too.
I’ve managed to distance myself from Sharon by telling her that we need to rest- the we being my baby and me. She can’t refuse me this and will generally leave me in peace, as I lay in the bedroom. I hear her walking past the closed door from time to time, stopping and listening on the other side of it.
Little does she know, I’ve managed to hide my favorite snacks and activities (including my phone loaded up with streaming apps and a pair of headphones) in the bedroom. My experience keeping this diary hidden has really come in handy.
My baby and I have all the time in the world together now, and it’s the best I’ve felt in months. Years even.
But the closer my baby and I grow, the farther away from Greg I feel.
I can barely even look him in the eyes anymore. His face makes me feel confused. It’s like I’m looking at someone else. Is this what he’s always looked like, and I’m only just noticing?
It’s easier to just not look. He’ll talk to me, and I’ll focus on a point right above his head on the wall behind him.
This would be okay if his voice wasn’t as repellant to me as his face. I can’t tell if it’s his cadence or the register of his vocal cords that assails my ears and sparks such instant irritation within me. I find that I can’t even hear what he says anymore, so consumed am I with resisting the urge to run screaming from the room.
It doesn’t seem to matter though. He doesn’t expect any kind of real response from me. I can usually just get away with nodding and smiling or making some non-committal sound.
Wait… I have to go. I can hear Sharon coming by on one of her rounds. If she offers me any more products to rub on my belly to get rid of stretch marks, I will scream.
August 21st
The Woman came to me last night. I woke up to my baby kicking wildly and found her standing over me, just as she always used to. Instead of being afraid, I was excited to see her. We had so much to catch up on.
She slowly backed out of the room, and I felt like she was beckoning me to follow. I got up quietly and tip toed after her, as fast as I could on my swollen legs.
She took me out the back door and to the shed in the backyard. I thought, was this where she had resided all along? How had I not thought to check out here? This would’ve made a great hiding spot for my diary.
I opened the shed door, thinking there would be something amazing inside that she was trying to show me, but I found nothing but the tools our gardener used once a week when he came to mow the lawn and tend the flowers. There was nothing but shovels, rakes, the lawn mower, and a couple cans of gasoline. The fumes of the gas made me instantly want to breathe them in deeply, but instead, I clamped my hand over my nose, knowing how dangerous that could be for my baby.
I shut the shed door, angry that the Woman had brought me out here for no other reason than to possibly get me high on gas fumes. But the Woman was gone. I could only feel her disappointment in the air.
Clearly, I hadn’t understood something that she wanted me to.
My baby kicked in frustration, as irritated with the Woman as I was.
I made my way back up to bed, rubbing my stomach. She settled back down. I carefully stepped past Sharon’s door, but she sleeps as deeply as her son.
Greg only snored when I got back in bed. Hasn’t stirred at all as I’ve been writing.
Is that really what he looks like when he sleeps? Sleep is supposed to make us all look younger, more peaceful. But Greg’s mouth is wide open, and spit is trickling out of it, his brow scrunched like he’s trying to figure out a difficult equation even in sleep.
This is my husband.
This is the father of my child.
This is my life.
This is the life I’m going to bring my baby into.
August 30th
I’ve been thinking about my last ex lately. Not in the way I used to. Things ended badly between us. I was devastated. I did anything I could think of to get him back but to no avail. Still, I couldn’t stop trying. I wanted him so badly. Or at least, I thought I did.
Thinking of all the other things I’ve wanted in my life, I can’t help picturing myself as a dog chasing cars. Was I really running after these things because of a true purpose, or just spurred after them by some impulse?
I would like to think that wanting to be an artist- wanting to make things that mattered was real. But then, how did it go so wrong? How did I let myself get so wrapped up in distractions? An irrelevant job, an irrelevant ex… then Greg.
Maybe I’ll never know what I really wanted for myself.
What do I want now? The only things I can think of are things I want for my baby, not for myself.
But isn’t this what I was afraid of? That my baby would take over my life entirely? Control my future? That we would be eternally linked?
I am still afraid. I am terrified of her, no matter how close to her I feel now.
But with my due date approaching, I’m also afraid for her. She isn’t even in this world yet, and I feel like I’ve already disappointed her. Like just by allowing her to be created and exist, I’ve already betrayed her.
I wish the Woman would come to me again.
Please, tell me what I should do.
That’s what I want more than anything now-
I want to know what to do.
September 3rd
Today, I got a call from a friend I haven’t heard from since my baby shower. And even then, she had just grimaced in my general direction and took a bunch of selfies with her teacup.
I picked up, mostly out of shock.
Her voice was oddly chipper. I’ve never felt an occasion to use the word chipper until I heard her speak.
I asked her if she needed something. That took her off guard. I think she had expected me to be so grateful that she contacted me, I would overlook the months of her absence.
She told me that she just found out the best news- she was pregnant! She wanted to see if we could get together and talk about what my pregnancy was like so far, if I had any tricks or tips, musts or must-nots.
“We’ll be pregnancy pals!” She chipped. “I hope I’m having a girl, too! They’ll be just like us- besties! Or if it’s a boy, maybe they’ll even get married! Wouldn’t that be great?!”
I guffawed and hung up.
She tried calling back, probably thinking the call had dropped. But I sent her to voicemail, and she got the message.
September 5th
I picked out her name, but I refuse to tell anyone else what it is. Greg and Sharon are furious about it.
They had been brainstorming names out loud, going back and forth, each name worse than the last. Suddenly, I found myself proclaiming that I had already named the baby, but that I wasn’t going to share her name until she was born. They laughed at first, thinking I was joking, but once they realized I was serious, they became angry, saying it wasn’t my decision to make alone.
I told them that she has lived in me for all this time. I know her better than anyone. I know what her name is, but I want her to be the first person I tell it to.
They tried to argue with me but were silenced when I reminded them that conflict isn’t good for the baby, and they needed to put the baby first. They went quiet.
I know that Greg and Sharon think they can outflank me. That when she’s born, they can get to the birth certificate before I do. Make the decision permanent. To name her something that will be completely unlike who she really is. Making her an imposter from the start.
How am I so sure? Well, I saw the nursery finally. It was awful. I have no problems with the color pink, but they used it to the point where I found it offensive. I’ll have to change it at some point, but I don’t know how or when. I’m too huge and swollen to be able to repaint the room or move anything around.
Greg and Sharon avoid me now as much as possible. When they do speak to me, I can barely hear what they’re saying. I simply stare at their mouths blankly, until they give up trying to communicate. I think they might be afraid of me. I’m probably the first and only person to treat them like they’re as unimportant as they truly are.
I spend my days on the couch, watching TV, only sharing my thoughts and insights with my baby. Rubbing my swollen belly and tapping our own brand of morse code to her.
When Sharon sees me watching TV, she tenses but says nothing. I maintain eye contact with her, until she stomps out of the room.
My baby laughs uproariously, with pokes and kicks. I tap her a message in return.
We only have so much time together, just her and I. And I want to make it count.
September 10th
My mom sent me my old diaries. They finally arrived in the mail at my request. I was surprised she had kept them, after being so forceful about giving away my violin.
Funnily enough, when I told my mom that I knew the name of the baby but was waiting to reveal it, she understood. She wants to visit soon.
I read my diaries out loud to my baby. I want her to absorb the knowledge of who I was as a child, so she can be prepared for her own life. Maybe that will keep her from ending up with a life she resents.
She kicks sometimes, and I think it’s her way of telling me she understands a certain thought or feeling I’ve just read out.
But we’re running out of time.
Sometimes I run out of air as I read and begin to sob. In those moments, I can feel the Woman is close by. She is watching.
More than that she is waiting.
We’re both waiting for the same thing.
September 14th
Greg came home from work and slammed the door.
When I asked Greg what was wrong, he was taken aback. I hadn’t addressed him directly in weeks. Mostly, I was just happy to see how upset he was and wanted to know what event had transpired to be grateful for.
Turns out, he didn’t get some promotion he thought he was entitled to. Apparently, he’s been talking about it with Sharon over dinner, but I haven’t listened to anything they’ve been saying.
As Sharon began to lavish Greg in sympathy and unearned praise, I lost interest.
Greg noticed immediately when I tuned out again.
He looked at me and scoffed, “You might want to pay attention to this- this is about your future, too.”
I couldn’t help but crack up. Turns out, Greg is kind of funny.
September 15th
Another dream. Just the smell of burning this time.
The Woman was trying to tell me something. Give me some kind of instruction once again.
I whispered, “I hear you” out loud to the dark bedroom. I saw the figure emerge in the darkness. She brushed a strand of hair out of my face.
And that’s when my water broke.
I haven’t woken anyone. I decided I wanted to write this down first.
I’m scared. More than scared- petrified.
My baby is ready to come out into the world. She’s going to claw and fight her way out of me. It will take my pain and suffering to give her life.
But that’s not what scares me.
What scares me is what comes after.
Coming back to this house with her. Spending a moment in that hell-hole nursery. Being touched and spoken to and judged by Greg and Sharon. By my own mother. By my fake friends.
Even by me.
I love my baby. I know that she is a culmination of who I’ve been. A piece of my body.
But I will ruin her. Not intentionally. Not because that’s what I want.
But because I simply won’t be able to help it.
Because I have been ruined.
I tried to avoid it. I tried to be someone good. Someone who followed their dreams.
But I failed. Look where I’ve ended up.
And this failure has scarred me. It’s turned me into something that I never was and never wanted to be.
I can feel the Woman’s hand on my shoulder. Every contraction I have, she comforts me. She knows what I’m saying is the truth. The harder it hurts, the truer it is.
And I know now who this woman is and what I have to do.
But first, I need to have my baby.
I must do the thing I’ve been dreading, ever since I found out I was pregnant. Possibly even before that. Maybe even from the moment of my own birth.
September 15th
She’s here. She’s in the world now. At 2:00AM on the dot, she came out of me so easily, as if trying to spare me pain. She didn’t totally succeed- it hurt more than I ever thought possible. But I appreciated the effort.
I made sure the doctors and nurses knew what I intended for her name to be before I gave birth. Just in case something happened to me. I even wrote it down for them. They seemed puzzled by this but were willing to take the piece of paper to pacify the screaming woman in labor.
Her name was the first word I spoke to her when I held her in my arms. I held onto her as tightly as I could. I spoke as many words as I could think to tell her- out loud, in my head, tapping them in our code onto her skin. She stared up at me with big eyes, never taking them off of my face.
As I write now, I don’t know where I’ve found the strength. I am so tired. So drained. But there’s something inside of me that won’t let me rest.
The decision I made before I came to the hospital.
I don’t remember how I got myself here. I think I drove but can’t be sure. It was all a blur.
When I arrived, they asked if they should contact the father or anyone I’d want there with me. I told them no, I had to do this alone.
And I’m glad that I did. The idea of Greg or Sharon being present for any of what I just went through would have been mortifying. Intrusive. Inappropriate.
And it wouldn’t have made what I need to do next possible.
The hardest part is already over- tearing myself away from her. I asked for her to be taken to the nursery for the night. The nurses recommended she stay with me in the room, but I insisted. If she stays in this room with me, I would never be able to leave it. To do what I have to do.
I tapped her a silent final message, then she was taken from me.
September 15th
Dear Baby,
I’m writing this to you because I never want you to have to guess what happened. What I was thinking. What made me do what I did. I want you to know everything.
I thought I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone reading this diary. But I want you to. I want you to know who I was, what I felt, how it had been. Because no one ever really tells you how they suffer. Not honestly. Because suffering is not something that’s easily shared. And maybe it’s wrong to want to share this with you. But I think that it’s the only way to protect you. To save you from me and my world.
In the brief moments I spent with you once you were outside of me, you were amazing. You cried when you were born, of course, but then you stopped. You started figuring things out right away. You realized you had done it- you were part of the world, at last.
They took you to the nursery, and the next thing I knew, here I was, back at the house. Your father and grandmother are still asleep. They have no idea you’re alive and in the world.
The Woman is here. My ghost. I used to be afraid of her. My former self. The person who I had killed, so that I could live. She used to hate me. This new being that replaced her. But now, we see each other. We understand each other. We love each other.
But we both will only ever hurt you.
So will the other people in this house.
I know I can’t stop you from being hurt. That this will hurt you. That you will grow up on your own. But I can’t let you follow in my footsteps. That’s the worst possible thing I can think of.
You may find that ironic because of the name I gave you. My name. First, middle, and last. Not your father’s last name. The one I so easily took without truly thinking of the repercussions.
I wanted to give you a piece of me to have always. As a reminder of where you came from and my enduring connection to you, and as a warning.
My worst fear now is that one day- your wedding day- I would look at you and only be able to say “it’s just funny, that’s all…”
Because now I understand what my mom found funny about me accidentally getting pregnant and getting married too soon. And I don’t see the humor in it at all.
So now, here I am. Back in this house.
All this time, it’s only been haunted by me.
I hope that I don’t haunt you. That my spirit dies along with my body. That you have a life free of the past. Mine or anyone else’s.
My dreams finally make sense. The intense light. The scream. Feeling trapped. Legs turning to jelly, too weak to stand. My skin boiling. Choking on smoke. All signs of what was to come.
I realize now what the Woman was showing me. What I was showing myself. The fumes from the shed that filled my senses.
Please know, I wasn’t alone when I left this Earth. I don’t mean because I’m with your father and grandmother- they’re still peacefully asleep and unaware. I will be with the Woman. We will embrace as one, before being overtaken.
I have to go now. As much as it pains me to tear myself away. The smell of the gas is making me lightheaded.
I’m going to put this diary somewhere safe. Somewhere it will be found- not by the flames, but by you. Some day.
I just have two more things to say to you.
I’m sorry. I love you.
My little girl.
Love always,
Mom
Silvia is a previously unpublished writer who has spent most of her life in Perth, Western Australia but has been living in Melbourne for the last 7 years. From the very first primary school book reading club, she has always been obsessed with all things creative writing and reading, but has only just found the opportunity and courage to begin writing more seriously in current times. Inspired by her recent year off to travel the world, she is enjoying the many inspirations and finally putting ‘pen to paper’. |
Fragments
She would check that the bedroom door was locked at least three times and then peer into the jewellery case momentarily before closing the lid. Seventy six tablets sat in that case now, like little white pebbles neatly piled around a makeshift grave. She admired them in their case like a young child would with their prized toy collection.
Finally, she would set her alarm for the next morning, turn off her nightlight, and clamber into bed. She rested her weary head on the downy pillow, as she stared up at the peeling white paint on the ceiling for a few minutes. She would close her eyes and take one big, long, inhale. It was followed by a slow intentional exhale, and then she would repeat.
She visualised the secret vault hidden deep inside her mind. It had locked within it her collection of memories, her life experiences that she had stashed away from the rest of the world. It always smelt damp in there, and she could almost hear the dripping of a leaky pipe echoing somewhere in the distance. She clasped her fingers tightly around the handle of the vault door and pushed it open with a heavy creaking sound. The shelves were lined with little gold cases, glittering in the dimly lit room, daring to be opened.
Each night she would walk around the vault, her hand gently brushing past the cases until it finally came to rest on a single gold box. Upon opening, a memory would replay before her like a dream, and just as quickly as it had appeared, it would suddenly drift away, forgotten forever as most dreams are. She watched the box dissolve before her, a trail of gold dust floating away gently and slowly out of view, like a lost balloon catching a soft breeze. The following night, her eyes would always linger at the space where there had been a gold box the night before.
⸎⸎⸎
Rain droplets slowly trickled down the window, coalescing into bigger drops, creating more momentum and speed until they quickly slid away from view. There was no wind and the trees stood stoic while the rain showered down. I sat by the bay window, arms wrapped around my legs and curled up into a tight ball. My face pressed up against the glass, and I could feel the chill from outside. Little fog clouds formed on the window. I watched the birds outside on the grass, foraging in the rain. They were pretty little birds with red chests, and I could just hear their melodic chirps from inside the house. I imagined what it would be like to be a little red chested bird, to be free. I would spread my little wings, furiously flapping them as I soared into the sky, away from here.
It was not an uncommon event at home, my parents were always fighting. Strained voices to hide frustrations, doors slamming in anger, and that tension filled silence before a complete meltdown. They thought that I would not notice the yelling, that I would not understand their words. They thought that I would not notice through half closed doors mother crouching down on the floor, sweeping up the shards of another broken vase.
Today was different though, because after the usual arguing, father rushed out the door with a hurriedly packed suitcase. He had a bitter scowl on his face, like a wounded animal forced to retreat after losing a battle. The rain drenched his hair, and I could see the dark strands clinging to his face and over his eyes like tangled seaweed. He threw his suitcase in the car and never once looked back. His sudden actions had frightened the birds, and they all fluttered away in a hurry, just like father’s car which sped off, leaving behind only puffs of black smoke and the smell of burnt petrol.
⸎⸎⸎
The brown powdery dust was caked on my hands and even though I tried to wipe them clean on my clothes, I seemed to be spreading the residue and making a mess. Mother looked over at me and exclaimed,
“Moths are not for squashing! Don’t you know they are spirits of people past? You just killed a person!”
After looking wide eyed at mother’s face for a second, I burst into tears. The thought of killing a person and smearing its remains all over myself was just too much for my six year old feelings to comprehend. Before I could stop myself, banshee wails and deep sobs took over as I slumped on the floor. It took mother many minutes of reassurance to convince me to wash my hands and change clothes.
Standing on the plastic steps, reaching over the bathroom sink, I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands. Soap bubbles formed mounds around the sink drain. Staring down at my own little fingers, it was bewildering that no matter how much I rubbed my hands together, that stubborn powdery residue would not leave me.
⸎⸎⸎
The heavens opened up that day, and I couldn’t help thinking to myself- even the world is crying. The rain was pelting down in massive white sheets from the sky. The downpour made the most deafening beating sound as the water struck all the tree leaves before crashing down to the ground. Puddles formed quickly, creating a muddy slosh that covered everyone’s shoes. The water made everything seem to glisten with the wet shine of a newly washed and waxed car.
I stood with mother, huddled under the large black umbrella in my hand, while the roaring sound of the rain almost drowned out the priest’s voice. In a black shift dress with a pink and blue ribbon braided in my hair, I listened to the rhythmic pounding of the raindrops around me. Intently I watched the rippling effect each raindrop left on the puddles in front of me. They created a symphony of imprints on the surface, rebounding quickly and then barely disappearing before another raindrop took its place.
Finally, I made myself look at the much too small coffin, with its delicate gold furnishings and solid wooden frame. I watched it being slowly lowered into the ground while mother held my hand tightly and quietly sobbed.
I refused to shed a single tear as the memory of Belle entered my mind. I remembered the first time I looked upon her face, holding her tiny form as she looked back at me through half squinted eyes. I cradled her, laughing lovingly. We had shared our first magical moment together. I knew then that I would love and care for this human forever.
Now I was standing here in the rain, watching a literal piece of myself being buried in to the ground. Once the service was over, the small gathering started making their way to the car park. I passed mother a handkerchief, knowing that she would be worried about her make-up running.
Thinking this short walk would be occupied by a mournful silence, I was surprised to find the family were all full of gossip. They were busy disapproving people’s outfit choices, weight gains and marriage break downs. Their voices filled with excitement and hands animatedly waved around as they nattered. I watched my muddied shoes leave imprints in the wet grass as I played with the ribbon in my hair.
⸎⸎⸎
The smell of moth balls and Chanel No. 5 hit my nostrils as I entered her closet. I tried to hold my breath for as long as I could, before taking small sharp inhales through my mouth. I glanced at my watch again. Frantically I opened each drawer. I resisted the urge to rifle manically, knowing she would notice if even one blouse was left askew. Mother was at the grocery store, but it wouldn’t be long until she arrived home.
It had to be here, hidden in the dark recesses of her closet. It occupied my mind so much; I could almost see what it would look like. An old, slightly tattered shoe box, sitting carefully tucked away under some clothes, waiting to be found. It would smell musty but still carry the scent of father’s sweet after shave. In it would contain five years of letters, notes, birthday and Christmas cards. I could imagine opening the cards and reading father’s scrawled writing, the notes filled with his dad jokes and funny illustrations. It happened all the time in the movies-; divorced parents, custody battles, and boxes of hidden correspondence. This was the last corner of the house that hadn’t been searched, it had to be here.
Suddenly there was a gentle thud of a car door closing. I startled and almost jammed my finger in the drawer as I shoved it shut. Turning off the light and running out of the closet, my sleeve wiped my wet cheeks as I raced back to the couch.
⸎⸎⸎
The sun was scorching down on the quadrangle as teens swarmed out of their classrooms and formed their usual little cliques out on the grass. Laughter and shouts filled the air. I sat, as usual on a small bench tucked away in the corner of the quadrangle, under the shade of an enormous oak tree. I nibbled on my sandwich with one hand, my latest read in the other. Crumbs fell onto my lap. The boisterous sounds of mirth and sweltering heat made it difficult to concentrate on the pages.
School had a masterful way of highlighting my inability to connect with others. I always felt I was underwater, watching everybody above me. The water weighed me down, making my movements slow and difficult, sounds were permanently muffled. An invisible barrier of water separated me from the rest of the world.
With my eyes glued to my book, I felt conscious of people’s eyes on me. Hushed whispers and stifled snickers echoed in the background. My cheeks felt flushed. My heart was pounding. When the wailing siren finally interrupted my thoughts, I let out a silent sigh of relief, as I stuffed my book back into my bag and trudged to my next class.
⸎⸎⸎
It felt like my ears were blocked with water after a long day of swimming, every inch of my body felt a heavy fatigue that I had never experienced before. Muddled thoughts were running through my mind. With the blaring white lights in the background, I could see the woman’s lips moving, her mouth forming words, words that were being spoken to me. It all sounded like a symphony of white noise though, and as I strained my ears to try and make out the words, I realised there was a pile of pamphlets in my hands. I looked down at the top pamphlet which had written on the front page in dainty cursive font; Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Immediately Belle’s expressionless face came into focus and it felt as though someone had flicked a switch, violently returning the memories from the last few hours.
The woman in front of me was a nurse, empathising and discussing the information in the pamphlets. She was sincerely recommending the grief support group for parents who had lost children through SIDS. An image entered my mind, sitting with these people, introducing myself, describing Belle, describing how she came to be traumatically conceived and ripped away from this world shortly after. The hairs on my arms pricked up from the goose bumps as an involuntarily shudder took over my body. Forcing a smile for the woman, I politely thanked her, and turned to mother who was sobbing behind me. We looked at each other for a sincere moment, and she gave a slight nod of the head. Without a word mother reached for her keys and we walked off hand in hand towards the car park.
⸎⸎⸎
Grey clouds loomed in the sky as I sat on the couch with mother. My muscles had settled into the cushions, feeling heavy and relaxed. My fingers expertly flicked from page to page as my eyes quickly scanned the magazine. It was our typical Sunday afternoon. The weekly pile of tabloids sat on the coffee table in front of us. Mother was proudly pointing out celebrity’s outfits as if she had designed the clothes herself. She always finished with- ‘that would never look that good on our bodies’.
Admiring a celebrity’s perfect form was often followed by avid pointing and sighs of disapproval at celebrities who had ‘let themselves go’. Bold captioned letters were used to induce the necessary disgust and repulsion. Mother turned her magazine around towards me until I looked up from mine, and nodded in agreement.
A nature documentary flashed in my mind. A tribe of monkeys sitting around, grooming each other and laughing wildly. This image often entered my mind when the family got together; always full of competitive gossip with their long monkey tails happily waving in the air, and cheeky grins plastered on their faces.
Later, getting out of the shower, I caught my reflection in the mirror and could read the obvious displeasure on my own face. Standing in this light, I could see all the imperfections that littered my face and body. The one eye that was smaller than the other, the lopsided smile, and the eyebrows that were too harsh for my face. Standing on the bathroom scales, an audible sigh escaped my lips. I looked down at the hips that were too big for my small upper frame, down to the cellulite riddled thighs and around to that flat, pancake like behind. I cupped the small breasts which had been hastily misplaced on my chest and looked at my reflection. A big yellow caption framed the mirror- ‘OVERWEIGHT AND OUT OF CONTROL’. Turning away, I let out another sigh as I hurriedly threw on my clothes.
⸎⸎⸎
Colourful streamers and balloons hung everywhere in the backyard. Cheerful beats of some pop song blared from the speakers. Everyone was swaying away on the makeshift dance floor, the boys strutting around like proud peacocks, the girls pretending not to notice. The giant pink banner that hung in the yard said- “Sweet 16th”.
Mother was rushing around making sure there was enough food, checking that guests had drinks and that everyone was having a good time. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her alert eyes scanned the yard constantly. I looked at that gaudy banner above me, and anger coursed through my veins. I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday- I decided long ago that I hated it.
None of the people here knew me, or even liked me. I could practically hear the popular girls huddled in the centre of the dance floor laughing and mocking every detail of the party. The aromas of barbequed meat and sugary sweet fairy floss wafted in the air. Adults mingled effortlessly, the teens danced awkwardly and I stood still.
The tattered white gate at the side of the house stared back at me. It used to be father’s most frequented way into the house. Instead of pulling up the driveway, walking up the front path and through the front door, he would walk to that side gate and enter the house via the back door. He’d wink at me and say it was the best way to avoid mother. It never worked though because the hinges of the gate were rusted over, creaking and creating a shrill scraping sound that gave him away. He always said he would fix it one day.
Some nights I would suddenly wake wide eyed, certain I had just heard that metallic squeaking of the side gate. I remembered a smaller version of myself jumping out of bed and eagerly waiting behind the door. I would sit cross legged on the floor all night until mother found me and put me back to bed.
Even now, with the party bustling around me, I stood still, waiting. Waiting to hear the rusted hinges straining as the gate slowly pried open to reveal father’s wild dark hair. He would flash his charming grin and twinkling eyes. His arms would be full of wrapped presents, a stack that would come tumbling down as the full force of my hug bowled him over. Our chuckled laughter would echo in the wind.
⸎⸎⸎
There was a distinct musty smell in the room, a veil of death lingered in the air, mixed with a deep sense of grief. Lying sprawled out across the bed, the doona covered random parts of my undressed body. The afternoon sunlight was creeping through and shining inconveniently on my face. Despite being awake, my eyes were tightly shut, thinking, as a child might, that if I could not see the world, perhaps it could not see me. I refused to move and kept entirely still, as if that would stop the world from spinning and life from continuing. I wondered how long it had been, how long this empty shell of a body had been lying in bed, muscles wasting away from bones. That beautiful red dress in the closet might actually fit now.
Moving my head to get out of the direct sunlight, I caught a muffled and restrained voice. It had been a very long time, but I knew I could never mistake the hushed malice and aggressive tones of my parents arguing. It made me curious enough to slide out of bed and peek through the half closed bedroom door.
Like an eavesdropping child, I crouched in silence, feeling a pang of disappointment when I caught a glimpse of mother arguing on the phone. Father was not here.
“This is serious, your daughter needs you. Won’t you even speak to her?”
An uncomfortable lump formed in my throat and my knees went weak. With trembling hands, waterfalls started streaming down my face. I bit my lip to stop from sobbing.
“For years I have begged and begged for you to come see her. She has needed you so many times before, but this is different...”
Tip toeing back into my room, my insides screamed silently into the darkness. My body felt like bursting at the seams. I had always been under the impression that he had been kept away all these years by mother’s abrasive and protective nature. It had never occurred to me that he simply did not want or need, to see me. It never occurred to me until now, that there really was no hidden box of correspondence.
⸎⸎⸎
The hinge of the letterbox door creaked as I peered inside and reached for the mail. Walking back towards the house, my head down and browsing through the bundle of envelopes before me, I thought I heard another creaking sound. Looking up, I noticed our neighbour propped up in a wheelchair on the porch. Grandma Alice had lived next door for as long as I could remember. When we first moved into this house, Grandma Alice was already there.
I studied the grandma, her weathered, wrinkled face stoic as her glazed eyes stared out blankly onto the world. She was wearing a moth brown cardigan that had a distinct stale odour. Her mouth was slightly ajar, and pools of saliva hung stagnant in the corners of her mouth. Her fingers were arthritically bent, and a constant tremor had now permanently taken over her hands. Grandma Alice had been in a wheelchair for many years, but in recent times she had deteriorated rapidly, no longer able to speak apart from the occasional breathy, nonsensical mutterings.
In all the years of living next to Grandma Alice, the only visitor I had ever seen there was her carer. It was her carer who pushed her out onto the front porch to get some fresh air every Sunday. I often wondered about Grandma Alice’s life and how she came to be living in that big house where no one visited her. As I continued up the path and turned to enter the house, I felt a pang in my chest thinking about the tears I just saw glistening in Grandma Alice’s eyes.
⸎⸎⸎
It must have been Sunday because Mother was getting ready for church. I heard her scrambling out of the shower, blasting the hair dryer and warming up her vocal cords. The early morning sunlight was starting to shine through the sides of the curtains and give the room a warm yellow glow. Stirring slowly, I wiped the drool from the corner of my mouth and lifted my head groggily. The exhaustion of new motherhood was unrelenting, but I had thankfully managed to sleep for a few hours without Belle stirring.
I staggered across to the cot, looking at the clock on the wall and thinking about her feeding schedule. She looked so peaceful, lying on her tummy with her hands up by her side. I gently turned her over to pick her up. It felt like a speeding truck had just come hurtling straight into my stomach, completely knocking the wind out of me.
The moments that followed were a blur. My own voice was screaming for mother. Two fingers were pulsing on Belle’s tiny little unmoving chest. The bouncy rubber chest of the baby mannequin at the First Aid course sprang to mind. Sounds of sirens and urgent voices arrived. There was rushing about around me. During the ambulance ride, I stared in horror at Belle’s cold lifeless body and the blank expression on her little blue face. Somewhere in the vehicle a new born moth fluttered its wings.
⸎⸎⸎
My hands trembled slightly as I walked, I could feel my lower lip quivering. Before me, all I could see were endless photos hanging on the walls like a mural of death. The class outing to the war exhibition had seemed like just another formality until I entered the building and was confronted by all the vivid horror. Stopping and turning towards the wall, I forced myself to look into the eyes of the child staring back at me. His eyes were wide open but lifeless, his contorted body limp on the ground and his face was smeared with blood and grime. His body lay next to hundreds of others, piled high along the dirt road. Standing above his body were two proud grubby soldiers with grins on their faces.
The other photos were all the same, graphic depictions of self-inflicted human suffering. Looking around the room was overwhelming. Seemingly endless human destruction was on full display. A deep sinking feeling gnawed at my insides as I moved down the corridor. I was horrified but transfixed by the photographs of torture instruments and subsequent pictures of mutilated survivors staring blankly into the camera lens. The photos were captioned with detailed accounts of torture techniques and death statistics.
The exhibition was extensive, but there were not enough walls to display all the human suffering in the world. Wandering from room to room, corridor through corridor, the world started to spin. The hallways began to narrow. All I could see before me were blurs of colour, pieces of faces, and flashes of sad eyes. I realised I was hopelessly lost and could not find the exit. My legs somehow ached with the fatigue of days of running. I kept walking, hoping to find my way out but all I could see before me was death.
⸎⸎⸎
The iridescent lighting felt jarring, like an interrogation light shining directly into my face. Beads of sweat were forming on the surface of my palms. I quickly moved to wipe them on my shirt. My eyes darted from side to side, peering at the people around me. I felt clammy and nervous. Two people stood in front, and I turned around to count five people behind me.
A sigh escaped me as I anxiously fiddled with the paper in my hands. The line continued to progress and I could feel myself losing my nerve. I made a move to turn around and walk out, but knew I couldn’t. The last tablets were taken this morning. Empty blister packs filled the bathroom waste basket.
The pharmacy fell silent as the chemist called out for the next customer. Eyes of the people behind me were burning a hole straight into my skull, the smell of searing flesh filling my nostrils. Sheepishly, I pushed the prescriptions down on the counter and towards the young man dressed in a white pharmacist coat. He took the scripts, flicked through the wads of multiple prescriptions stapled together, looked back at me, and raised an eyebrow.
The universe fell into slow motion as I glanced behind and felt the judgemental glares of everyone on me. A couple of young women wore repulsed looks on their faces and snickered. My heart pounded, drums were beating in my ears and tears welled in the corners of my eyes.
The moment passed abruptly, and the world returned to normal speed. As instructed, I waited off to the side and stared at a particularly interesting spot on the carpet until my name was called out. Tightly gripping the brown paper bag with white knuckles, I let a wave of relief wash over me.
⸎⸎⸎
I have never hated this ugly beige carpet more than in this very moment. I stared at it and almost bared my teeth in anger like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. Mother was sitting across from me on our faded brown couch saying something I couldn’t comprehend right now. My gaze moved to the positive symbol in front of me, the test seemed unreal. Its cheap white plastic looked like it came from a toy bought at a two dollar shop. I looked across at the other five pregnancy tests, each displaying their own little blue plus sign and was overwhelmed by a sense of defeat.
Deep inside there was a seed of disgust for the innocent life growing inside me. It was quickly consumed by a wave of disgust for myself. I was furious that it took me more than three months to realise something was amiss. It seemed so logical to blame stress for my recent lethargy, wild swings in appetite, nausea and lack of menstruation. However, with each passing week, as symptoms developed and my stomach started to swell, it became clear that this was something else entirely. This was some cruel joke that the universe had decided to play on me.
⸎⸎⸎
Beads of sweat slowly dripped down my forehead and dangerously close to my eye lids. I tried to ignore the toxic sludge of anxiety slowly bubbling up inside. It threatened to boil over and spill out onto the streets. I glanced at my watch again while increasing my pace along the pavement. I would be late for my appointment. As the second hand of my watch continued to tick along, I could feel the level of anxiety rising and sitting heavy in the back of my throat.
An offensive smell unexpectedly reached my nostrils and made me flinch. I turned to see a man with a grimy face and matted hair. He flashed a toothy smile and gave a slight nod. His garments looked as though they had been fabricated from off cuts from other clothes, stitched together like a tattered quilt. Clusters of moth holes were visible on his rags. By his side stood a young girl of six or so, her face equally as grimy, with dirt matted on her clothes and caked under her fingernails. They held hands, shuffling along aimlessly, stopping occasionally to peer into the garbage cans on the street. In his other hand, he had a half empty garbage bag containing their belongings.
It took me a minute to realise I had slowed my pace right down, and was now watching the pair meander away out of view. I stopped momentarily and looked around me, watching people going about their busy lives. It was like no one else had seen the father and daughter, they had been invisible. Suddenly remembering that I was late, I hurried down the road again.
⸎⸎⸎
My knuckles were white from gripping the books tightly against my chest like a shield. I could instantly feel the piercing eyes of everyone on me. Pity hung heavy in the air, suffocating every breath. The walls of the hallways seem to close in all around, forcing me into a smaller and smaller space. I knew straight away that mother had been wrong.
It had been two weeks since the incident and mother had assured me that life would have gone on and nobody would remember the assault. Clearly, the topic was still on the forefront of everybody’s minds. The media had widely publicised the attack and its proximity to university grounds. The fact that the victim’s name was released to the public had been a matter of great debate.
The commotion on social media erupted, as well as the inundation of messages of love and support, most from people I did not know, or worse, did not like me. It was hard to tell if the fake sympathy or the criticism was more hurtful. There were voices pronouncing that incidents like these justified the fact that women should not be travelling alone at night, that they should not be out drinking, and that they should most certainly be aware of the kind of attention that their attire invites.
It was difficult not to read all the messages and comments; they drew me in and swallowed me up completely. They consumed me and festered rampantly amid all the shame, pity and anger. This was why mother had insisted I got out and reclaimed my normal routine. So here I am, walking down the hall, every eye on me, every word uttered about me. It was like being a newborn giraffe, all legs and no balance or common sense. Focusing squarely on the space in front of me, I placed one foot in front of the other, carefully making my way to class.
⸎⸎⸎
The aroma of spices and pollution floated in the air along with the chattering of people and honking of cars. It had been a long time since I had visited this old local market. My parents had taken me many times when I was younger, father would hold my hand tightly as we weaved through the narrow alleys suffocated by the hustle and bustle. The street vendors would wave their produce in the air, customers animatedly bartered away and all the while father’s grip would hold steady.
As I brushed shoulders with the people around me, struggling to move forward through the crowd with any sense of purpose, I eventually gave up and let the momentum of the crowd nudge me along like a heavy cart. Gazing about all the commotion, a bright orange flash caught my eye. The intoxicating fragrance was the next thing to capture my senses and immediately my head snapped back to the fruit stall. The owner had in his laboured sun kissed hands the most amazing mangoes.
Instantly a childhood memory flooded me; father’s strong, large shoulders lifting me up to the branches of the mango tree. He taught me how to sniff each fruit, hunting for that sweet fragrance which indicated it was ripe. Then he would peel it carefully while I greedily waited. The memory was so vivid, so poignantly distressing that tears began welling in my eyes.
With all these strangers milling about, I suddenly felt so alone. The chaotic sounds, the mixed aromas were all but gone. I blinked, and it was empty, I was standing in the middle of the market on my own.
⸎⸎⸎
Indifferent expressions were glued on their faces. They sat across from me with the vast metal table stretching out between us. It was difficult to breathe, to focus and the right answers weren’t coming out. They would glance at each other whenever I was incoherent, it made me panic and falter even more. They pressed for details I did not have, for memories I couldn’t recall and all the while there was always a hint of disbelief in their tone.
Every time the police called it made me nervous. I could imagine their cold statuesque faces looking at me before I even walked in to the station. The burden to remember more, describe more, provide more weighed heavily on me.
Photos were thrown at me in an attempt to jog the memory, shoved in my face as if they were pictures of someone else’s bruises, someone else’s humiliation. I looked at the photos to appease them, but focussed solely on a spot in the background of the photo, afraid of what I would find in my own sad face.
As their questions became more specific, my answers became vaguer. Looking at each other, the policemen seemed to silently nod before turning their gaze back to me. They explained that the lack of detail, evidence and witness accounts meant the case was unlikely to be pursued further and it would be closed. They stood up from the table, collected their papers and left the room with complacent expressions on their faces, satisfied that they had done their duty to protect and serve.
⸎⸎⸎
Turning the key, I swung the door open. The sound of that key clicking in the lock was the most wonderful sound of the day. It signified independence, a space where I could strip it all back and breathe. The whole day was spent with bated breath, hiding behind a mask and afraid to take one wrong step. Entering that apartment always felt like taking my first breath of the day.
The first task was always to wash off the day. Dressed in my favourite home rags I walked over to the fridge, pulled the handle and peered inside. A wilted lettuce in the crisper looked back at me. Mother’s voice resonated in my mind, berating my undomesticated nature and still naked ring finger.
Turning on the TV instead, I settled on the couch and watched the news. The handsome anchor man with salt and pepper hair was narrating the headlines in an exaggerated voice. Impending war threatened as terror attacks ran rampant. Natural disasters were devastating unprepared communities. Disease, starvation and violence swept across the screen like an afternoon sea breeze. Flashes of pained faces, destroyed cities and bloody death filled the room. Without warning tears began to roll down my face. I let the negativity wash over me for a few more minutes, and when I could stand it no longer, I got up, and switched off the TV.
⸎⸎⸎
The big bright numbers illuminating my phone screen told me that it was much too late at night. Waking up early tomorrow morning would be difficult. The thought of unfinished assignments and incomplete exam revision filled my mind as I cursed myself for being out this late.
Unfortunately the illusion of belonging mattered to me. The obligation to participate in social activities was sometimes necessary. So, on occasion I found myself standing in crowded bars with loud blaring music. The night would involve unwanted drinks in my hand, disingenuous laughter from my mouth and a deeply uncomfortable knot in my stomach.
I was trying to recall all the social faux pas I had committed that night when I thought I heard footsteps. Turning around quickly, I scanned the scene behind me. I was walking on the park footpath where the streetlights kept the area well lit. I couldn’t see anyone around me. The pub lights were still visible in the distance and the melodic beats and shrieks of drunken mirth could be heard nearby. Somewhere in the distance, there were sounds of sirens in the city.
A car full of youths sped down the street, revving the engine and yelling something I didn’t quite catch. Their cackles of laughter hung in the air after the car was no longer in sight. The park was a four minute walk from home so I picked up my pace and continued on. I took my phone out of my pocket again to send a message to mother. I squinted my eyes from the bright light of the screen. The air felt cold and goose bumps formed on my skin. Suddenly, a shadow moved and the world turned on its side. I heard the sickening thump of my own head as it hit the pavement and a drowsy cloak of unconsciousness took over me.
⸎⸎⸎
The air was heavy and thick, with the suffocating smell of sweat and after shave. My arm ached from hanging on to the handle which was just a little too high to be comfortable. Bodies were pressed up against me, I could feel that scratchy sensation of a stranger’s hair brushing up against my skin. Precariously balanced and squished, I tried to look at my watch again.
It would be another long, uncomfortable commute. My days as a personal assistant felt mundane and never-ending. With my life in tatters, Uncle’s connections were the only reason I had this job. It was offered out of pity and I accepted out of obligation.
Sometimes at family events, the relatives would talk about me in secretive whispers. Lamenting the loss of my potential now that I was damaged goods. My cousin’s children would rush about in hushed tones when they saw me and avoid eye contact, as if tragedy was contagious.
The train’s rhythmic clattering continued as more commuters crammed on at each station. The carriage squeezed tighter and tighter until I struggled for breath. A familiar deep pit twisted in my stomach, and a gurgling sensation like acid reflux burned in my throat. My skin was clammy and covered in cold sweat. I began involuntarily gasping wildly for air like a fish out of water. The people closest to me peered over with curiosity. I opened my mouth to try and form the words, but before I could, my body went limp and the world went dark.
⸎⸎⸎
It had been a while since I had picked up a pencil. I sat in the bay window as the spring sun warmed my skin. Gazing outside at the blossoming flowers and yellow butterflies, I imagined a scene from a Disney movie. A princess danced around singing along with all the magical animals of the forest. My pencil and sketch book sat on my lap and before long, the rhythmic sounds of pencil on paper filled my mind and shapes began to form.
Sketching absent-mindedly, I let my thoughts drift away. It had been a tumultuous year to say the least and my mind hadn’t caught up yet. I thought of the other day, sitting in a circle formation with strangers, listening to them speak of things so deeply personal and private. Stories that made me cringe, stories that made my insides shrivel up like a dried prune. Realising the loss of an infant’s life was an experience that I shared with so many others made me feel worse.
I couldn’t understand how people found solace in sharing each other’s tragedies. While I sat there listening, it felt like an extra burden of sadness and despair was being piled onto my shoulders, bearing down on me until I could no longer sit upright. The hour felt like an eternity, and by the end my muscles ached and my heart felt heavy in my chest. Ignoring other people’s attempts to speak to me, I quickly walked towards the door and the safety of my car. I felt breathless and defeated.
Looking down at the piece of paper in front of me, I realised that I had finished drawing. My eyes traced the curved lines that formed delicate fingers interwoven with another set of smaller, even more delicate fingers in an intimate gesture. The embrace demonstrated a maternal affection that was clearly evident even on paper. A single tear stain marked the corner of the page.
⸎⸎⸎
The bright lights shone straight on my face. I almost had to lift my arm to shield my eyes as I walked up the stage. Without looking, I could hear mother’s proud applause over the entire audience. The air was filled with an excited buzz from the crowd, a sense of achievement and pride draped the hall like Christmas decorations. My feet landed on each step with an unsteady heaviness and when I reached the Dean, I clumsily received the Diploma without looking into his face. He grasped my hand in an awkward handshake as we turned towards the camera for a photo.
Mother’s beaming face stood out in the crowd, her cheeks flushed and teeth exposed in a completely genuine smile. Her hands clapped loudly in the air above her head like a cheerleader. Mother wore on her face an expression that took a while to decipher. A mixture of longing and sadness hit me when I recognised the expression as pride. It looked odd on mother’s face, like an ill-fitting dress that was two sizes too small.
It was the first time mother had ever been proud of me. After all, in my hands was a shining symbol of triumph, my ability to overcome all obstacles, and show the world that I was still here. Mother had given up on me ever achieving this goal long ago. And here I was, on stage defying all odds. I had imagined this moment would be bursting with a sense of self-fulfilment and joy, but when I searched within myself, there was nothing there. It felt empty and hollow like the cheap chocolate eggs bought at Easter time. I had worked hard to unwrap the egg, break it in half, only to find nothing inside and now I stood in front of everybody, while they looked blankly into my empty shell.
⸎⸎⸎
I felt the quilted texture of the turquoise couch underneath me, my fingers running over the seams, looking for a loose thread to pull and unravel the entire couch. I willed the ground to crumble away under my feet and the earth to rip apart and devour me. I intentionally averted the gaze of the woman sitting on the couch across from me. She sat patiently with a clipboard and pen on her lap. A gentle expectant smile was on her face. I was ashamed that I had forgotten. Not that long ago I used to count the minutes, hours and days. That’s why it was so shocking when she reminded me that today was three years since Belle’s passing.
Many times I had sat across from this woman. Many times this turquoise couch had witnessed my pure, guttural sobbing. I remember the first thing that came out of my mouth that first time I sat on the couch. I was looking squarely into her eyes when I said-
“Its hard to be around people when you’re not like them”.
The sessions over the years had undoubtedly helped, there was no denying that. There was always something that lay deeper though, it silently lurked in the background. It had been there for as long as I can remember, slowly accumulating over the years, developing from every seemingly insignificant event and interaction in my life. I had never been able to fathom it before, but sitting on the couch now, I could feel it building up inside me. I was afraid people would be able to see it radiating from my skin and pulsing through my veins. It was in fact, a complete apathy for life.
⸎⸎⸎
Everything was the same, but it was somehow also different. There was the familiar feeling of her regular nightly routine. Tonight however, she did not set her alarm, and she did not check if the bedroom door was locked. The empty mug sat on the bedside table, next to the empty gold jewellery case. It had been a long time since she had seen the inner lining at the bottom of that case; it looked strange and unfamiliar to her now.
From the moment she had made the decision one hundred days ago, her resolve had never wavered. She felt relief when she finally acknowledged to herself that she had endured enough. As the edges started to blur and the cloak of sleepiness started to wrap itself around her, she thought of her mother. She thought of the drawing of the intertwined hands that she had left for her on the bedside table and hoped her mother would understand her decision. She climbed into bed for the last time, pulling the covers up to her shoulders, closing her tired eyes and inhaling deeply, ready for whichever final memories she would dream tonight. As the gentle fluttering of moth’s wings whispered in the darkness, what came to her in the end was more visionary dream than memory.
⸎⸎⸎
I stood at the precipice, looking at my hands and nervously waiting. I turned towards the ocean that was crashing against the rocky cliff below. The howling wind made my dark hair dance wildly around my face. I thought I heard someone call out so I turned around anxiously.
I beamed as I admired that sweet three year old’s face. Her little pearly white teeth glistened as a smile that mirrored mine flashed back at me. Dimples formed in her cheeks. They were flushed pink against her pale delicate skin. Those familiar warm eyes twinkled with delight. Belle had a pink and blue ribbon braided through her hair, and looked up at me expectantly with an outstretched hand. Clasping my daughter’s tiny hand in mine, we turned to watch the golden sun set over the horizon. A foreign feeling overwhelmed my heart and exploded in my chest as we watched the orange and pink hues of the sun’s rays set fire to the sky. It took a minute to name the feeling, but finally it came to me and my lips moved to silently mouth the word- Peace.
Marshall Wayne Lee was born in South Carolina. He has lived in various cities in the USA, as well as Germany. Currently, he is ending seven years of teaching abroad in Saudi Arabia. He studied music and English at Limestone University in South Carolina and obtained his master’s from DePaul University in Illinois. |
The Sea and Debussy
“but . . . the mysterious correspondences between Nature and Imagination.”
Claude Debussy
La Mer is not what I see
when I am at the sea
but what I feel.
Along the drive, my mind stagers from topic to topic. Thoughts regarding my grades, my course work, thoughts about my upcoming recital—all vie for control of my mind. Yet, these normal preoccupations of a college student, I realize, do not disorient me; rather the error made by the financial aid office resulting losing all of my aid package carries the blame. Because of the funds being removed with no idea of a returning date, survival skills test my personal boundaries of endurance: rice, rice and beans, rice and gravy, potatoes, potatoes fried, potatoes boiled, rice, potatoes, broths—are my new culinary life.
Of course, this is a true college life, isn’t it? This was my original thought, my attempt to romanticize my situation. However, as hunger pains become daily, my oh-it’s-fine laughter panicks.
Luckily, the new head of finical aid reexamined my paperwork spotted the error, corrected it, and resubmitted so that now a new financial package moves slowly to my bank account. Even though pauper meals nourish me, sleep rests much deeper.
With the unreasonable fears of losing vast amounts of weight now lifted, I should feel fine, better, lighter.
I don’t.
Exhaustion binds me. I sleep late, become lethargic in class, fall asleep in hidden library corners. Warming up with long tones occupies more time than it should while scales confuse and challenge me. Simply, what I don’t understand is why I physically feel the way I do when I believe I should feel the opposite. Where are the optimism, and the dedication to studies, and the lightheartedness I had just weeks before? I can’t find them.
Thus, I escape to Surfside Beach with hopes for the healing power of the sea to stabilize my semester, to wash my soul, cleansing it from all negativity. To feel the sea washing over my ankles, to taste the salty air, to rub the sea sand on my feet draws me with hope for a better term.
I have two majors: Music and English. I’ll be able to read while visiting dear ol’ mom and dad. Clarinet work, working through scales, stumbling through the Rose Etudes, or any technical skill simply stop when visiting my mother because she refuses to understand restrictions. Practice rooms should remain isolated, sacred spaces where a musician plays badly, makes mistakes, squeaks, t-a-k-e-s t-h-e p-a-s-s-a-g-e-s s-l-o-w-l-y. Mom believes practicing is mini performances. While I muscle through a new passage, making mistakes and sounding horrible, questions and comments bomb from the other side of the door—“Is that how it’s supposed to sound?; That’s none too pretty.”
At times, mom becomes wearied of hearing scales in thirds, broken chords, or long tones, so she interrupts with requests: “Hey, do you know what song would be pretty on the clarinet? ‘Sitting on Top of the World.’” OK, let me just put this Brahms sonata down and get out that Carpenters’ Song Book.
Still, I continue on home because home rests at the beach. Even though, my family only lived in Surfside for five years when I attended elementary school, the beach is my home. It is home, it is home. There, I feel the most comfortable; I feel the most stable being near the waves of the ocean, the murky water of the Atlantic, the vastness of the sea. The beach energizes me.
Surfside resides on a particularly large stretch of shoreline. One can walk on the beach from Garden City, past Surfside, the state park, and Myrtle Beach, ending in North Myrtle Beach, over twenty miles of uninterrupted beach. I start laughing as I remember my former live-in lover, with whom I vacationed on the Canary Islands. He desperately wanted me to see a beach on Fuerteventura: “It’s two kilometers long, Shatz,” he said.
“Is that big?” I asked honestly.
“It’s huge,” he said curtly, offended I questioned him.
I had lived in Germany long enough to comprehend two kilometers, and it didn’t sound huge to me. Since I failed in giving him the excitement that he thought this gigantic beach deserved, he showed his disappointment with a stern look. I explained about living in Surfside. “Shatz, Surfside is just one of four towns lining one long beach going like thirty-five kilometers,” I said. Converting miles to kilometers hindered me a little, but I maintained confidence the Grand Strand stretches longer than two kilometers. Of course, he didn’t believe me; he did, however, stop suggesting we take a day on our vacation to go see that mammoth two-kilometer beach.
His disbelief affected me. I remember feeling that I must prove to him that I wasn’t lying to him, that I wasn’t trying to outdo him, or attempting to embarrass him.
Upon returning home, I called mom to double check my memory. When I reported my findings, he ignored me, drank his coffee, and picked his nose, but leaving me feeling, strangely, that I had still mislead him, that I had disappointed him in not sharing the joy of this enormous two kilometer beach with him.
I’m missing the beach, missing the walks through the neighborhood at night and hearing the crashing waves in the distance; I’m missing the sight of porpoises dancing in the morning light, missing the excitement of watching pelicans diving for food. I long for the sea.
Inside me, my body reacts to something deeply buried, something in shadow, something my body remembers which my mind can’t see. Is it that my body is remembering another event, another situation that caused a similar feeling? Is it that my body is remembering emotions long unremembered? Is it that my body is remembering a fear I once endured? Is it that my body is remembering an apprehensiveness I once felt? Is it that my body is remembering pain, pain I once suffered? I once survived?
My shoulders press up but lose the fray against the weight of a memory, of a time that I cannot ascertain. Tears stand, unsummoned, like sentries on watch for an oncoming battle, readying for the bugle calling forward. They, the sentry tears, foresee that armada hidden in the shadow of the approaching orient.
I stop at a gas station for a break, a snack. The walk helps my mind clear.
Yet back in the car, my body feels nervousness returning again; my body feels fear tensing my hands again; my body feels sadness tightening my neck again. As I turn the key over, igniting the ignition, I simply cannot resolve the question: Why do I feel so depressed?
I’m simply going home, I think. I’m just going home. It’s been a rough semester, sure, but that’s it. There’s just no reason to be like this.
Back in 1982 when we moved to Chesnee, placing the beach house on the rental market, I all but refused to visit Surfside. I severed ties, never kept in touch. Leaving the place I loved killed me, and I wanted to be dead to all those who remained next to the beautiful sea. Going to visit and staying in a hotel never was an option. Hotels are for tourists. I am no tourist—this is my home. Unfortunately, with the house rented, this home, the only home of my childhood I identified as home, became hidden from me, become a dream, a memory.
The sun rises hopeful on a new situation: mom and dad again live here. I now allow myself the joy of going home while discovering going home’s darker side.
What does it mean to go home? It is as if going home sets in motion a self-examination. Who am I now? Who was I when I last visited? What has changed? Has my life improved? Am I where I ought to be? Where will I go next? Going home becomes an act of self-examination, self-realization, and self-harmonization.
I’ve coped through difficult times without going home to rejuvenate. Oh, I’ve visited mom and dad, but never with the feeling of going home I observed my military friends having when they planned leave to go home. They talked about what they would do, who they would see. They shared their joy through the songs they hummed while packing to go home, and in their faces of joy at getting to see and be home again.
I have never experienced that.
Today, today, something different mixes with everything else: the joy of going home builds excitement in me. Which, unfortunately, mixes with the apprehension accosting me, with emotions needling me like discarded voodoo doll picked up by a child.
I take time and enjoy the familiar landscapes of the Lowcountry. Though the landscape is familiar, the road is not because I am driving from Charlotte not from Gaffney. It has been some time since I’ve seen this exact road, if I ever did, but déjà vu helps pull me in the right directions. She has pulled me around places like Prague, Paris, Pompeii. Her voice gathers tones in softness like a stoned new-ager, talking about pyramid energy or crystal healing.
“The energy grows stronger here because you visited in a past life. Turn left, the energy flows freely toward the left.”
I burst out laughing. The places my mind goes, I think. At times, I feel I’m just watching a film.
My laughing bothers Loneliness, my usual travel companion who has been sleeping in the passenger sit for most of the journey. He’s been a constant companion. He turns a slight sleepy nod to me as if asking me to stop laughing, but this has encouraged me to engage in dialogue.
“Do you realize you just might be my oldest friend,” I say.
“No, I didn’t realize that. I know we’ve been acquainted for many years,” he says in his gruff cold voice, with a glance over his shoulder and back to trying to sleep.
“But, when were we not acquainted? I mean, I honestly don’t remember when we met. Do you?” I ask.
“I’ve been around most of your life, I guess.” He says sitting up, giving into the conversation. “We hung out a bit when you were in high school, but our companionship? That didn’t really get going until you were living in Germany,” he says.
Hearing Germany, a I feel the area between my shoulder blades twist; I feel my heart running; I feel my throat tighten—all simultaneous. Germany. I think about my years there most days, but at times parts are hard for me to remember as if they had happened long ago to another person, a character I read in a book.
I divert, “The high school years, yes, I remember needing you a lot then. It wasn’t so bad having you around. ‘Tis better to befriend Loneliness than oppose him as an enemy.”
“‘Tis indeed,” he says flatly without delight.
Then he rehashes the difficulty I had at finical aid. “Let’s not forget how you behaved when they. . . .”
“I had a lot to be angry at,” I say defiantly. “It was that little assistant and how she kept saying ‘but federal regulations’ like she worked on a bloody airline. Federal regulations, federal regulations.”
“Still,” he says, “that could and should have sent you home. . . .”
I turn him off and think about seeing the ocean. His voice metronomes in the background out of my comprehension until I hear him say a name. “What did you just say?” I ask looking at him sideways.
“I said: you remind me of Enzo when you’re like this.”
“What?” I snap, holding the steering wheel firmer.
“You remind me of . . . ”
“I heard you,” I interrupt weight cannoning each word. “I don’t understand.”
Looking a bit annoyed, he catches a moment to retreat before he continues his assault, “How many times did you want to talk to Enzo while he sat staring into space not listening?”
“I’m nothing like him. A conversation picking on me isn’t the same as a conversation about us,” I say turning my attention back to the road.
Enzo. Enzo. Loneliness adored Enzo. They were inseparable. Even when they weren’t together, one lived because of the other.
“Enzo, such a cool guy,” he muses. “Enzo had difficulties talking to you because English was his third language, but I depended on him: Mondays, Sundays, holidays—”
“What the fuck, lady move out the way. Damn women drivers. I hate them! Pull-out-drive: one action! Oh, now she’s worried about speed limits. I hate stupid people! I hate them! I don’t like the way they drive; the way they talk to me about stupid shit in line at the Walsmart.”
Loneliness sizes me up, “Mr. Overreaction. I shall continue now: I could depend—”
“Coooooooooooonway! Conway already. Did you see Aynor? I didn’t.”
Loneliness remains quiet, and I soon forget he’s there as my attention gets taken in by the familiar sites of Conway which really say ‘I am nearly home’. The radio grabs my attention because the music dances back decades. No new music since the 80’s.
In my childhood, I attended many events in Conway. I played soccer a few times on the fields around Conway High School. Performed in all county band, in the 8th grade at the high school.
The 70s at the beach created fun times. The Sun Fun Festival entertained with street dances, sandcastle building contests, dance contests, beauty contests. The sign of my victory in the watermelon eating battle remains on display in mom and dad’s guest bedroom. A sigh sings from my chest as I remember home and the excitement restarts.
Normally, nostalgia bothers me because she’s a difficult dance partner. She sometimes dances the shag to a song in a minor key. However, today nostalgia doesn’t bother me; she doesn’t mix happy dancing with sad music.
The memories dancing with nostalgia confuse me because the memories do not appear as thoughts. No, I, instead, feel the memory; I taste the memory; I hear the memory. I feel myself chasing the soccer ball. I hear my teammate call, “I’m open.” I feel myself kick the ball—we score. I hear families yelling. Inside the car, James Taylor’s “Carolina in my Mind” sings the only sounds.
What word means feeling the past?
Do our bodies respond to memories even before our mind allows the memory to appear?
Within twenty minutes, I arrive home singing seventies’ rock tunes, some Marshall Tucker Band, Lynard Skynard, The Little River Band. Journeying home returned nostalgia to me with a kiss, and I realize how important she can be in our lives. Going Home has rejoined me to a happy past, a past not thought of often, not remembered, a past with joy.
Yet, the unsettled spirits I’ve felt for the past few days begs the question: What other pasts wait for the draw bridge to rejoin the road, allowing access to me: what other voices; what other rooms?
As I start to step out of the car, Loneliness asks, “Are you going to invite me in?” He’s not a vampire, so he can come and go as he pleases.
I consider for a moment but realize mom and dad will be too demanding for Loneliness and me to hang out. Mom surely has a list of chores ready for me, and dad might even want to talk or watch episodes of M*A*S*H.
“Oh, I don’t think hanging out time happens here,” I say but not apologetically, almost annoyed. Even though he comes when he feels the need, he should know how mom and dad treat us kids when we visit.
“So, shall I,” he says pouting, then stressing the next word, “also be held captive in the car?” His question isn’t an honest question, and I know it. His attack halberds my heart. It isn’t the intention that cuts, it is the words which cause an unhappy, an angry déjà vu feeling to knock me.
While I want to blame him for the way my heart hurts, I realize somehow that these feelings originate within me; they are mine, as if I am the one disowned in the car.
In an attempt to regroup, I retaliate by stressing each word equally, “I didn’t order you to stay in the car,” I pause. “I just don’t think I will be available.”
“Alright then,” he says, gathering his things to exit. He’ll go visit other friends, I believe. His life away from me remains unknown. He has never introduced me to other friends; he has never mentioned other people in his life. He comes when he wants; when I need him; when it suits us both. While accommodating both of us with his visits, the visits are maintained on his terms alone.
I leave him and go to the side door, which is the one we always use. It has been left open, but the screen door is locked. The frail wood framed screen door rickets and knocks loudly when I try to open it. It is as loud as a knock would be, so I wait for mom appear and open it. She doesn’t.
I run to the front door which is also in the same open with closed screen door position. Passing by my car, I notice loneliness remaining in the car, but his appearance has changed. He looks like me, so much so, that I stop to exam the hallucination more carefully. I see myself clearly looking out at me. Inside I look lost, confused, depressed. I lift my hands to rub my eyes and remove the vision and notice the me in the car mimics me outside. Realizing, the ghost of the past is merely a reflection of me today, I laugh at my sudden fear at a hallucination.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me right now? Yes, money issues cause anxiety. Mom and dad might even have to lend me money before I leave. However, rent is paid, and food is available. Yes, I’ve lost a few pounds because rice and gravy composes most of my diet, but not enough weight to suffer from malnutrition. Not even enough for someone to notice. Yes, anger still influences me when I think about what happened in finical aid—but for crying out loud—to be so off center, so unbalanced, so insane slaps me in the face.
I rush to the door, under the pressure of needing a pit stop, but questioning the hallucination. Through the door, I see mom asleep on the sofa. A sensation captures my senses; tension in my body leaves. I sigh like a dog who struggled getting his spot perfect now lays down to rest.
I pause for a moment and take a deep breath, “come on, old lady, get up,” I atom bomb.
My mom’s body lifts off the sofa in one unit like she’s in a magic show.
“I ought’a wear your butt out, young man,” she says sleepily yet forcefully.
Home.
Home doesn’t feel like home without my parents’ teasing threats: Wait to your father gets home; I’ll never speak to you again; there’s gonna be war in this house and I’m going to win
After our hello’s, mom has prepared a lovely selection of “sandwich stuff,” cheese, lettuce, cold cuts for lunch. With telescope vision, mom’s garden tomatoes catch my eye, and I grab some bypassing the fancy deli stuff. Tomato sandwiches, oh I love them. I love the way the mayo and the tomatoes blend, the salt on the tomatoes. Too much. I introduced both of my European lovers to the tomato sandwich. They both loved them too. Even Enzo loved them, and his parents own an excellent Italian restaurant. Because of Enzo, I now add oregano or basil (whichever is available); although, his pretentious open-faced version is never mimicked.
“I was just thinking about Enzo,” I say to mom calmly.
“What about him?”
“He criticized everything I cooked,” I say as I spread the mayo on the bread, “said, it wasn’t real cooking because I used a cookbook. But tomato sandwiches. Tomato sandwiches, he loved.”
“Well,” my mom says. What “Well” means exactly, I never can determine: shock, mild support, disinterested affirmation? For this situation it could mean any or all of those; however, in another situation, the meaning could be you poor dear, what on earth, or keep going.
“To my surprise,” I continue talking, “he adored cornbread. And not from scratch, from the Jiffy box Brenda bought me from the base. Loved it! Loved it so much he wanted me to make some for him to take to his family, like I’d ever do that.”
Mom grunts a polite, I’m hearing you southern grunt of affirmation.
With that, I stop talking and focus on the taste of the sandwich.
In the pause, mom starts a rapid-fire question session which requires only nod-and-grunt replies. These rhetorical questions do not reveal any true interest in me or my situation; they function as light familial harassment.
“What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t we raise you right?”
“What do you need electricity for anyway, just runs up the power bill.”
“Why, you’re just like a boomerang: every time I throw ya’ away, you come back.”
Mom then explains she and dad have already planned a surf fishing excursion on Litchfield Beach for the morning. She states it with a tone of information only, but I recognize the invitation.
I say, “well looks like y’all have a good time.”
I hate surf fishing; I absolutely hate fishing. My parents would wake me up on a Sunday or worse a Saturday morning announcing surf fishing awaited us. My older brothers, with their cars, and their part time jobs, escaped the surf fishing prison. Mom and Dad would sit for hours never catching a thing. They baited their hooks with the sand fleas I caught for them each time the command to get them some sand fleas came down; then toss out the line and wait for the sea to push the line back to them, empty and ready to be rebaited. I guess they talked; I guess they liked being with each other—God this could be a quaint little romantic scene about old people still in love spending the day at the shore.
Is it possible, I first felt the healing power of the sea while having fun not surf fishing? I have always had a fascination with the sea. My parents and brothers have told and retold the story of my first visit to the Atlantic. We arrived in the middle of the night, but I was asleep in the car. After getting to our rooms we all went to bed, but through the excitement I returned to the waking world. Throughout the night I would rise and go to the window, and while gazing at the sea, I would repeat two words: Biiiiiig Waaaaaater. Biiiiiig Waaaaaater. Even though I hated surf fishing, being at the sea filled me with peace.
# # #
Sleep has happened, but I want more, need more. Mom, however, maintains that I should wake up and breakfast with them before they go to surf fishing prison. She wakes me by grabbing my big toe and pulling it to relocated a non-dislocated joint.
“Marshall! Breakfast’s ready,” Mom says.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Get your butt up, we want to ask you something,” she admonishes before rushing to the kitchen.
I sigh, keeping my eyes closed, waiting for a moment, hoping they will forget I’m here. A yell from one of them alarms and alerts me that they still remember. I toss the covers off me and roll off the bed so my feet hit the ground first allowing me to push up to standing. I grab some clothes and head to the kitchen table where I know they are already eating since mom times her calls for breakfast as she places the food on the table.
When I walk in, I notice they are sitting in new places at the table. Has there been a power shift? Before, Dad maintain the head of the table with mom at his left. Their configuration remains the same; however, mom now lords the table with dad on her right. The sight of their change in positions makes me nervous, oddly.
What should I care where they sit?
A better question is: why does seeing this make me nervous?
Whatever has been eating at me clearly is causing me to read too much into my parents table positions.
“Morning sleepy head,” says Mom as if it is the first time that she’s greeted me today.
I mumble a reply.
“What?’
I mumble my reply again, although I can speak properly. I want them to know that I do not appreciate being woken up on my holiday so early.
“What in tar nation is that boy saying, Euna Mae?” My father addresses my mother with her double name (first and middle). All good Southerners have double names which are used often by friends and family. Mine, Marshall Wayne, my brothers are Terry Stephen, and James Daniel. Although James Daniel spondees off the tongue, while fine, the equality of the spondee rhythm loses the evangelical preacher lithe that the ladies find so romantic. If we had diminished it to Jimmy Dan, ladies would have fallen at his feet.
“I said in Germany they say ‘sleeping bag.’”
“Well Daniel, we woke up in the wrong country.”
“You going to open them eyes?”
Honestly, I can’t determine who is speaking unless they use names. Their teasing teases with the same tone, timbre, and cadence.
“I can’t, sleep presses them closed. I’ll sleep-eat this meal.”
“Fine, just don’t make a mess.”
“I hear sarcasm so mom must be speaking,” I say. Dad doesn’t employ sarcasm.
“Now snickering so dad joins the harassment.” My father rarely laughs; he snickers, grins. However, laughing with sound, laughing so much he can’t breathe—that only happens when Richard Pryor and Bill Cosby do stand-up.
“Is that right?”
“Well.”
“What about them eggs? Do ya’ taste them eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Did you cook ‘em?
“No.”
“I guess we are here, Daniel.”
“I guess so.”
They take this moment to formally invite me surf fishing. Mom has woken with the firm belief I would enjoy going surf fishing and would have been upset had they not gotten§ me up in time to join.
“Are you going fishing?” one of them asks demandingly, as if I’ve kept them waiting.
I’m suddenly awake, “It was never a consideration. That part of being home will not be relived—ever. It was agony when I was a kid—.”
“Shit,” they both say in unison.
“You had a good time.”
“Euna Mae, do you remember how he would run over that rock at low tide, acting like an airplane.”
“Or a dolphin.”
They agree with each other and suddenly stop speaking, stop giggling, stop snickering. This sudden quietness that makes me nervous.
After a short pause, Mom says, “Wella Balsome.”
Dad replies by laughing, well laughing in his way. Mom laughs, “Marshall we still talk about that.” They refer to a childhood event.
“Thank God I don’t have a boyfriend visiting to endure the whole story. I was in fifth grade.” I was in fifth grade, and one night I took my shower late. Everyone previously retiring to bed, and I thought, asleep. Mom and dad lay awake. The shower became my playground until the shower head released winter water. I pretended TV cameras surrounded me on all the walls, and I stared in many commercials. Some commercials I reenacted; some I made up. I did all the head movements from camera to camera sang the jingles, and Vanna-Whited the product. “Zest keeps my skin clean and moist. Farah Fawcett wishes she had hair like mine, thick and clean and pretty: don’t let her know, it’s Body on Tap. I just love Wella Balsom shampoo—it makes my hair shinny and healthy.” Singing “Wella Balsome,” hit my parents so hard that they could not contain their laughter so much so they feared I’d hear them and stop the show. Luckily for them I didn’t hear their laughter because I was busy telling two friends, who told two friends, who told two friends, and so on and so on.
While this little kiss from nostalgia causes me to blush and detect a rise in spirit, I still play annoyed.
“Marshall, we laughed all night.”
“I’m still not going fishing,” I say.
Through memories of surf fishing as a child, I envision them today sitting in their chairs, talking, listening to country music on the radio, drinking Co-colas and Mountain Dew, and if they still smoked, nearly chain smoking. They always sat together while I always entertained myself on the rocks or in the sand, but away from them. Today, at nearly thirty, going to the beach would mean sitting in an adult space next to them, and while being nearly thirty gives me an adult chair, this would not prevent orders to find sand fleas for them, which I believe drives this invitation.
Another vision catches my mind. In my memory, I see them enjoying this time as a couple. Is it possible I see this as their couple fun time, and that I don’t want to invade their space? That without realizing that my dislike comes from the feeling of being a third wheel on their date?
Once they take off for the beach, I clean the table and notice their new table. It fills the space so completely that in order for anyone to walk through the kitchen, the table must sit flush against the wall. This explains why they sit in the new manner: mom’s normal place disappeared when they placed the table against the wall.
I just don’t understand why I’m so edgy.
Four Weddings and a Funeral assists me in waking up. I like that show it reminds me of by British and Irish friends I’ve left behind in Europe. Around noon, I shower with the radio loudly playing BTO. The music moves me into a morose nostalgic mood. I remember BTO somewhat from childhood. However, I really remember them from my army days when Guy and I would listen to their Greatest Hits, So Far as we drove to the gigs we performed as army bandsmen. Of course, I introduced Enzo to BTO and he loved them, a lot, said they were very masculine.
I try to wash my back with mom’s back washer, but my shoulders remain tense.
I remember Enzo, my first falling-head-over-heels-in-love boyfriend. First loves pain us the most and elevate us the most. No other love will ever reach the intensity of our first time in love. Every activity, every emotion felt for the first time affects intensely simply because of the newness of the experience. Regardless of our age, falling in love for the first time turns us into adolescents who do not understand their bodies now process, create, and pump hormones completely differently, and those hormones cause emotions to cut deeply until we learn to control our reactions. With Enzo, I simply could not control my hopes, my love, my desire for our relationship, or the pain I felt as I watched it decline, as I experienced the loneliness of drifting apart, the loneliness of waiting, waiting for him to return from a visit to his family or for him to return to loving me as he once loved me. They are but the same situation, metaphorically and realistically.
I dry off with a bath sheet. The hot shower has filled the tiny bathroom with steamy air, so I open the door to allow the cold air-conditioned air in and receive a Linus comfort from the bath sheet. I dry off in the bathroom until no wetness remains though not fully dry, not dripping, dry enough to step out on to the carpet in the cool air of the bedroom. I dry completely in front of the mirror on the other side of the bathroom door.
Considering myself for a moment in the reflection, I look at the me looking back and wonder who exactly stands there? Several layers of protective whale blubber surround me as if preparing for a nuclear winter. My head has had my thick African-like curly hair while my face sports a goatee. My face expresses an emptiness, a hardness, a look that repels. My face appears tired which I blame on the weight of my body and the weight of whatever the past few days has done.
The music calls me to the dance floor of my parents’ bedroom, a private place occupied only by me. Being alone in the house bestows the perfect place to dance and regain freedom. Yet, my weight accepts gravity’s dominance: my feet refuse to move; my hips refuse to sway.
Dance! I want—I need to dance again.
I drop the towel but remain still.
# # #
One o’clock waves goodbye as the sea calls for me. I’ve delayed enough, but as I close the door and step down the steps, an anxious knot tightens in my back, my stomach catches a few butterflies. Suddenly, I feel that home not only symbolizes safety but also is safe. The realization hits me that I will be stepping outside the safety zone, and I’m no longer sure of what lies ahead.
Seriously, what is wrong with me. I’ve got to get my act together. This just doesn’t make sense.
I abandon the safety of home and step toward my heart, my healing, my sea. I love the sea, her mournful breath, her purifying salty air.
Pine Drive, our street, does not touch the beach; rather, a T-intersection terminates the street just a few blocks away from the sand. During my summers here, when the beach beckoned, I headed as directly to her as possible by walking down Pine for a few blocks, heading south to the Surfside Drive which led me to the pier, the arcade, and the beach where my friends sunbathed and swam.
Today in the afterlife of Hurricane Hugo, only the pier remains. The arcade has been replaced by a hotel, the friends became adults, moved, and accepted adult responsibilities. I’d rather avoid the memories of the arcade and pier area of the beach and find my own beach, my own private section of the beach where nostalgia will not tempt me with her songs.
Taking unnecessary turns, lengthening the journey, I visit the old neighborhood, areas I’ve not seen since I was in eighth grade. Passing the house where the dog who disliked me live, the nervousness of my childhood taps me on the shoulder. He would chase me as I bicycled to and from soccer practice. Over there relaxes the little pond, the favorite fishing spot of a forgotten-named friend. Roseanne arranged for us to cut the grass of that house.
I wanted to bring Enzo here. I wanted him to experience my history. I wanted to share with him a silly never-shared story about seeing a waddle of ducks covering an empty lot. One had only one leg. I froze, watching one-leg, wondering if he would survive with only one leg, or should I catch him and take him home to care for him. A silly story, I realize. Yet, silly stories expand and explain who we are. I saw Enzo’s childhood home during the brief time I was allowed in the house. I saw it, saw his bedroom, saw the décor, the little kitchen where his mother made him Hawaiian toast. Thus, I feel I got to know him better than he got to know me.
Is it that I wanted to share my childhood home with Enzo, or any lover, any partner who also wanted to share his childhood home, his memories, his stories of sandwiches his mother made him for lunch on a summer’s day?
With Enzo, however, bringing him to America for a visit seemed an impossibility. We were young with little money. Besides, a greater question was one I could never ask: When should we go? Christmas? While he lived with me, his umbilical remained, and Christmas could not be celebrated without him being at home with his family.
Christmases ago, Enzo and I had our first Christmas together as a couple. We met in January and started dating in April. I waited a month to declare my love for him, taking the time not to be too quick. Then at the beginning of December, we moved in together and begin our lives as a couple, a family.
When Christmas came, my only friend remaining in Germany, who I normally shared Christmas with, felt overwhelmed by her husband’s recent return from a long stay in the United States. She sent out word that she needed to spend this Christmas alone with family. I was understanding.
In Germany, Christmas Eve celebrates with family, carrying the family celebration through Christmas day. December 26th, called Second Christmas Day and a national holiday, allows friends to celebrate together. Enzo’s family, although Italians, celebrated like Germans.
I expected Enzo would bring me to his parents and disregard the decree not allowing me: to enter the home; or call the home; or enter the restaurant; or call the restaurant. In my mind, I foresaw an uncomfortable dinner table because of the tension between Enzo’s father, brother, and me. I decided to discuss with Enzo his plan to help his family not uncomfortable. Now it seems so silly really: what could one do other than state, Marshall’s coming, you will be nice.
“Enzo,” I said, “what are you doing to help your family with the idea of me coming for Christmas?”
Enzo looked at me and matter-of-factly stated, “you’re not invited.”
It took me a minute to respond, “So, what are we doing?”
“I’m going to my parents,” he said.
“And me?”
“Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want? I wanted to spend it with my lover.
I guess I should have included Christmas in the negotiations of moving in together. Which side of the bed do you want? How will WE spend holidays? Enzo never celebrated any holiday, including non-religious holidays like New Year’s Eve, with me; always first with family. When they were finished, I got the remains.
On Christmas Eve, I considered being kind, being understanding, being compromising. We had no food at the house, so Enzo agreed to take me, out of his way mind you, to the Haupt Bahnhoff to eat Christmas Eve dinner alone at McDonalds. Of course, the Haupt Bahnhoff would offer several other choices, too, if McDonalds wasn’t to my fancy. Stuttgart on Christmas Eve is lifeless. It is not hyperbole to call it a ghost town: the normal packed with cars road was vacated by traffic; shops stood forsaken, dark, empty; bars were deserted; public trains functioned void, nearly, of passengers.
Everyone belonged somewhere with someone.
Enzo left me at the west entrance to the train station, the one closest to McDonalds, and thoughtfully, handed me a ten note. “For dinner and the train home,” he stated as if he were doing me some great kindness.
McDonalds in the train station—closed.
All other stores, cafes in the train station—closed.
I began my walk home searching for something to eat.
McDonalds along the main shopping street—closed.
Every little kebab stand—closed.
All the bratwurst stands—closed.
Everything—closed.
Two hours of walking home, where I crossed the mountain from downtown to Botnag, where our apartment sat. I was tired, hungry, lonely, and angry. Enzo would be coming home soon, and I hoped he might bring a plate.
Seven hours later of being alone at home, he opened the door, with no plate, and no apology for leaving me alone so long. He said that he thought about bringing me something to eat but, “I couldn’t ask to do it because my dad might hear me asking for some food for you.” His hands held a bag of cookies his mother had gave to him with the instructions of “give this to him.”
Those cookies landed against the wall as a preview to a violent argument filled with bitter hatred at Enzo, his family that followed for hours.
However, after begging and crying, Enzo agreed to call and ask if I could join on Christmas day.
The next day he woke, jumped in the shower without speaking to me. When he was dressed, I asked him when he was going to call his family.
“I’m not,” he said and walked out.
And he didn’t.
I lost my mind, stepping as close to total insanity as I hope I will ever. As I traipse to the beach, thinking of that horrible day, that day of hatred, embarrassment follows along with me. Tears. Self-violence. Panic. Much of that day has been removed from my memory as if trying to protect me from something the pain of facing without doubt bring. I remember tears flowing for hours. I remember thoughts of attempting suicide in such a way as to survive, just to show him. I remember the fetal position.
I remember beating my head with my fist.
I remember—I don’t want to remember anymore, not right now.
The sun kisses me gently, as the sea crashing on the shore pulls me toward her. The details of the Christmas sit in blackness and cast a burning shadow. I prefer these memories remain in darkness.
From that day forward, humiliation beat me daily. How could anyone declare to be in love while treating me as Enzo treated me? I knew then, but I didn’t want to know—he was no husband, no friend, no man—just a boy. He could not stand up to his father, nor could he compromise his family’s sensibilities for the love he declared for me.
What if he changed? What if I waited, becoming the caring patient partner? He had to mature one day. Yet, I knew I knew I knew.
I lost my strength, no longer possessing the energy to breakup.
The following year, I worked, saving in order to visit my family, avoiding another incident. Because Enzo had not changed, I not only wanted to go home, but also, I needed home. I needed the experience of home that I am experiencing now. Unfortunately, mom and dad lived in Mayo, a town in which I never felt accepted, or I trusted as home, a town far from the sea. While going home comforted me, the strength I needed to change my life, to fuel my journey to independence, to singlehood did not fill the tank. While not running on empty or on fumes, my strength ran on a tank one fourth full.
Until now, I really have not returned gone home although I visited my family.
I touch home today. That touch of connecting with home, with my roots, with my past grows in me as I step closer and closer to the beachgrass, to the sand, to the sea.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an apricot, hanging quietly on the vine, peacefully; I follow the vine to the passionflower bloom. Passionflowers grow in South Carolina? I ask myself. Several blooms sway lightly in the breeze, and I consider each isolated bloom connected to the vine, independent, joined not alone.
Maybe, everything is really fine, I think as I move away from the passionflowers.
I live.
Even though financial aid stumbled, the solution stands up already implemented. I will eat; I will pay bills. I will continue to study and work toward my life-long dream of being smart. Perhaps, things aren’t as bad as my body continues expressing, as tension remains tightening my shoulders, my belly, my chest.
My feet continue wondering around Surfside; my eyes continue taking in the town. Quaint. Quiet. Consistent.
Enzo was a bastard. However, history belongs in books living on dusty shelves to be read later with objective eyes and hearts. Tears drip salt into wounds and in time may heal, but tears never change the past. If I date again, I’ll plan for me. Before we live together, I’ll make sure we both carry the same ideas about marriage.
The beach waits a couple of blocks away. The dunes block my view of the sea, but she’s there. I can hear her. I can smell her.
I walk onward toward the sea, and my thoughts turn to concentrating on where I am, of being only where I am, on enjoying where I am.
The sky—blue, radiates
The clouds—white, dance.
The dunes—grassy, invite.
My friend Roberta, visiting the sea for the first time, commented as we crossed the same boulevard: “It’s like walking into a different world.”
I am ready for a different world, I think as I cross the dunes, finally spotting the ocean, stretching further than the eye sees, hugging the shores of other places, other worlds. Worlds which danced in the shadow of books and photo journals until I crossed the Atlantic and experienced those worlds. The ocean crashes on many shores, many wonderful shores.
Improvements to the beach have been made since my childhood. Pilgrims no longer walk across the dunes, for the dunes are protected areas, filled with beachgrass and nesting birds. Pilgrims cross a bridge which maintains the safety and privacy and lives of the dune eco system. Along one side of the bridge runs a bench big enough for four people to sit. Here, I rest, sitting on the rail with my feet on the bench, looking, listening, longing.
Oddly along the beach, October sun worshipers worship the sun, supine, prostrate, enjoying life. On the beach, a woman lies on her back with her feet east; her white bikini shinning in the sun. A man with her wears this summer’s baggies, and props on his right arm, allowing him the chance to admire the lady. Even from the distance, I see the smiles each are giving each other, the flirtatious glances. Even though the wind hides the details of their flirtation, I hear their laughing, and smiles. She loves him because he makes her laugh; he loves her because she laughs.
Hoping for a future.
The beach scene triggers an odd, unsettled stirring within me, an almost déjà vu experience. It reminds me of that why-English-teachers-quit chain email. The email listed several “actual” metaphors found in high schooler’s papers. One said: it was a strange feeling like when you’re on vacation, and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 instead of 7:30. The beach captures me, binding me into that same strange feeling of being near but not eben, of living a skewed existence. One recognized, one easily observed, however, not fully comprehended.
My spirit feels rested but my heart races. I don’t understand these emotions. Tension? Sadness? Envy? Admiration? Sincere happiness?
They are a very pretty couple.
A wave crashes, calling me to admire the sea.
I wait longer before walking and touching the sea.
What secrets will the sea whisper to me once I step on her sandy mane?
I wait, delaying the moment, while enjoying the warming sun, the calming wind, the healing salty air.
The soft crashing waves awakens the chant Om within me. Om, continuous, ageless.
I close my eyes, turning my head, moving deeper into the sounds of the sea, allowing her chant to resonate in my chest.
The salty air fills my airways with each inhalation.
I walk deeper into that smell,
deeper into that sound,
deeper into that sensation.
I am calm.
I am quiet.
“Marshall?” I hear a voice carried by the breeze from the water’s edge, quietly, politely.
I don’t want to be disturbed. I need only the quiet and the privacy of the sea.
I don’t want to see who it is, yet I know who it is.
I recognize my oldest friend. My eyes open to find Loneliness traipsing along the water’s edge parallel to me, waving, less excitedly than usual, yet welcoming. I saunter, greeting him casually. Our familiarity, established for many years, dictates that instead of a hug greeting, a wave or handshake serves perfectly. Today, Loneliness indicates we should stroll along the beach without even a handshake as he clasps his hands behind his back.
Perhaps we both appreciate this time with the sea because his normal chatty mood doesn’t join us, which matches my mood and calms me more. My body still maintains the tension felt for weeks, but a relaxation begins to grow enough for me to notice the difference, if only in my release of breath which is becoming loose, free, deep.
To our right small crashing waves hum, piano passages mostly, which brings sobriety to my cluttered mind; an occasional subito forte brings fresh optimism to my soul.
A small flock of sea gulls wade in a small pool of ocean water left by the ebbing tide. With suddenly and childlike skill, I splash through their pool. They fly up quickly squawking their pleasure at my game.
Loneliness joins with a laugh, a contained laugh yet fully expressed. Something’s odd about him today; he’s more subdued, meditative, introverted. Before I identify his otherness, a gust of wind races by, and I lean back hoping the wind will support me like Gilligan. Sadly, a gust is a gust and not sustained wind.
My body remembers the wind after Hurricane David hit Savanah; my body remembers so much more: memories of happiness, of fun, of expectation for life. All felt on this beach, walking, searching for sharks teeth, worshiping the sun with friends, playing in the water.
The memories of childhood happiness dishearten me, so I fall on the white, dry, warm sand.
What’s wrong with me? I think.
The heat of the white sand warms my back as the sun warms the rest of my body.
Loneliness sits next to me with his hands around his knees. From the corner of my eye, I can see him. He watches the sea. Occasionally, I glance directly at him, but he rarely returns the glance. His focus is on the sea, watching it, observing it, waiting for to glimpse some hidden creature to rise, breathe, descend. His playful dark blond curls flutter lightly as a butterfly flutters around a flower bloom. His cheeks remain relaxed, but his eyes focus intensely on the sea.
I sit up to watch the sea, watching her swells, her white puffy caps, hearing her eternal breath, her sighs of longing. Where does happiness swim? I know he’s there. I know the ocean allows for happiness to play in her waters; I’ve play with happiness so many times. Where is happiness. It seems so long that that friend and I joined a party, prepared a dinner for friends. Oh dear sea, where is happiness.
I close my eyes and concentrate on my breath, harmonizing my breath with the sea, harmonizing my breath with Loneliness’, unifying my breath with myself, within myself.
I relax; I let go; I release. I release all the tension of studies, of the single life, of life. I simply lay on the beach, feeling thankful for the sun. I do not sleep. I listen.
My hand draws in the sand without my watching. I dig up a shell, and feel it, exam it without viewing it.
I love shells; they feel both smooth and rough harmoniously, like a great symphony, building tension until a resolution. Finally, I look at the shell.
The shell smells like the sea.
The shell tastes like the sea.
The shell sounds like the sea.
The shell is the sea.
I am the shell.
I am lifted and carried by the wind. The wind lightly, lightly, lightly houses me reposed in her palm. She holds me hovering over the sea where the waves drift, where they rise and fall and splash me lightly. She places me on the sea, my eyes closed, and I
feel my body floating on the sea,
feel my body wet with the sea,
feel my soul in repose on the sea.
I remain on the sand yet rise and fall with the sea. I remain on the sand in body, yet my spirit sails, taken away to find tranquility. I remain on the sand yet visit the albatross and the whale.
The wind whispers a farewell, softly, and lightly kisses me, tenderly, lovingly, hauntingly; then she flies to another lover, another soul needing the to be connected with the sea. She will return again, I know this, because she loves me, and I feel that love.
Eventually, the desire to join Loneliness again lifts me to a sitting position. With my walrus body preventing me from sitting like Loneliness, my legs extend in front of me. Loneliness gives a quick massage to my neck similar to a father or older brother comforting a loved one after a losing game.
“Thank you,” I quietly say but immediately regret breaking the silence with speech.
“You’re welcome,” he says. The sound of having a cold in his voice has vanished; the gruffness has also departed. His words are spoken softly, timed, measured, with fat warm tones like a quiet French horn or a quiet good night whisper from the beloved.
Loneliness asks, “Why no comments on the hotties jogging by.”
I look around and see that a few hotties have indeed passed by, but now run far from me to clearly adore them.
“I understood you enjoyed people watching and a friendly flirt,” he continues coyly, giving me a playful push.
“I do, but my mind is occupied so much, so fragmentedly that I needed to remain here, alone, without avoiding me,” I reply, and Loneliness nods affirmatively. “The conversation with the sea has been lovely.”
“She comforts. She teaches,” he says.
“She heals,” I agree.
Loneliness and I remain quiet as we both admire the sea.
The sea is power. The sea is life. The sea is beauty, inspiration, danger. The sea washes me in safety, not corporal safety, but emotional safety. To walk along the beach, and see and hear the sea, or even to drive and only glimpse the sea between houses is to find eternity. For me, it is to realize I’m not alone.
# # #
The sun begins descending toward the west horizon, shadows lengthen, and I realize the time has come for me to bid farewell to the sea. I stand, stepping away from Loneliness to pat the sand off of me without covering him.
“I love the beach,” say as sand butterflies around me, “and appreciate my time here. I feel better.”
“The sea accompanies you in spirit,” he says, standing to join me, with a namaste bow. He’s so weird today, not his normal self.
I go in for the good-by hug which he reciprocates. He’s a tall man, so I am sheltered with his arms and chest. He gives a good tight hug. Oddly, I notice he has been working out, “I enjoyed spending time with you today, old friend,” I say.
“Old friend?” he says pulling away just enough for our eyes to unite. “We’ve never met,” he says.
“What?” I say, shaking my head at his joke. “Our friendship crosses many years and many sorrows. Loneliness when did you get a sense of humor?”
He smiles, puts tender hands on my shoulders, faces me, eyes still holding mine, and says, “Loneliness is my twin.” His cadence delivers honesty, which allows my vision to perceive, to recognize a few facial features foreign to Loneliness’ face.
“Identical,” I say.
“Only on the outside,” he says smiling.
A smile which I desperately desire to be flirting, yet identify as tender caring, with a ray radiating from his eyes elucidating the motives of his flirtation: he cares for me, for me the person, the whole person.
He continues quietly, “We are often confused. He revels in razzing, whereas I am the strong silent type. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Solitude.”
“Solitude?”
“Solitude. My brother tells me about all his friends, and I hoped to meet before. I’ve often thought we’d enjoy our company. But,” he sighs, “you sought for me when you did.”
I don’t speak initially but consider his last sentence. I sought him?
“My dear brother steps forward more than I. I contemplate. I hope. I wait.”
“I’m sorry, I’m kind of toss about here as if on the sea. I didn’t realize I was searching for you.”
“As with most of my new friends. You have been searching for me in clandestine areas of public parks, where identities are lost and sexual addiction is conceived. You have been searching for me in smoky filled rooms, where uncontrolled laughter camouflages confusion.”
“Clandestine parks and smoky laughter, you say this embarrassing history without the tone of judgement,” I say.
He laughs with no sound. “No judgements, my brother does that enough. Just after the event in financial aid, you began to truly seek me, and here I stand. Happy to be here. Grateful you came when you did.”
In the hours, I’ve dallied on the beach, I had forgotten my knotted body. Now, however, my body remembers other things; the tension of the past few days returns yet distantly, controlled.
“My mind has been distracted,” I say, “since that day.”
“Distracted minds often lead many friends to me. In the future, you’ll seek me again searching different places, different situations. Churches, music, acting, writing. We’ve got work to accomplish, and this will last for a few years.”
I glance quickly toward him so that he will realize I am not aware of what he is talking about. Why would I need him for years? What work?
His eyes grab mine, holding them firmly. While intense and direct, they retain kindness and understanding. He says, “Enzo. . .”.
At the sound of the name my lips press tightly, “What about Enzo.”
“Enzo remains a difficulty for you.”
“Indeed,” I reply, my voice dropping a diminished fourth.
Solitude stands quietly and still, causing an annoying silence, which he will not fill. He waits, maybe hopes.
“I often hate him more than I ever loved him,” I admit. “When I think about us, my entire body tenses to rigor.”
“Just the same, you sometimes fantasize about Enzo, about seeing him suddenly, seeing him while you are successful, seeing him down and out, sometimes even seeing him happy.”
I fold my arms and breathe out without silence.
“Easy. Enzo was a bastard, that’s clear,” he says. Upon hearing that, hearing Bastard, hearing someone else say it, someone else acknowledge it, makes it real, and reassurance surrounds me. “You’ve been thinking about Christmas, and the times he left you at home to visit his family, the Saturdays, the Sundays, the Mondays, the . . . . “
“Yes! Most days,” I forcefully interject. “We are all aware of how often Enzo visited mom and dad.”
“Really? We?” His stern voice shows another side of Solitude, brutal honesty. “Your closest friends, even today, are not aware of the times he left you alone at home; they are not aware if this or anything else. Your friends are not aware of how enraged you became that Christmas, or how you beat yourself in the face, uncontrollably pounding your head. They know nothing. What We? What We are you talking about?”
My voice drops again, in fear, shame, and anger, “You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I do. Most importantly, I know what your friends don’t: I know of your self-accusation for what happened, for failures, for fights. No,” he says with a finality. “No. No, blame. It wasn’t your fault. No blame,” he pauses, and within the silence, the sense of reassurance reaches me. I believe him, yet my body holds on to the guilt and blame I feel. He continues forcefully yet kindly, “You should feel bad, not blame, because you hid the truth about your life with Enzo, the extent of it—you hid all this from your friends. They love you and would have, at the very least, been positive reassurance you so desperately needed.”
A wave crashes as the sea accents his words.
“I was afraid. Lonely,” I say and cut myself off. I’ve thought about Enzo a lot, but I don’t talk about the relationship. When we first ended, I did. I talked, but I never talked about everything between us.
Solitude and I are standing at the water’s edge and the sea washes our feet.
Solitude asks, “What happened that Christmas?”
I speak freely, uncontrolled, “I remember, but the details wish to remain in shadow. I was crazy—out of my head. I was mad because I felt trapped, caged in the apartment—where was I to go—how could I leave? My friends were all visiting relatives. I loved Enzo. I did. He hurt me, but I knew if I left, it would be to end the relationship. I wasn’t ready for it to be over, I wanted more of how it had been. I became self-abusive, hitting myself in anger at him, but more at myself for staying.”
“Yet, you hoped for a response from Enzo.”
“And none come, confirming what fear had been yapping at me all day: Enzo doesn’t care, doesn’t love . . .” I cut myself off. “When he returned home, I wasn’t well behaved.”
“You defended yourself, somewhat misguided, but you defended your self-value.”
“Yet, when I think back,” I place my hands on my forehead as if a migraine hits, “when I think back to those two or three days, I remember fear badgering me, sure. But there was someone else urging me to ‘just leave’. I still don’t know whose voice it was, reason perhaps. But, over and over ‘Just leave, just go.’ and I’d reply I couldn’t; it would get better; it would go back to way it used to be. ‘Just go, it won’t ever get better.’”
Solitude puts a hand on my shoulder, “Nothing changed, did it? Yet, that voice held steadfast at your side until you took a chance and left.”
“Yes, Christmas set in motion the voice telling me, urging me, begging me to leave. Since I didn’t leave, Enzo pushed every limit with me.”
“That year,” he says, “Christmas celebrated as a death march. As horrible as it was, Christmas blocks another event, a darker event.” He pauses.
He will say what I don’t want him to say it. With my hands hugging my belly, the feeling of bending over in pain rises. I focus on the sea and ready myself. Perhaps it is better if I speak first without his prompting.
“My birthday,” I admit. My shoulder presses into Solitude whose solid foundation doesn’t falter. “My birthday landed on a Monday the following year. Monday, family day. Monday, his family day. Monday, their family day fortified. He could not, would not, could not even make an exception—Monday, family day, a national holiday for his family, his family alone to share dinner. Mondays, after every Sunday which also was family day. That year, Enzo had just returned from visiting his grandparents in Italy. He returned to the city in the morning, just in time for work. I had not seen him, my live-in lover, for over a week. When I finished work, I stopped by his office to see him to learn about my birthday celebration. I always planned his, and he planned mine.
“His office was near downtown on the second floor of an apartment building. Right away when he opened the downstairs door, I knew, I knew, disappointment had opened the door, and standing nearby was a fight. He opened the door with his right hand and placed his left hand on the door frame to block me from stepping in the doorway, and to show me he would not be stepping outside as he normally did. He would step outside secretly give me a hug, sometimes even a kiss while looking around the alley for reporting eyes. Seeing him standing in the door, I felt like a Jehovah Witness. He didn’t even offer a friendly handshake.”
I stopped my monologue abruptly.
The desire to continue, to finish recounting what happened to me that day conquers me. But, my body hurts as my body hurt that day. Solitude prevents me from falling into the sand at the water’s edge, like I fell that day.
Solitude waits supporting me, encouraging me with silence. These thoughts, these memories, this day, this day I re-live right now, has been placed in a cage inside my memory, a dark cold cage where I could not feed it my fears, my anger, my pain. I shoved it into a cage believing it would remain there. Sometimes, while driving along a country road at night, darkness surrounding me, stars shining, alone in the car—suddenly I’d remember that birthday. Anger would grip the wheel and press the gas pedal. I’d grab that memory, dragging it back to the cage with it brawling to escape.
“I thought this monster accepted the cage I created for it,” I say to Solitude. “I see now, my mistake. A caged memory waits for another day to feud.”
Solitude gives a little smile, “You opened the door which still stands open.”
I detect the subtle hint. The images of that day materialize, vividly appearing in my mind, tossing me back to that day, to the following day, to the weeks shadowing that day with the same mixture of emotions, hatred, fear, heart break, which I endured then being experienced again by me right now on this beach, and I hate it. I hate the memory. I hate that day. I hate Enzo. I hate myself for not leaving, not packing up that day, that night, going leaving, leaving just leaving.
Even though I believe the answer is known to him, Solitude prompts me, “What did you ask him?”
“‘How are we going to celebrate my birthday tonight?’ I pause hoping for reprieve for Solitude to stop me from continuing. Solitude will not hide the truth or reality, so I continue, “Enzo said, ‘Oh, happy birthday.’ Oh, happy birthday,” I repeat mockingly. “Oh, happy birthday. Then he said, ‘We aren’t celebrating tonight, we’ll go out to dinner tomorrow night. I’m going to my parents tonight.’”
My voice fills with derision, “Of course, he had not seen mom and dad for over a week. Such a long time to not see them, he simply had to go, and I simply had to deal with it.”
Then more pain attacks. The pain I knew would return, which must have been returning for the past few weeks.
On that day, that day Enzo’s actions screamed you are not important to me. That day, my chest felt as if my rib cage were being crumpled. Standing with Solitude seems to bring the pain on stronger and compelling me to give details as a hope of staying the pain.
“My weak legs couldn’t carry me to the closest streetcar for me to go home,” I say to Solitude, “so I found a path isolated in a patch of woods, with steps leading down, down into the heart of the city. I was alone which was good because I couldn’t maintain my composure any longer. I sat sheltered by the trees and cried, cried holding my stomach, cried rocking and wailing.
“I couldn’t hold myself tight enough, couldn’t cry hard enough, couldn’t scream enough to stop the pain.” I said. “The pain of my chest, my rib caged being squeezed making it hard for me to breath.”
I take a moment to control myself before I return to the story, attempting to speak conversationally, attempting to hide the anguish. “A couple approached me, both wearing green coats. I remember those green coats. I don’t remember their faces much, but I remember their expressions. I remember the feeling they gave me. Of course, they stopped and considered me, asking if I needed help, what was wrong. I said: ‘es ist mein Hertz.’ It’s my heart.”
I put my hands on my heart as a shield, holding it fast lest the memory, the memory of that day when much of me faded into nothingness. From the day forward, still now, I no longer laugh as much as before; I no longer tell amusing stories about stupid situations as before; I no longer am the same person as before.
I continue, “Suddenly I saw the man’s hand reaching for me, so quickly. He was fast. That moment of his hand held out to touch me remains frozen in a snapshot. But I can’t look around it, all I see is his hand, just the hand, helping, reaching.” I paused, just paused, not for effect, not to regroup. Just to be silent.
To be silent in that memory, with his hand out to me as if I were drowning, as if I were falling from a cliff, as if I were nearly dead—I pause and remain with that hand hoping to help me, offering to help me. I pause because I know the next bit, the next part of the scene, the next movement of the camera. I know what is next and that memory follows me in a strange tenderly painful manner. When I remember the next part, I remain in the pain from Enzo, I remain with the sharp pains cutting my heart, but I also see a glimpse of compassion, a shout of compassion, a whisper of compassion, of brotherhood. Oh, who were these people who haunt my memory, leaving me moved to a place where contradictions paint vivid works of art.
“I saw his hand reaching for me,” I return to Solitude, “and I knew he thought I was physically ill. I said to them: ‘Ich meine, die Liebe.’ Die Liebe. I mean, love. The man raised up slowly, as if backing away from something he knew was dangerous. I have believed he backed away from a pain he may have felt in his life. Thunder did not sound; the earth did not quake. Only a bit a silence in a little patch of trees, as two people realized there wasn’t anything they could do to help.”
I stop, but Solitude won’t let me, so he prompts, “I’m sure they expressed that they wished they could help, knowing the limitations.”
“Whenever I recall that day, I feel they truly knew what Ich meine die liebe meant. They didn’t quickly run away but remained for what seemed a long time as I calmed. I thanked they for stopping, for offering to help. They replied with a nod, and slowly walked down the stairs to their own lives. I sometimes hope that they talked about it with friends at dinner parties, or over coffee. That they tell their friends about this guy who they thought was having a heart attack, but they discovered it was a broken heart. I do wish that they did tell someone and that person told them what a great act of compassion they performed by simply stopping. I hope someone told them that so that they know what they have meant to me.”
I feel a tight squeeze from Solitude.
“They considered me. I assured them I’d be ok, in time. When they walked away, I noticed she held his arm. They were a very a pretty couple.”
I take a deep breath in frustration and anger, then release it, pushing it from me. “I really don’t want to talk about Enzo. Why are we talking about him anyway?” I say taking a few steps away, retreating, regrouping, redirecting.
“Enzo? Why Enzo,” I say turning away.
“We’re not talking about Enzo: we’re talking about you.”
I glance over my shoulder at Solitude whose body is relaxed, confident, tender. “I thought Solitude was the bringer of peace.”
“Eventually,” he says with a smile, a breathy snicker. “I hope to bring you peace. You’re able to talk and think about this memory, re-live the pain. A few weeks ago, facing this painful memory, this memory you share with no one, a memory you have hidden inside you hoping the darkness of your deep subconscious would kill it.”
The sea swells to calm; the wind chants to cool; porpoises surface to breath.
Solitude holds me with his eyes, gently, friendly, “The events surrounding Enzo, the abuse—it is too much too process at one time. Little by little, you’ll be able to resolve this issue, and pain will no longer control your heart.”
Solitude releases me, then glancing at the sea, he continues, “You’ll have more difficulties with men and relationships in the future. You’ll ignore men and remain single. Later, you’ll try to date again but without selection. You’ll meet men who'll judge you for your beliefs. You’ll learn this lesson quickly; then you’ll use it so no one ever steps in the place Enzo dominated. You are not holding the space for Enzo’s return; rather, you are simply preventing another lover form residing in that home.”
I watch him, not with anger, not fear, just waiting, listening to him.
“Enzo will reappear over and over in your mind. Even in your dreams. You’ll be confused for a time thinking you’re trying to get over the relationship. You have recovered from the loss of the relationship. Now, you are examining the more important and more difficult issue of his abuse.”
The word Abuse clashes against my head. “I wasn’t abused. He never hit me.” Shaking my head ‘no’.
Solitude’s voice drops to not express exaggeration, “Yes, you were. It was abuse. Emotional abuse.” His heavy words knock a hole in the protective glass house surrounding my memories which I had buried deep within my subconscious.
Emotional abuse?
“Emotional abuse? Is that what our relationship was?” I ask honestly.
“Getting you dependent on him, the isolation. The sabotage of happy times. All abusers use these activities to control, punish, and emotionally strip their victim.”
“Is this why I hold so much anger and hatred toward him?”
“Yes,” Solitude says. “That anger will be directed in destructive directions, projected on to other men. You’ll cause fights, where no fights need be; you’ll cause tension to grow in you, where no tension need be.”
“How am I going get rid of this anger?”
“If only anger could be done away with by using bubble wrap, popped into flat unusable plastic and tossed aside. Anger is an emotion. Emotions are dealt with by addressing them honestly, fully, and carefully. You have to make an effort to stop being angry. ”
“That’s not likely to happen.” I turn my eyes back to the sea.
“Not today,” he says and I hear his smile, “This is not the debriefing but the briefing.”
“Before the battle.”
“The briefing before a descent into hell,” he says.
I quickly glance at him and find him not smiling, not joking. He’s not employing hyperbole.
“You’re going to be dealing with this in many ways, most of them destructive. There will be tears, there will be anger. You’ll argue with Enzo in your head. You’ll cry about Enzo while you are alone. At times, you will feel dead inside. You’ll try to remember the last time you laughed honestly, loudly, but you won’t be able to remember it. You’ll even believe Enzo killed you. Yes, this is the briefing before a descent into hell.”
While overwhelmed and nervous, I understand Solitude. Often over the past months, I asked myself what happened to the old fun loving me. Why do I not laugh like I used to laugh? Why am I no longer the recontour at parties? I’m a serious, smiling, sad person. “Will it ever be over?”
“Over, as in finished? No, but it will get easier. Manageable. Livable. Remember what the mother in Torch Song Trilogy says?”
“She says that we don’t get over a death, we just get used to it like wearing a new ring or a pair of glasses. She says the loss becomes a part of us.”
“If you allow yourself to deal with the abuse honestly, the ring will become a part of you the same way. Except one day you’ll take off the ring because you will have grown and the ring will no longer fit. You’ll put it in a box, seeing it from time to time, remembering from time to time.”
“I find myself regretting and wishing I hadn’t been so stupid.”
“We all have had moments we wish never happened but directing your energy in dreaming impedes healing.”
My eyes look at the sea and we remain quiet. For the last few weeks, I’ve endured the first symptoms, the first pains of dealing with the realization I was abused.
Abuse. Abuse sounds violent, yet it comes in many forms. I was controlled, emotionally neglected. Epiphanies, I believed, are sudden realizations of something positive. Yet, I stand at the sea feeling pain, feeling lonely, feeling scared of my epiphany. Epiphanies are realizations of reality.
I need this quiet, the quiet of the sea in October.
Time passes slowly until Solitude says, “You cannot remain here. The sea doesn’t allow for avoidance. She fortifies, but she doesn’t hide.”
I understand and accept and start to walk away, but Solitude holds my arm for one last bit of advice, “Marshall, in the future, your body-memory will come alive, and if not ignored will lead you to me. Listen to the body-memory and allow your body to help you. Listen and remember the sea.”
I nod and he releases me. As I walk away, the wind off the sea follows me to bring farewells and good lucks. I turn toward west.
My right foot rises moving forward as I begin my new journey to my new home somewhere in the future, somewhere warm, cozy, loving, restful. Somewhere without anger, where abuse never visits.
Standing diagonally from me, I see a gray figure of a man pointing. The Gray Man Ghost points not to the sea as he normally points, as a warning of the impending storm but pointing to the west, the direction of my journey. A mixture of foreboding and comfort permeate me.
“Marshall,” Solitude says, causing me to look over my shoulder; the Gray Man disappears, “rejoice . . . for joy will come to you.”
Dedicated to Dr. Karen Gainey
Drinking Pisco Sours with Andrew
How I Finally Found My True Voice
So begins the seventh draft of my latest story, the one I hoped would make Andrew happy and Sylvia finally proud.
Yet I can’t believe I still use that simile, like dancing popcorn. Talk about corny! Even worse, unoriginal. You’d think I could do better. After all, I’ve written three novels, two novellas, one novelette, 17 short stores, 29 pieces of flash fiction and hundreds of poems, and nearly all my teachers have said I was born to write.
I think they’ve been lying. I was born to suffer.
But I won’t lie—I’m still unpublished. Perhaps, then, you won’t mind that I borrowed that simile. OK, I stole it. So shoot me! As if I could give a shit. As if you haven’t ever committed an act of literary larceny, copped a well-turned phrase every now and then. I bet you have, especially if you’re like me: not just an embittered writer in the classic mode, but a contented reader of the classics, as well as a meticulous note taker, who keeps a comprehensive file of the most memorable lines ever written. Though I realize you probably don’t draw yours, as I do, almost exclusively from literature’s greatest tragedies and tragicomedies, ranging from Oedipus Rex and Macbeth to Humboldt’s Gift and, my all-time favorite, Portnoy’s Complaint.
It wouldn’t surprise me if some of today’s celebrity authors were equally larcenous; with teams of crack researchers, they’re just much better at it than we are. Of course they have to be. Millions read their blockbusters, so they have to be particularly selective as to what they pilfer, and use sources far more obscure than a Sophocles, Shakespeare, Bellow or Roth. And If they get caught and sued, they have what the rest of us poor writing slobs don’t: the best shysters money can buy to prove it wasn’t their fault and to blame their transgression on drugs--for instance, the well-established side effects of the opioids they’ve been abusing for their sciatica, the result of sitting day and night at their computers crafting their page-turning thrillers and enchanting cozy mysteries.
When all else fails, they can always attribute such behavior to the still-unknown, but hotly debated, consequences of another addiction shared by creatives of all stripes--eating weed gummy bears like there’s no tomorrow.
I abuse opioids, too, for my sciatica, as well as for numerous other maladies, mostly of the phantom sort. I’m also a proud, card-carrying medical marijuana user, though only of the real McCoy and only in an old-fashioned joint, not that sissy CBD in a god-awful gummy bear.
Unlike those other thieves, I blame only myself for my sins, perhaps because at this stage of the game I’ve got nothing to lose by admitting I’m a loser. In other words, just your typical unknown writer still searching desperately for his elusive true voice--not to mention true love.
I’d settle for just getting laid every once in a while, like once every decade or so, my current dry spell.
If that’s not bad enough, even my old teddy bear rejected me. Maybe Freddy saw something in me he saw in himself and didn’t like. I know that, like Freddy, I’m probably not what you’d call lovable, and certainly not sexy--with a prominent tuchis that would be my best feature if it weren’t almost as hairy as his. Yet throughout my life, paradoxically, I’ve had no problem attracting women, if only the most discriminating kind: those willing to look past obvious physical flaws to appreciate the virtues of exceptional wit, intellect and modesty, and who, ideally, share a neurosis or two. Not that I’m Arthur Miller, nor that any of these women was Marilyn Monroe.
Take the brainy Laura Bates, gaunt and chalk pale. She was my last girlfriend, however briefly and asexually. Some might say she damaged my self-esteem and took my mojo away. A slight exaggeration; many before her, notably my mother and my three ex-wives, had already done a pretty good job of that.
Laura did have more in common with me than any before her. If I were a mensch, I might’ve fallen madly in love with her. She was that special, the smartest person I’ve ever known. I’d get a hard-on just listening to her talk passionately about her academic specialty: non-binary sexual metaphors in 19th century symbolist poetry.
To top it off, and why I remember her so fondly, she never even once mentioned any of my glaring physical shortcomings including, remarkably, that feature most obvious by its absence.
A fellow writer, Laura was my soul mate in rejection. Unlike me, she didn’t talk about it constantly. In fact, the only time I recall her ever alluding to her lack of literary success was on our first encounter at a summer poetry workshop at Vermont College of Fine Arts, a support group of sorts for frustrated writers.
When we introduced ourselves, she announced, “I’m Laura, the holder of the Guinness World Record for the most rejection letters ever received in a single year from lit mags—11, 709.”
Everyone responded enthusiastically, “Hello Laura!”
Then a smartass—there’s always one in every writers group-- said, “That’s bad, Laura, and I do empathize, but I got you beat . . . if you count rejections from the new online lit mags that’ll publish anything, in any kind of voice, even a hamster’s, then give you a prize, as long as you cough up 20 bucks.”
I swear that wasn’t me. I’m not that desperate, would never stoop so low to submit my work to those bottom feeders of the literary world. They shamelessly exploit the weaknesses of my fellow losers, as if we’re unaware that we don’t deserve to be published in a legitimate literary journal!
When it was my turn, I said, “I’m Ben, a miserable failure too, but don’t like to talk about myself to complete strangers. So let’s talk instead about Infinite Jest, an Emperor’s New Clothes joke if there ever was one! Every time I tried to read it I wished I’d first taken a couple of Percocets. Are you sure this isn’t an NA meeting?”
“Hello Ben,” the others replied--if less enthusiastically. And I’m pretty sure I also heard someone whisper, “Get lost, Ben”--no doubt that wisenheimer who wanted to dispute Laura’s record of rejection.
Like me, Laura was struggling mightily to find her true voice. Unlike me, Laura was, as well, struggling to find her true sexual identity, something I never had to question. Based on my track record with women, maybe I should have.
I guess I was blinded by her erudition, particularly the elegant way she’d sprinkle into conversations literary references far more obscure than the ones I use routinely. Laura’s, too, were invariably classy, unlike the decidedly lowbrow ones of my last wife who, when she dumped me, said: “You’ve always reminded me of Holden in Catcher in the Rye . . . an obnoxious self-absorbed teenager.”
One afternoon at the workshop, we decided to skip what promised to be a totally absurd lecture—"Making a Living as a Poet.”
“Let’s rent a movie,” I suggested. “How about Life is Beautiful? My favorite cinematic tragicomedy—well, next to The Sorrow and the Pity, of course. I almost cried the last time I saw it. You’re obviously a Europhile and now, after watching it six times, I’m quite certain I’m finally symptom free of second-generation concentration camp survivor syndrome.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Laura said. “Maybe what you need instead is a heavy dose of Mother Nature. I know I could use a change of scenery and some fresh air to clear my head. There’s only so much purple prose I can listen to in a given day. We could take a walk through the woods to this lovely pond I’ve heard is fed by a virgin spring!”
“And swim in it?”
Laura nodded, smiling. “And get to know each other better in it. What could be finer? To quote Horace, Ode 26: ‘Sweet muse, who lov’st the Virgin Spring.’”
Anxious to finally spend some private time with her, and impressed by that recherché literary allusion, I agreed, despite my aversion to walking, fresh air, the woods and any natural body of water—virgin or not. Swimming is not my thing, either. I’m more of a bathtub floater, my specialty the classic dead man’s float.
Surprisingly, Laura took off all her clothes before getting into the water; unsurprisingly, I didn’t, being self-conscious about my hairy tuchis, which I suspected even the ever-discreet Laura couldn’t help but comment on.
“Stop staring at me!” Laura said, when she’d disrobed. “Yes, I’m skinny . . . but so what? I’ve got good bones. That’s what matters the most, as you’d know if you read my favorite poem by one of the followers of the Minoan Snake Goddess cult in ancient Crete. It begins, ‘Oh, wise and strong Snake Goddess, protect our house, our soul, and give us the strength to survive the ravages of men.’ The prophetic poet, perhaps the earliest feminist, obviously wasn’t referring to the palace in Knossos of the revolting King Minos, that patriarchal creep.”
“Sorry,” I said, trying to suck in my gut as I hiked up my saggy L. L. Bean cargo shorts. “Never heard of that poem. But thanks for enlightening me. Its opening line is a winner. I’ll be sure to add it to my file of the most memorable lines ever written, even if I doubt I’ll ever steal it. Can’t imagine how I could ever use it. Was that prophetic feminist poet famous in her time?”
“She was anonymous,” Laura said, stepping into the water. “Like most women through the ages.”
“I hear you,” I said, following her in, and wishing I hadn’t removed my Birkenstocks and socks as I felt my feet sink into the deep slimy mud. “Women have been screwed ever since that sexist snake seduced Eve, their voices silenced. My mother’s, unfortunately, was the one exception.”
Laura turned and smiled. “I like you, Ben. I think we’re simpatico. You’re witty and cerebral yet sensitive, and the raw passion in your poetry moves me. Except, from what I’m hearing, echoed in that poem you read to our group yesterday, you seem unduly obsessed with mothers, yours in particular. And that does worry me, if we—"
“I wouldn’t worry, she had good bones too. I just wish hers were a bit softer, and that she would’ve liked my poetry more, especially the poem I was most proud of and gave her as a Hanukkah gift.”
“I can understand her reaction if it was anything like the one you read to our group: abstrusely passive-aggressive, yet with overtly bitter undertones about your relationship.”
“No, that Hanukkah poem was quite different. I wrote it when I was just 12, not yet bitter, lost and maimed . . . heart, body and soul. And it was the old-fashioned kind that would never be published, even self-published, today.”
Laura laughed, splashing water at me. “Like mine? Comprehensible and unpretentious?”
I splashed water back at her. “Yes, though perhaps you should lose the footnotes in yours.”
“Are you flirting with me, Ben?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. But what I do know is that my poem was also tender. It even rhymed, the sentiment and a few words admittedly borrowed from Robert Louis Stevenson’s, To My Mother. So it really hurt when she read it and said, ‘For this I survived Auschwitz?’”
A week later, to celebrate the end of the workshop, I took Laura out to dinner at La Peste en Rose, a charming French bistro. I’d picked it to please her, not simply because the owner obviously shared my love of Camus, Piaf and existential irony. While I sensed Laura wasn’t also a big fan of Absurdist Fiction, I had to conclude that, after seeing the T-shirt she’d removed when we went swimming, she at least loved Proust. On the front, in French Antique font, it read À la Recherche du Temps Perdu. On the back was a picture of Marcel dipping a madeleine in his cup of tea.
Would this romantic dinner with her finally provide my long-sought madeleine moment?
I passed Laura the pretty, blue-and-white pâté plate, but she waved it away, frowning. “Do you really think I’d eat the very symbol of Western civilization’s male-driven gluttony, debauchery and decline?”
“Okay. How about we go straight to dessert, its symbolic, Eastern female-driven counterpart? I hear the madeleines at La Peste can’t be beat, allegedly based on the original Proust family recipe. Apocryphal, no doubt. I’m sure you know that Jeanne, Marcel’s mom, never cooked nor baked.”
Laura nodded, running her long bony fingers through her short, spiky red hair. “A Jewish princess, from what I’ve read.”
“I’d take one any day over the doozy I had for a mother, who never cooked either. A Jewish Marie Antoinette is more like it. Instead of cake she fed me Swanson TV Dinners every night, yet wouldn’t let me watch TV, not even the Micky Mouse Club. When I once told her I’d watched it at a friend’s house and liked the Mousketeers, she said, ‘That schlock, only the goyim watch, and those Mouseketeers, don’t trust, secret Nazis each and every one!’”
Laura laughed, weakly, then sat up straight. “I should tell you, Ben, before we get too involved, that I’m vegan, with a history of eating disorders and making bad choices.”
I reached for the basket of French bread. “As in men? Or in diary-free alternatives to a traditional bagel schmear?”
“As in choosing a lover who isn’t a complete loser. You should also know that I’m in the midst of a month-long grape cleanse . . . and my second mid-life crisis.”
I picked up a slice of the warm, fragrant French bread, and spread some pâté thickly on it. “What was your first?”
“In grad school, when I was trying to decide if I was bi.”
I dropped the bread. “Oh. How’d that turn out? Should I order some grapes . . . red or white?”
“Thanks, but I’m fasting today, feeling constipated. I went back and forth, male to female, as I switched my specialty in 19th century literature from the Russians to the French, then back again at least a dozen times, unable to decide which I liked the most.”
I took a sip of Perrier, wishing I’d ordered whiskey. “And the final score? Still switch-hitting? AC/DC, so to speak. Archaically, I realize. But I’ve never understood its finer points, whether speaking electronically or sexually. I’ve never been good at baseball analogies, either. Maybe I’d be better if I’d had a father to play catch with. And I’ve never even tried phone sex or anonymous sex digitally, except with myself. I suppose I wouldn’t be so sexually repressed if my mother hadn’t once caught me masturbating while reading Tropic of Cancer. It didn’t help that she said, ‘If your shlong doesn’t get any bigger, Benjamin, you’ll end up shtupping only books.’”
Laura stared at me. “Whew! Are you always like this on a date? Ranting like Woody Allen, but on steroids.”
“Ignacius J. Reilly, I’d like to think. But only on first dates with intimidatingly brilliant women of the ambiguous sexual persuasion. How about some kombucha? It’s a wonderful digestive, and I have a nice little bottle in my car I always keep for special occasions like this.”
Laura shook her head. “It’s fattening, and a product of but another civilization whose men through the ages kept women down, yet built it on their backs. There’s nothing ambiguous about that, nor about being bisexual. But since you asked, the final score was a draw. Vacillation has always been my weakness in matters of both the mind and the heart, though I did end up doing my dissertation on the sexual symbolism in the poetry of Rimbaud, Verlaine and Baudelaire.”
“Implying that you prefer females?”
“Implying nothing of the sort, and that’s ancient history anyway. I don’t want to revisit it, disgusted with myself for having then perpetuated the patriarchal literary tradition I now detest. My second mid-life crisis is my only concern. It’s much more intense and complicated than the first. But what I have determined, finally, is that I’m asexual.”
“Oh,” I said, then took a big bite of French bread, and began to choke.
“Are you alright?”
I gulped down some Perrier, then wiped pâté off my lips. “Suggesting absolutely no sex whatsoever?”
Laura nodded, reaching across the table and placing her hand gently on top of mine. “Will that be a problem, Ben? If it will, we can just be friends. Because I do understand it’s a lot to ask of you, of any man.”
“No problem at all,” I lied, wanting to say instead, “I could still be your secret Russian fuck buddy for old times’ sake, sexual identity and political correctness be damned!”
Laura squeezed my hand. “Thank goddess! And you’ll be happy to hear that I’m the romantic kind of asexual, an ace of hearts . . . not the aromantic type, an ace of spades.”
“I can’t honestly say hearing that makes me happy. But don’t get me wrong . . . I have nothing against aces of any kind, hearts or spades. Some of the greatest writers, musicians, artists and thinkers were asexual. Shaw, Chopin, Dali and Newton, for instance. And for the hoi polloi, there’s always Jughead Jones and SpongeBob.”
“Have you forgotten all the great female aces of history? Oh, that’s right—they’re all anonymous.” Laura slammed her palm on the table. “And stop patronizing me! Why is everything a joke to you? Yet I never hear you laugh.”
Feeling the familiar gut kick, I yanked my sweaty hand from under hers. “Should I cry instead? I wish I could but can’t. I know if I started I’d never stop. It’s all too much.”
“What is?”
“The absurdity of it all.”
“The eternal pain of being?”
“That, and the endless joy of reading Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy for the very first time.”
“Or, as Sartre put it so eloquently, Le néant hante l’entre.”
“Or, as my mother put it so crudely, ‘Life’s one big schlep, God’s gift to us--his chosen people!’”
Laura laughed. “I think you know I find you very attractive. You’re so—"
“Pitiful?”
“No, adorable and . . . soulful.”
“Me?” I looked away, then down, picked up the cloth napkin in my lap and tossed it at her.
Smiling, she tossed it back. “Are you making a pass at me, Mr. Schwartz?”
“God only knows, Ms. Bates, and he or she never talks to me. I do like you, but know nothing about asexuality, have no experience with aces. You’re the first.”
“No wonder. We’ve always had to hide, made to think there was something horribly wrong with us. But finally we’re coming out, proud of who we are, and there’s millions of us out there about to change the world!”
“Go for it, Laura. Why not? Maybe you women, and you aces, can fix what us men, and us sexuaIs . . . or, in my case, quasi-sexual joker cards . . . have fucked up since the dawn of civilization. Sex is overrated anyway. And friends or lovers, we’ll always have Proust.”
Laura stroked my hand. “You’re sweet, Ben and even better, honest. My first impression of you was prescient, when I sensed you were different than all the other men I’ve ever known.”
“I am. My crisis has been lifelong, beginning when I was born, the very first time my mother looked at me and reportedly said to the attending doctor, ‘Oy veh, a mistake he is, I don’t want! But a discount on your delivery charge, that I want.’”
“Sorry about that. She does sound like a real piece of work. But I think you managed to navigate your crises, or at least survive and find humor in them. And I think I’ve finally found a man who isn’t interested solely in sex!”
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far, despite sex never doing much good for me, never being lucky in love.”
Laura playfully nudged my foot under the table. “Maybe your luck is about to change. If you believe, or want to believe, there can be love . . . and I mean romantic love . . . without sex.”
“Hard to believe and, anyhow, falling in love romantically is not what it’s cracked up to be, as my three marriages attest . . . when inevitably you end up with neither love nor sex.”
Laura smiled, pressing her foot against mine, and not at all aromantically. “But It happens all the time among aces. Did you know it sometimes even happens between aces and sexuals who have as much in common as you and I?”
“If you say so. I wouldn’t know, the wrong person to ask about love. I couldn’t even express my feelings to the only one I know I wanted to love desperately despite our problems.”
“Your mother, no doubt.”
I nodded. “But I’d rather talk about my teddy bear. Freddy might’ve been a hard-ass too, and maybe we’d have bonded better if I’d had the sense to call him Shlomo instead of that goyish name. But at least he let me snuggle with him once in a while, and never ever bitched when I read my poetry out loud.”
I suppose I shouldn’t complain about my pathetic love life—at least I’ve never suffered from writer’s block. Nothing, anyway, as crippling as Capote’s decade-long bout with it, nor as suicide-inducing as that experienced by Hemingway and Wallace.
Truth be told, if I were to off myself it would be because I suffer from the very opposite of writer’s block: an inability to stop writing, despite knowing I should and get a real job. Right—and Mother Mary was a virgin!
Maybe I should just smarten up and do what everyone and his or her mother does today: write a memoir and self-publish it, unashamed to share the boring details of their lives, thanks, some may say, to the success of My Struggle. I’d rather thank God that Karl had the decency to finally finish writing it, and spare us the misery of reading another mind-numbing installment.
I’ve never tried to write a memoir, or a ME-more, as I like it to call it. Perhaps that’s because I know better than to reveal the truth. My life hasn’t exactly been a memorable one, or brought me much happiness, other than fleetingly, such as that time I danced with, then kissed, the hottest girl in school, unaware that, as a result, I’d soon lose something far more precious than my innocence.
I have, however, tried just about every other writing form and style, studied the techniques of all the masters, and I do pride myself on my work ethic and knowledge of literature. No wonder a former writing teacher once told me this: “You’re the most well-read, hardest working student I’ve ever known. You can write like anyone--except, unfortunately, yourself.”
While I’m on a roll enumerating my many flaws, I might as well spill all the beans and reveal the source of that lame simile in my opening sentence. I jacked it from a classic story in The Saturday Evening Post, dated November 16, 1957. The back cover is an ad for Betty Crocker’s New Mystery Fruitcake. I found the picture of that fruitcake far more appealing than the story in question, ‘Lady in Danger.” But then again it’s no mystery that I have peculiar tastes. I actually love fruitcake, the gift that everyone loves to hate. I eat it not just on Christmas, a holiday I don’t celebrate, but on Passover, when I bake my own with matzoh meal. So what if it's not kosher—I’m not either, just your everyday self-loathing Jew.
Around the time that folks first began to eat Betty Crocker’s New Mystery Fruitcake, I was eating a Hershey’s bar I’d bought at Abe’s candy story in Brooklyn. I was on my way to Hebrew school when I ran into my former grade school classmate, Tony Razzeri, who’d soon be on his way to reform school.
I was preparing for my bar mitzvah. Tony was preparing for something else—and my life would never be the same again.
I should’ve seen it coming. Tony had it in for me ever since he saw me French--or maybe Ashkenazi--kissing his ex-girlfriend, Connie Favioli, after dancing the cha-cha with her at the sixth-grade class dance. He then kicked my balls and punched my face, while I crumpled and just took it.
Now Tony was leaning against the lamppost at the corner of Marcy and Hart, his big gold crucifix shining in the bright afternoon sun. He grinned at me as I crossed the street, heading straight toward him.
I’ve often wondered why I did. I’d like to think it was because I wanted to prove I wasn’t a coward. But I know that it’s much simpler. I’m the sort of schlemiel who always wants to believe that conflict builds character, then continually proves to himself that he’s wrong. I just love to suffer.
“Hey jewboy . . . pinch that candy bar?” Tony shouted, then took a long drag on his Lucky Strike.
“Yeah, pinched it,” I lied, trying to maintain my pace as I approached him.
“You’re full of shit.”
“Stole it right in front of Abe’s eyes,” I said, surprised to hear myself continue to talk like a tough guy, yet liking how it felt.
“Who the fuck you think you talking to!”
I stopped, now just a few feet from Tony, watching him finger his crucifix while my heart banged away beneath my gold Star of David.
Tony lifted his crucifix off his chest. “Didn’t hear you. Speak up, hebe, or I’ll make you kiss this. I know you like to kiss.”
Kiss my ass! I wanted to say. Instead I dropped the Hershey’s wrapper and just stood there, hands shaking, knowing it didn’t matter now what I said or did--it was already too late.
Tony stood there, grinning, one hand now on his hip, the other behind his back. “On your way to yid school?”
“What’s it to you?” I said, repeating a line from the gangster movie, Baby Face Nelson, I’d just seen. But I didn’t like the way it made me feel, like I was about to shit my pants.
“Did I hear you right, hymie? Guess you don’t remember that time I beat the shit out of you, and you did nothing.”
“I was just a kid then, and now—"
“You’re what? A man . . . Rocky Marciano?” Tony laughed as he tossed his cigarette in the gutter, then stepped off the curb toward me. ”If you are, show me, kike. But bet you’re too chicken like all the rest of ‘em.”
God forbid I’d act like them, the nice Jewish boys in my ‘hood, who’d wisely shut their mouths and walk or even run away from Tony. But no, I acted like the real man I hoped to soon become once I was bar mitzvahed. I did what my soon-to-be idol, the macho Norman Mailer, no doubt would’ve done, or at least claim to have done.
“Come and get it, wop!” I yelled, holding my ground with rubbery legs.
Tony jumped at me, his right hand still behind his back. I threw the first punch, a right hook, but Tony blocked it with his left arm and whipped his right around. I never saw the hatchet that severed my right arm at the elbow.
Yes, life threw me a nasty curveball (screwball?) that has taken its toll in ways both obvious and insidious, the latter unimaginable to a naïve teenager and still, sadly, unresolved more than half a century later as I, no wiser, continue to ponder the cruel irony in that innocent first kiss.
Lucky, though, I’m a lefty, and that this seminal event in my life at least kept me out of Vietnam.
I realize it’s unseemly to ask for pity, but screw that too. So, now that you know I’m not merely your run-of-the-mill loser, but a really old and certifiably disabled motherfucker, go ahead and feel sorry for me if you like.
Still, you’d think by now I’d have figured out how to make my writing sound authentic. That long ago I’d have dumped like dancing popcorn, and had the guts to use instead like a Jew dancing in sea of despair. After all, I’m not just a lifelong learner but, since retiring, something even better: a creative writing instruction junkie. I’ve attended 37 workshops and 29 conferences, not to say more emerging writers retreats in exotic locales than I care to count.
I’m not sure why I always get invited. Sure, I keep hearing I have lots of natural talent and potential. But at this age I don’t really qualify as a so-called emerging writer. In fact, I remain fully submerged. Perhaps what they really appreciate is that I have lots of discretionary funds, not to mention that I’m a sucker for emotional self-abuse, both of which I can thank my dear mother for.
The one-and-only Sylvia was the proprietor of Sylvia’s Discount Wigs, a popular hangout for the Orthodox Jewish women of Crown Heights, where she was known as the Sheitel Macher of Brooklyn. Indeed, she was such a force of nature that even the Big Macher must’ve been in awe of her and her twisted Yinglish syntax, though my mother called herself simply the Cheap Wig Lady. Yes, that selfless woman who never even liked wigs nor, for that matter, Orthodox Judaism, especially its men, would never let me forget how much she’d sacrificed so I wouldn’t have to suffer as she had.
And then there are the words of encouragement she once gave me that I now wish I could forget: “Sholem Aleichem you’re not, my boychik. But if nothing else, an original at least you are.”
She offered this backhanded compliment after reading the draft of the speech I was required to give at the conclusion of my bar mitzvah ceremony. It was an excerpt from my first piece of serious writing: a three act play in the mode of the then-trendy Theater of the Absurd. Sure, I’d modeled it after Waiting for Godot, and astute readers no doubt would’ve recognized Beckett’s voice in it. Still, I swear I didn’t steal a single word of his. Well, I suppose I did paraphrase one famous line: People are bloody ignorant apes. But many folks have said much the same thing about our species and weren’t accused of plagiarism.
In the first act of Howling with Alan, Mr. Ginsburg, my favorite poet at the time, appears on stage as a precocious teenager alongside his elderly rabbi. They engage in a Socratic monologue, so to speak. Alan poses questions, then answers them himself, arguing that since God is dead there’s no reason to be bar mitzvahed. The rabbi stares at him, speechless. Alan then begins to howl uncontrollably. The rabbi strokes his long white beard. In the second act, the dizzying dissonant tones of Thelonious Monk’s “Brilliant Corners” fill the theater, but absolutely nothing else—absurd or otherwise—happens. Indeed, the curtain remains closed throughout. In the final act, Alan and the rabbi reappear, the former howling again. The rabbi now finds this funny, appreciates its subtle irony, and begins to laugh hysterically, repeating over and over to Alan--this act’s sole line of dialogue—"Please stop, you’re killing me!”
At the last emerging writers retreat I attended, in Machu Picchu, I might’ve been better off submitting Howling with Alan than Digging Clams with One Hand Only. Andrew, the writing teacher who critiqued it, had a take on my originality that wasn’t nearly as encouraging as my mother’s.
I suppose I should’ve seen that coming too when, as Andrew passed me back Digging Clams, he said, “I think you could use a cocktail, Ben.”
“Now? Before breakfast? Do I look that bad? I know I haven’t shaved or changed my shirt since I got it here a week ago. And I did stay up late last night revising the opening line of my piece . . . again. But--”
“You look fine, Ben. I just thought it would settle your nerves. I know how these one-on-one sessions can affect students. And I’m referring to a drink that’s hard to resist, the legendary Pisco Sour that Hemingway loved! Some say he invented it, though even I, a big Hemingway fan, believe that’s apocryphal. But what isn’t is that Peru’s national drink is infused with the essence of coca leaves, the secret, some also say, behind Papa’s prodigious feat of catching a 1700- pound marlin when he visited Peru during the filming of The Old Man and the Sea.”
“Seven hundred pounds is more like it, from what I read. Regardless, thanks for the offer, Andrew, I think I’ll pass. I just took my first oxy of the day.”
“I insist,” he said. “The Pisco Sours are superb here at the Belmond Sanctuary Lodge, no matter the time of day.”
Andrew slid a glass across the table toward me, then filled his from the handsome, hand-painted ceramic pitcher of Pisco Sours that always seemed to magically appear whenever writers at the retreat gathered to pursue their craft—or talk about it, anyway.
I shook my head as I covered the glass with my stump—or nub, as some of us like to call it.
“Sorry, don’t care for mixed drinks, they’re a tad too girly for me, and you’d think a Pisco Sour would’ve been for Papa too.”
Andrew lifted his glass to his mouth, then put it down. He stared at me, my nub. “Not to be nosy, Ben, but how come you don’t wear a prosthetic? It must be hard to write on a computer with only one hand, slow at any rate.”
“I guess you could call me a purist. Like my whiskey straight, coffee black and body real, if not as real as the tsuris I knew growing up with a mother who made Sophie Portnoy look good. And writing for me is hard and slow any which way I do it--though much easier and faster than digging clams with one hand only.”
Andrew glanced at my Digging Clams piece on the table. “Speaking of which, I also wanted to ask you if your story was intended to be a final draft.”
“No, it’s just my first . . . my rough . . . very rough draft,” I lied. “What the hell, pour me a drink! And while I’m at it I might as well take another pain pill. Today’s as good a day as any to die, as Crazy Horse liked to say.”
Andrew filled my glass, embossed with the resort’s logo depicting an Inca maiden, resplendent in a feathered headdress, drinking from a golden goblet filled with what must be, I deduced, the legendary Pisco Sour.
Andrew raised his glass, reached out and tapped mine. “I prefer to say it in a more original way . . . Heghlumeh Qaq Jajvan.”
I washed the oxy down with a sip of my Pisco Sour. “Is that Incan?”
“No, it’s Klingon, from Star Trek.”
“Are you a Trekkie?”
“Hardly. I’m a Yalie and a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.”
We sat next to each other at a stylish conference table of richly grained, exotic hardwood, no doubt harvested illegally from virgin stands in the Amazon. I gazed past the young, good-looking Andrew, dressed as always all in black, his dark, neatly-trimmed Baldo beard nicely complementing his pale round face and thin lips. Out the big picture window behind him rose the majestic ancient Inca citadel, packed as always with tourists taking selfies and wandering off the paths, no doubt destroying the place. The pain pills were kicking in. I took another sip of my cocktail, thinking how lucky I was to be here, knowing I could be back home in Tucson suffering instead, sweltering to death in the dreaded monsoon season. And, who knows, maybe I was misinterpreting the implication in Andrew’s “final draft” question.
I picked up Digging Clams and leafed through it, surprised—no, shocked--that there wasn’t a single correction or comment!
When I looked up, Andrew’s eyes and mouth were open wide. A concerned look that reminded me of the one I often see on the faces of people--women mostly--when they first recognize I’m a crip--as some of us call ourselves. Could it be he was feeling sorry for me? I certainly hoped so. But if he was, you’d think the arrogant bastard would’ve written something nice in the margins of my manuscript! A happy face, if nothing else, with an arrow pointing to a clever word, simile or metaphor.
Andrew emptied his glass, then cleared his throat. “I’m going to be completely honest with you and not pussyfoot around, because I like you, Ben, I truly do. Hopefully this will spare you the grief of further revision. Don’t bother. I know good writing when I read it, and this isn’t it.”
Good or not, Digging Clams remains my favorite among the tragicomedies comprising the bulk of my oeuvre to date, and I’m damn proud of it, especially the 18th draft Andrew was dissing, begun shortly after my last divorce ten years earlier. I completely revised the story then, using a far more mature voice and adding a new subtitle, An Altacocker’s Cautionary Tale, to capture my newfound wisdom: digging clams, even with two hands, is not what it seems. It’s more like falling in love with the wrong person then having to dig your way out of the deep muddy mess you’ve made of your life, while knowing that not even the likes of Mike Mulligan’s legendary steam shovel could save you.
This cautionary tale is loosely based on my brief career as a commercial fisherman, my seventh consecutive unsuccessful attempt at making a living when I was young and chasing experience, what all aspiring writers are supposed to do so as to have the material to write honestly. This was before I became a high school English teacher and discovered my true calling, the only thing I’m honestly any good at: teaching others what I’ve yet to master.
Nevertheless, I have been around the block enough times to know I’m not the only teacher with that shortcoming. I wanted to tell Andrew, that pompous asshole, “What you’re really saying is you know what you like . . . hearing yourself talk and repeating what you were taught at school to like.”
But, following the recommended etiquette of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, I politely said instead, “How come you think it’s a piece of shit? In a word, fakakta, what my mother called everything I ever did.”
“Regrettably, it has neither a discernible plot nor any narrative arc to speak of, offers nothing that’s thought provoking nor emotionally evocative, and the characters are neither credible nor likable. Finally, while I clearly heard echoes, both thematically and stylistically, of Melville in Moby Dick, the fact remains that digging crustaceans, symbolically or metaphorically, is scarcely in the same league as hunting the great sperm whale.”
“Is that all? Glad you liked it so much, Andrew. But surely it has some redeeming feature . . . made you laugh a time or two. Christ, I’ve been working on it for years!”
“Believe me, Ben, if I really thought it had I’d be the first to tell you. The main problem is simply that your writing doesn’t sound authentic, like your true voice.”
I glared at Andrew. “How can anyone honestly know what their true voice is? And if I can’t, how can you?”
Andrew averted his gaze, drummed his fingers on the table. “I agree, that does sound paradoxical, if not oxymoronic, undoubtedly because it’s one of those things that’s best not intellectualized. Skilled editors and critics, however, can just intuit it. Be that as it may, you’re making this far too complicated, the flaw common to emerging writers. Writing’s not hard. All you have to do is sit down at a computer and bleed.”
“That doesn’t sound very original, your true voice,” I wished I’d said to him.
But I did have the balls to look the phony straight in the eye and say, “That sounds awfully familiar. A lot of good all that bleeding did for Papa in the end, when he put a shotgun to his head.”
“But think of what treasures we’d have lost if he hadn’t bled like Abraham’s sacrificial lamb!”
I thought of telling the wimp I knew a thing or two about bleeding—the authentic gushing sort—but figured he was too squeamish to hear even a sanitized version of how I ended up digging clams with one hand only.
So, instead I said, “It was a ram, not a lamb, that Abraham sacrificed.”
“I only studied the Bible as literature, and sheep confuse me, the many names used to distinguish their differences . . . horned, castrated, shorn, pregnant, lactating and the like.”
“But I bet your hero did, knew sheep very well, perhaps even in the biblical sense, except toward the end when he was so farblondget he probably shot a few, thinking they were his enemies or ex-wives.”
Andrew sighed. “Go ahead and make fun of him, everyone does today. They’re just jealous of the life he lived, to the full. And all geniuses are easy targets, with their many peccadilloes. Victor Hugo wrote naked when he needed to meet a deadline. And Dan Brown hangs upside down when suffering from writer’s block, which isn’t to suggest I think that hack’s a genius. Papa’s old war wounds just caught up with him in the end, that’s all.”
“Or was it more that his mother made him dress like a girl when he was a kid?”
Andrew poured himself another Pisco Sour, put his elbows on the table, his head propped in his hands, and stared at his glass, an odd look on his face that for some reason worried me. Did he still have another bombshell to drop? Had he told the retreat’s organizer that my writing sucked so bad I shouldn’t be invited to next year’s event?
Not that I was planning to attend. It was going to be at al-Mashtal, the new 5-Star destination resort in the Gaza Strip, not exactly my favorite place on earth. And not only wouldn’t the staff appreciate my sense of humor, but I wouldn’t be able to wear my lucky writing charm, my Star of David. I won’t go anywhere without it. My mother gave it to me at my bar mitzvah. It had belonged to my uncle Sam, her brother who’d been murdered by the Nazis. When I told Sylvia at the after-party that I’d decided to become a writer, she reminded me that Sam also had that ambition, and then said, as she put his Star of David around my neck: “Mazel tov and enjoy! May it bring it you more luck than it did him.”
While I have been luckier than Sam, I can’t say that his Star of David has brought me much luck as a writer. After all, the most encouraging response I’ve ever received from a lit mag was a form rejection letter with this line: “Regrettably, we cannot use any of your stories, but please send us more, and the next time you do we’ll gladly discount the submission fee and a subscription to our award-winning magazine”.
So, I’m sure you’re wondering why I call it my lucky writing charm, and why I didn’t toss the damn thing long ago. Perhaps because, with my luck, someone would find and return it. Or maybe the truth is I wear my lucky writing charm all the time because it reminds me of my mother, who I do miss terribly. Odd, I know, considering what she did to me, if that’s what fucked me up but good.
Even odder is that I know she loved me more than anyone ever has; she just had a hard time showing it, and when she did I often wished she hadn’t.
Tony maimed me too, and in the process cut off more than my arm. But he and Sylvia aren’t the only ones who made me who I am: an emotional crip. I have to blame myself, and believe me I do in my weak moments—24/7. As an adult I’ve never exactly excelled at showing love, either. Before that fight with Tony at least I tried to express that I wanted love. Such as when I showed Sylvia my fourth-grade report card, then broke down and cried.
“What’s wrong?” Sylvia asked. “Your grades . . . unhappy with them, like me?”
“I don’t want to go to school anymore. I’m afraid one of those hoods is going to kill me.”
“Afraid of them? They’re nothing, and dying’s no different. Always remember, Benjamin, it could be much worse. You could get another A-minus in math, catch polio and end up in an iron lung.”
I can live with the loss of half an arm and the pain of a lifetime of rejection, both from all the women in my life and all the lit mags.
What hurts the most is never having said to Sylvia these three simple words—"I love you.”
And the truth is I’ve decided not to attend another fucking emerging writers retreat--no matter where the hell it is! Well, maybe I would if it were in walking distance of the Wailing Wall, which is my favorite place on earth. Not that this should surprise you. But perhaps this will, what Andrew all along had up the sleeve of his black T-shirt.
Andrew stopped staring at his glass and turned to me. “Before joining the others at the craft lecture, I wanted to discuss a personal . . . ask a personal question, if you don’t mind.”
I scratched my stump. “Shoot,” I said, despite worrying he was going to ask me something truly personal, like Laura did--why I make everything into a joke, yet never laugh or, even worse, why I scratch my stump so much, yet never cry.
Andrew licked his lips, then took a sip of his second—maybe third--Pisco Sour of the morning. “Have you ever considered hiring a story doctor?”
“You mean, you? You’re a ghostwriter?”
“I prefer the term doctor.”
“Understandable. Everyone does, quacks particularly.”
“I’ll have some free time after the retreat, a couple of weeks before classes resume at NYU. If you don’t know, my manuscript doctoring skills are highly regarded in the profession, and short stories are my specialty.”
“Don’t bother, Andrew. I realize revising it myself may cause me further grief, but I don’t mind suffering. Anyway, I’d rather keep searching for my true voice. Well, fuck that voice! What I really want is just to write a goddamn good story.”
Andrew took a long swig. “Are you sure you won’t let me make it more publishable?”
“Positive,” I said, scratching that spot on my nub that always seems to itch when others say things that make me uncomfortable, such as what my mother used to say whenever I scratched it: Not even a shikse will ever want you if she sees you doing that!”
Andrew looked past me, at the back wall featuring a mural of the legendary scene of the Inca emperor Atahualpa meeting the conquistador Pizarro—who later had him strangled.
“I’m embarrassed to say this, Ben, but I could use the money right now. You know how poorly they pay adjunct faculty, and I don’t have to tell you that what the lit mags pay is a joke. But what isn’t is the alimony I have to pay my ex, that failed poet, that dilettantish literary snob who also took my prized leather bound set of the Great Books, and my first edition of For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
“I hear you, though none of my exes ever asked for money from me, or took anything of value, such as my prized set of vintage Saturday Evening Post’s. My guess is they just wanted to get away from me as fast as possible. But I do wish one or the other had taken Freddy. Sonia, for instance, ex number two and a shrink, who had a furry fetish and liked to cuddle with him more than with me. For the life of me, I don’t why I’ve yet to offload that snobbish schlub of a teddy bear.”
Andrew massaged his temples. “Would you consider instead giving me a loan . . . a high interest one?”
I shook my head, then scratched it, which is never as satisfying as scratching that spot on my nub that sometimes drives me crazy, my phantom itch, as Sarah, ex number three, liked to call it. Sarah, like my mother, found that peccadillo of mine thoroughly unattractive. However, when we first hooked up, she told me she found my stump erotic. Then, as time went by, not so sexy, apparently, when she finally left me for her full-bodied personal trainer.
“I promise I’ll pay you back,” Andrew said, slopping another drink into his glass. “I’m good for it, just ask any of my colleagues or students. I’ll even throw in this great little piece I wrote a few years ago that for some reason I never could get published.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting I’m the kind of writer who’d shamelessly steal the blood that others have spilled.”
Andrew reached for the pitcher, then pulled back his now-shaking hand. “The truth is . . . lately . . . I’ve been contemplating killing myself.”
“Been there myself, and more than once,” I said, wiggling my stump, and visualizing my friends in junior high, when I returned, stare at it then look away. “My old war wound that’s never healed.”
“I don’t have as good an excuse.” Andrew closed his eyes and tapped the top of his head. “But mine also festers . . . no matter what I do . . . I can’t take it anymore.”
I quickly filled his glass. He took just a little sip this time, then dropped his head on the table and began to cry. I scooted over closer to him and stroked his shoulder with my nub. I felt my eyes well up, remembering all the times I’d wished my mother would’ve stroked my stump.
With my other hand I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bunch of pain pills. “Here, kid, take a couple of these,” I said, dropping a few on the table. “Trust me, they’ll make you feel better, even if they don’t always work for me anymore. But I know they did for my ex number one, at least toward the end of our marriage, when Miriam would always take a couple right before we went to bed. ‘Why?’ I once asked her. ‘To dull the pain,’ she said. ‘In case you insist on having sex. Not that I really need them. I don’t feel anything with or for you anymore, but don’t take it personally.’”
Andrew stopped sobbing and glanced up, then buried his face in his hands. I removed my nub from his shoulder.
“Me, take it—anything--personally? Epistemologically perhaps, but always painfully. And following in the footsteps of Leonard Cohen, my favorite poet at that time, I went to live at the same place he once did—Mount Baldy Zen Center. There, despondent like my hero, I tried to forget her and find myself. Instead I found my muse in Leonard and wrote poems night and day, meditative songs like his, and in his soulful voice, I can’t deny. Only mine, such as So Long, Miriam, were even more personal and depressing than his and, looking back, horrific.”
Andrew raised his head, wiped his eyes, glanced at the pills. “Take these with liquor? Isn’t that a sure way to kill yourself?”
“Maybe on an empty stomach. But Papa did it all the time and, as you said, look what he created. Still, I’ll take the Beats any day over him. What they wrote changed not just literature, but the world! Where would we be today without the likes of Naked Lunch and A Coney Island of the Mind? I doubt we’d have what they spawned: Dylan, gay rights, the sexual revolution and, of course, condom-free sex. ‘Hallelujah!’ I can hear the boys sing in the streets. But not like Leonard did, and even if I never joined in. Using rubbers was never my shtick. I’m sterile. Or, to put it more accurately as my mother did when I proudly showed her my PhD diploma in comparative literature from Harvard: ‘If you had any beytsin--balls—my boychik, something of yourself you’d make. A real doctor, what I need now--not this. Because I’m dying!’”
“You’re dreaming, nothing’s changed. Just look at who’s now running our country—Agent Orange, a fascist, racist and misogynist--and at the best-selling novel of the past decade--Fifty Shades of Grey. And you’re also wrong about Papa.” Andrew ran his forefinger around the rim of his glass. “He was just an alcoholic . . . like me.”
I tapped my temple, remembering the pain shooting through it, and seeing Sylvia frown that day she found me drunk, lying in a pool of vomit on my bedroom floor. “Been there too. Now I’m just a drug addict.”
“And a fool, still addicted to the illusion that On the Road is actually literature, and that Dylan deserved a Nobel Prize. As for Ginsburg, that judge erred mightily in acquitting him. He should have sent him to prison. But not for his use of obscenities in Howl—for his obscenely inarticulate use of the English language!”
“We obviously have different tastes, but there is one thing we do have in common that also should be obvious.”
Andrew smiled, slightly. “What, that we’re both fucked up?”
With my good arm I punched his shoulder playfully. “Yes, we’re both meshuga with more mishegas than we need, and can use all the help we can get.”
Andrew nodded, reaching for an oxy and mumbling, Heghlumeh Qaq Jajvan.
I grabbed the pill with my left hand, then swept the others off the table with my stump. “I don’t want you to kill yourself, Andrew. I want you to get off your high Iowa Writers’ Workshop horse, and help me, for fuck’s sake. I’m not emerging, I’m drowning!”
“Well, I was being honest about your story. Do yourself a favor and dump it. But you do have what very few of my students have—natural talent.”
“Right—and potential. A lot of good either’s ever done me. And look closely at me, Andrew.” He stared at my nub. “No, not that.” I pointed to my face. “This, my wrinkles--I’m running out of fucking time!”
“There’s still time. You just have to move on to something fresh, the kind of story you’ve never tried before.”
“Such as?”
“For starters, forget everything us writing teachers have been telling you. Stop trying so hard to be original: that’s impossible, everything’s already been said. The single most important thing: be yourself when you write!”
“And who’s that?”
Andrew smiled. “The kind of person you can’t help but love!”
“A schlemiel, I think you’re saying. Or maybe a schmendrick or a schmegegge. If not, then a schlimazel with a PhD.”
Andrew laughed. “Or the hundreds of other similarly wonderful words, not to say a few choice ones you Jews use in a voice all your own. Ironic, clever and funny, yet sad, soulful and profound.”
“Profound, as in Duck Soup, Bananas or Spaceballs?”
“As in the great American Jewish novels, The Adventures of Augie March or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, or American Pastoral--take your pick. And stop yanking my chain! You know as well as I that no one else uses them quite like your peeps to capture the essence of being human, and to make us laugh, especially at ourselves.”
“I’ve been called all those choice words--by my mother--yet don’t recall ever laughing.”
“But I’m sure your readers will if you just be yourself.”
“My mother, a balabuste extraordinaire, had other ideas about the wisdom of that except, perhaps, at the end.”
“The end?”
“Right before she died, the first time I’d cried since losing my arm, when Sylvia kissed my stump, the first time ever, and said, ‘My son the writer, I’m proud of you!’”
“Her last words? That’s touching. Closure on an unambiguously positive note.”
“No, not quite and not her final words. Sylvia had closed her eyes, her mouth pulled back into that familiar twisted smile for the very last time. Then she whispered, ‘My last favor, Benjamin, do me, please, when you write . . . promise you won’t be yourself.’”
“And you promised her that?”
I nodded. “And I’ve kept my promise ever since, to show her what I never could when she was alive.”
“That you loved her? I get that, but not the way you show it. It’s crazy. Sick. She’s dead, for Chrissake, and you’re just torturing yourself.”
I scratched my stump. “Maybe, but it makes me feel good.”
“What . . . guilt . . . repressed anxiety? Bullshit!”
“Please, spare me the psychobabble.”
I reached to scratch my stump, but stopped, feeling another familiar pain, only this one was as real as Tony’s bloody hatchet. I pushed my chair back and stood.
Andrew looked up, his brows knitted. “What’s wrong?”
“My sciatica’s killing me!”
“From the look in your eyes I’d say it’s something else. A ghost you’re seeing and don’t want to? Maybe you could finally face it and let it out when you write, and then—”
“Bleed? I can’t . . . there’s nothing left inside.”
“Your suffering shtick is getting real old. And if you ask me your mother was pulling your leg, sarcastically, maybe even affectionately, just as you do with me and probably everyone else. Your defense mechanism? Not that mine, tearing others down, is any better.”
I collapsed in my chair. “But at least you’re not toiten bankes, an utter failure.”
“You’re not either, if you’d ever listen to yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What I’ve been hearing all morning, your true voice I sense! You break your promise to her every fucking time you speak. Now, all you have to do is use that voice when you write!”
I closed my eyes and turned away, seeing Sylvia kiss my stump. “If only it was that simple.”
Andrew put his arm around me. “I’m not saying it is. Only that it’s time to let it . . . her . . . go. What have you got to lose? As you said, you’re drowning.”
I dropped my head on his shoulder. “Pathetic,” I muttered between sobs. “Sorry.”
Andrew gently stroked my stump. “Don’t be sorry, be who you really are, and this is a good start. Much better than killing yourself.”
I lifted my head off his shoulder, took a deep breath. “Thanks, I needed that, owe you one.”
Andrew removed his hand from my stump, stroked his beard, and grinned. “Now, about that loan.”
Brother of Mine
He could sense it even before he walked into the living room and saw a figure standing in front of the fireplace and looking at a framed photograph.
“Looking at the picture again, huh?”
“Jordon, it’s time for you to go.”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s time.”
“Don’t you want me here?”
“More than anything I’ve ever wanted in life before. But we both know we can’t keep on going on like this.”
“If I leave you know that’s it. You’ll never see me again.”
“I know that.”
“But even knowing this, you still feel like I should go?”
“I do.”
“I’m not ready.”
“I know, man. But you have to go. You know what happens if you stay here too long. You will be stuck here forever.”
“Have you ever thought that that’s what I want?”
“It’s not. You don’t want this.”
“How dare you tell me what I don’t want? Who do you think you are?”
“I’m your big brother. The one that’s been there for you every single day of your life.”
“You mean the life that was taken from me?”
“Jordon…”
“Devin, I was home alone the night that they came. You were on a date and mom and dad were at grandma’s.”
“I know this Jordon.”
“But you need to hear it again. I was only sixteen and they came in here, took my life like it was nothing and stole whatever it was that they wanted. I woke up in this house and found that it was a blessing. Maybe I’m meant to be here.”
“The reason that you’re here right now is because you weren’t ready to move on. You have to move on to the afterlife. The place that you deserve to be. I know that it’s scary, but death is a part of life, and we will all be where you are at right now. Please Jordon, please so that I can move on as well.”
Not saying a word, Jordon nodded his head. Suddenly light filled the room and feathers grew from his back. Jordan turned to look at Devin. For the first time since he arrived, he actually looked at his younger brother. Instead of the fourteen year old that Jordan remembered, Devin’s skin was wrinkled throughout. His hair white, brittle, and balding. His back slightly stooped. Light formed around Devin as pure white feathers sprouted from his back. Jordan took his little brother’s hand.The feathers refused to cease their falling as they disappeared.
End
the baths of Talos
The day I was to begin the venture, an erstwhile colleague approached me, “What’s with the rings?” Loforai asked.
She stood across from my desk, an aging, decrepit thing. The desk, not Loforai, who stood frowning at my hands as I leafed through a loosely bound book. She ran a ringless set of fingers through her short, grey hair, head cocked to one side.
Within one of the desk drawers lay the remains of an exquisite paintbrush, an instrument that had been a work of art itself, bristles impossibly fine and small arranged by the hand of Loforai herself. A paintbrush that I, in a moment of luxurious self-loathing, had destroyed years ago.
Absentmindedly, or playing at absentmindedness, I turned the ring on one of my left fingers. Warmth rolled out of it along my fingertips, a quiet reassurance of its presence and the safety of its creation. When I developed the rings, they were met with quiet nods of approval by others at The Circle, statements that I had once again brought innovation to this isle of learning, knowledge, and creation.
“Nothing,” I replied, scarcely daring to meet Loforai’s raised eyebrows. “Just something I have been working on.”
Loforai took a few steps back. Folding her arms, she leaned against the doorframe. Despite being a few years my elder, she held herself as one much younger, tugging on a string of envy in my heart and coaxing my spine somewhat upright. A grin played across her face, flashing straight white teeth. She tapped her heel against her other foot in a peculiar rhythm.
“They look dangerous. People might stop taking you seriously. You spend years wearing the same clothes day after day, not even a wedding ring to add some sheen. And now you are sitting there with enough gold on your hands to buy a farm. When did that start?”
“It is all gilded.”
“That isn’t the point,” Loforai sighed and shook her head.
I closed the book and set it on my desk. Some old tract on plant life in the south country, their flora particularly useful in creating rare pigments. I had read the work so many times there was little point in reading it further, not to mention I would not put the contents to any use, if I was being honest. The images and text swirled in my mind, leaves and curling sprouts surrounded by annotations and warnings. I shook my head clear of them.
“Loforai,” I began slowly. “Why are you here?”
Why indeed! Our parting had occurred moments after I had committed an act that must have hurt her tremendously.
She unfolded her arms, one of her hands sliding into a pocket on the waist of her linen trousers. Blue veins peeked out from tan skin around her wrist. Besides her hair, those thin lines were her only signs of aging. With her other hand, she scratched at her chin.
“I miss the place,” she said, the sides of her lips turned up in a dry smirk. “The atmosphere, the air heavy with possibility. Smiling faces ready to discuss the questions that matter. Retirement has been kind to me, but it seldom proves stimulating in itself.”
“Why not return to The Circle then?”
“Sarcasm, except for the retirement bit. Why not return? Because it is called The Circle, for Apollo’s sake! We even have sayings about that. ‘Come full circle?’ That is the last thing I want to do, return to a place that barricades itself within a vocabulary of pure ideals and true art and other nonsense. A place that balks at the idea of true—no.” With each word her voice had grown louder, her composure sliding toward revealing what she must have been truly feeling.
“No,” she continued, calm posture and tone once more. “I came here to reassure myself of my decision. That I was right to leave. It worked. And then I figured I would stop by and see how a lost old friend was doing. And…” She waved toward my hands.
“I am leaving too,” I said, so quiet I couldn’t be sure she would hear me.
Loforai stepped away from the doorframe and stood up straight. She again ran a hand through her hair and paused a moment. A few grey strands clumped together on the left side of her head.
“For good?” she asked, eyes narrowed beneath thick eyebrows.
I looked over at a tapestry on the wall to my left. From the side of my eye I saw Loforai follow my gaze. The style itself was no longer popular, but the work played a large role in granting my position at The Circle. Four decades ago. Despite the work not seeing the sun in that time, some of the color had faded. One of the edges had marks left by moths, an unfortunate by-product of my last sabbatical and the neglect of my assistant. Somehow, the damage had felt appropriate. I never brought up the damage to my assistant.
At first glance, the scene I had woven was nothing special, nothing more than a depiction of a moment in the isle’s history: a burnished metal titan lies on the shore in a pool of violent ichor, a single hand grasping a bronze nail, eyes wide in fear and realization and, what many missed, relief. Tastefully composed, and beautiful to the eye. It spoke of a tragic moment, one which every inhabitant of the isle knew by heart, told with wet eyes and heart aflutter.
But look at it from another angle. Approach the tapestry and crouch or sit before it, view it from the height that a child may, and the image shifts. The titan lives! It stands proud before its island, sculpted arms folded in bold defiance of any who may intrude upon the realm it has pledged to protect. Sunlight glints off its perfect form, and off the stub of a bronze nail embedded safely in its neck.
It had taken me five years to complete. And earned me a lifetime of The Circle. My technique had since been improved upon. But not by me.
From my seated position, the tapestry was partway through the visual transition, a muddy color of hues that was neither this nor that.
“For good?” I repeated, little more than a murmur. “Yes, I think for good.”
“Sure.”
I turned away from my aging work and found Loforai looking at me, eyes narrowed.
“I can see I’m not going to get much from you right now,” she said. “It was good to see you, though. Even with the rings.”
Without another word, Loforai turned and left. The sound of her footsteps, muted against the stone floor, soon faded. I turned back to the tapestry. From behind the top left corner, two bristling antennae moved. The body of a moth soon emerged, its heavy carapace clinging to the wall by some insectoid mystery. It flexed its wings once, and I had to note the beauty of the natural patterns. Two false eyes stared at me from a whorl of pale color upon its wings,
Something told me to approach the tapestry, to crouch before it, joints popping and protesting. To look at the second perspective in full.
I smiled to see the titan so alive. Still loyal to its charge, a barrier between our bright isle and the darkness of the world.
Something was wrong. I moved my eyes across the scene, taking in each aspect carefully. The waters, the citizens of the isle, the ship in the distance.
The ship? I squinted at a tiny smudge that was clearly a ship, its form abstract but certain. An addition. For no ships should have dared approach that proud titan, and I would not have included one. Instinctually, my eyes darted to the titan’s neck and my breath stopped.
There was no gleaming nail in the titan’s neck. Only an empty space chewed away by the unforgiving mandibles of a moth.
ii.
You might be curious about the rings. Why twelve? Did they have any significance?
The answer, of course, is they did have meaning. From the number to the way I wore them on my hands. As a whole they meant something.
Individually, they also held meaning. They meant something before they were created, and their creation itself ripe with it, near bursting with meaning. Meaning enough to leak over the brim and drip into the sand at my feet.
All of that is gone now. When I lost the rings, their meaning left with them. Or rather, I did not lose them, but found a way to live without them. That much I can recall.
I gave them up. In a place both near and far.
With Loforai by my side.
Or, with me at Loforai’s side.
iii.
I tightened my sandals, smiled at the pleasant creak of the leather straps, and ran out the door. Unsure of which direction Loforai had taken once she left my room, I made a few educated guesses. Discarded most of them, and set off toward the center of The Circle.
I passed by young faces of The Circle’s learners. Some bright with curiosity, others dim with knowledge. The halls were warm and cool in turns. Dark stones and light. The Circle was a place of ancient architecture, following a schema long lost. Physically navigable, but only just.
Most of the doors were closed. Students in lessons, masters giving them.
Most of the windows were open, but bars placed over them. Iron rods that cut the reflection of the sea into vertical portions, imposing their cold layer over what could have been a beautiful view, installed for the opaque purpose of keeping the isle’s larger fauna from entering the campus.
Before long I found myself stepping over a threshold and into the day.
A raven cried out as it soared over my head, its marble eyes hidden among its white plumage. But I sensed it had taken notice of me. It coursed along an invisible current, its momentum drawn to an illusion of inertia above me with wings spread the width of my own arms.
It gave a ringing shriek and with a great flap rose skyward, a single feather loosed from its form drifted and whirled upon the current it had abandoned, a perfect white that spiraled, reflecting the day’s light as it moved closer and closer to the ground. I tore my eyes away from the feather to find the raven once more, barely discernible among the pale sky. The creature seemed to give another enigmatic cry before diving from its height toward the center of The Circle.
Of course. If Loforai were still nearby, she would be in the center, the one place she had ever had a kind word for.
I nervously twisted one of the rings. I set off toward the center. Toward Loforai.
The path to The Circle’s center was labyrinthine, designed by one of the Argonauts herself and built upon the ruins of Daedalus’ masterful gaol. I snorted at the needless roundabouts and switchbacks. It held no monstrous offspring of Minos, no riddling beasts or treasures. A labyrinth for the sake of a labyrinth. Show off I thought, not for the first time.
In some part of my soul, I chided myself for the thought.
“Loforai,” I called tentatively at the opening, a burnished bronze archway covered in creeping vines. No response.
I went further into the maze, feet following a path burned in memory moving with one hand extended to brush my fingertips along the metallic walls in places where the ivy had not overtaken it. Loforai had not been to The Circle in years. Was that time enough to forget the way? Might she be wandering these walls, lost in a forgotten corner?
I slowed my pace and called out once more.
“Is that you?” came her response. Muffled and distant, but clear enough. And it came from the center.
Speeding up, I took a few more deft turns and exited the labyrinth toward the center of The Circle. As I entered the clearing that was the center, I blinked away tears. Coming from the shaded gloom of the maze into the brilliance of the center always brought a cleansing sting. When had I last visited it? That cathartic blinding moment had eluded me for some time.
I stepped from pounded soil onto bleached stonework and tile.
After giving my eyes a moment to adjust, I saw Loforai standing alone beside a crumbling pillar. With a start, I realized I had seen no other people in the labyrinth. Nor had I heard anyone. Not even a frisky couple using the winding passages for a moment of bacchanalian privacy. The center was likewise empty, nothing but crumbling ruins, a single tree, and Loforai.
And the broken body of Talos. Though dead for centuries, the titan’s body held no rust. Sunlight reflected from every angle of its great corpse, bathing the center in unmatched radiance. In all directions, the labyrinth walls arched out, and all within was blinding white stone. Some of it once part of a structure, some of it unworked, some of it mere ground. All of it bleached purer than marble, not a single vein in any of it. A result of the flood of Talos’ dying ichor. It its death, it gave us the center. Or perhaps we took it, bandaged it within a labyrinth and left it to memory.
My old friend glanced up as I stepped from the maze and waved me over. Her pale garb blended in with the surrounding brightness, her short gray hair took on a sheen.
“It’s a fake, you know?” Loforai said as I approached. I stopped.
Instinct bade me ask, rather than a true desire to know. Or perhaps it was that desire which brought me to ask, though my mind at that moment was terrified of the answer.
“What is a fake?”
Loforai swung a hand toward the collapsed body of Talos.
“Most people know it, if they really think about it,” she said. “But The Circle goes on with the facade because no one has openly called them out about it.”
I took another step toward her, knees unsteady. “But Talos was real, is real.” I gestured at the fallen titan as though it would counter Loforai’s words. “It isn’t just another story.”
“No,” Loforai shook her head sadly. “No, it isn’t just another story. And you are right, Talos was real, and its body is here. Only, this form is not it.”
“Why should I believe you?” I growled. “Are you trying to spread rumors to discredit The Circle now that you have left it. You are jealous, aren’t you?”
My old friend’s eyes grew hard. “Jealous? To be jealous of this place, it would need to have something that I lack and want. It has neither, and I would that every part of it be stripped from me.”
“Oh,” I snorted. “Nothing you want? Then why did you come back? You never could do more than make silly little brushes anyways. Are you hoping they take you back?”
The moment the words left my mouth I felt like following them up with vomit; I heard them almost as though it were no longer I speaking.
Nothing, for a moment. Loforai held to the silence, her lips in a straight line. Then one corner of her mouth twitched and she raised her eyebrows.
“Silly little brushes?”
“I—Loforai, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“
“No,” she cut me off, her voice hard but not cold. “Part of you meant it, the part that has grown frustrated at what you are.”
I had no response. A moment passed and tension seemed to leave my shoulders. Loforai’s also slumped. Tentatively, I took a step toward her. She stood still. I took another. She held out her hand, and I took it.
“I thought I would find you here,” she said softly as she squeezed my hand in a vice.
I raised an eyebrow.
“You weren’t there, in your room,” she explained, letting go of my hand and holding her palms out. “It was like talking to a shadow of you. But, I was sure I would be able to find you here. With how bright it is, a shadow couldn’t stand it, now could it?”
“I suppose not,” I replied, some warmth in my cheeks.
“You are going to look for the Baths, aren’t you?” she asked. Her eyes sliding down toward my hands. I folded them together in front of me, rings clacking as they ground against each other.
“I would not have pegged you as one to lend credit to such stories,” she continued. “When I heard you had started wearing rings, I had to see for myself. You’d be surprised how quickly such news travels in our circles. Goes to show how little imagination we have for conversational topics. Always comes back to gossip.”
I forced a chuckle. Then frowned.
“You must be wondering how I put the two together,” Loforai offered a small grin. “You aren’t the only one who is keen on fanciful stories. And I might know more than you do. And what I do know is that you will need some help. This isn’t something one does on their own.”
I stepped around Loforai and into the shade of the center’s one piece of life, a pomegranate tree speckled with heavy hanging fruit, the trunk and branches spiralling around a massive bronze nail driven into the stone, the nail that had once resided in Talos’ neck. A white stone bench stood beneath the branches, marred by a reddish stain left behind by an overripe pomegranate. I scraped at the stain, confirmed it was dry, and sat down. Loforai turned around but did not join me.
Despite the barrier of the labyrinth, a sea breeze wound its way into the clearing, rustling the branches and breaking around the ruined pillars. Carried on the gentle gust was the faint scent of iron. One of the rings seemed to loosen on a finger, another to tighten.
“I have failed often in my life,” I finally said. “Piled my failures upon my back, holding onto them as surely as a swimmer clings to a piece of driftwood. For a long time, I thought they encouraged me to move forward, to improve. So, instead of learning from them, I simply resolved not to repeat them. Now I see that was a poor way of going about things. I am looking for a place to wash them away, to start anew. Be rid of the hoard of old mistakes and fears, and any new ones will then be easier to deal with.”
From some feet away, Loforai offered only a grunt in response.
I continued, “To be blunt, I don’t know fully what I mean by that. But I know I cannot stay here any longer. Not with how I am now. I need to do this.”
Loforai moved to stand before me. Sunlight trickled through the pomegranate tree’s branches, casting dappled shadows across her body. As the light flitted across her hair, there were moments where the gray strands glowed bright and yellow.
“Then it is fortunate that I came,” she said. “You will not need to do this thing alone.”
I shook my head. “I could not trouble you with my problems.”
“The problems of one person are always the problems of the rest of us. You know, the burdens you bear in your heart are revealed through interactions with the world. Doing this thing alone will only further lay weight upon your heart. Doing it alongside a friend, that will bring more good into the world.”
I opened my mouth to protest and let out a squawk as Loforai jammed her heel down on my toes. Not hard enough to break anything, but with enough force to push my melancholy beneath a sudden wave of physical pain. I pinched the bridge of my nose as I swore loudly and fought back a grin.
“Have it your way,” I said. “We will go on this fool’s errand together.”
Loforai folded her arms and nodded. Her eyes once again moved to my hands, upon which now rested eleven rings. Somehow, that did not bother me. I did not look for the missing one.
“Follow me,” she said. “And hurry.”
iv.
Loforai and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the shores of our island, the bright stone walls of the Circle rising behind us upon the rolling bluffs. Waves broke and spread along the shore, turning sand the color of char under by patches of green foam. The smell of iron grew strong, mixing with the brine on the air as Thaumata approached, the iron titan guardian of the isle. Talos’ replacement. Its improvement.
I closed my eyes and let the scents flow over and through me, smiled at the warmth of the sun on my brow. A hand came to rest gently on my shoulder.
“We will need to be quick,” Loforai said. “Thaumata’s wake tears through more than merely the sea. A being of that size could not help but to injure the fabric of this world with the violence of its movement, slow and measured though it be.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Fabric?”
“I am not going to repeat myself,” Loforai snorted. “You should know better than to echo what someone has just told you as though you were naught but a dull beast.”
I lowered my eyes. Let the sudden frustration with Loforai’s demeanor pass over me like a sea-sprung gust, biting but short-lasting.
Looking down, I saw a hermit crab scuttle between my feet, only recognizable by its head and claws. The creature moved without a shell, starting and stopping in frenetic intervals. I detested such creatures, their exoskeletal frames conjuring a sense of revulsion deep in my gut. But, I was moved to pity this floundering animal. So open and vulnerable, without any protection between it and the world, robbed of the geometric architecture of its shell, a carapace it did not produce itself but commandeered from the remains of a more effective creature. Where once I would have raised my foot against its queer form and naked weakness, I now scanned the shore for a stray shell.
Need I be blunt and tell you the reason I held back from violence against the creature was that it reminded me of myself? Need I also say that this same reason is what instigated the disgust I harbored for the creature?
“Head on your shoulders,” Loforai snapped. “Do as I say, and do not interrupt. When Thaumata passes, you need to turn so your back faces the waters. Close your eyes and hold your hands out to your sides. You cannot enter through the tear in the world’s fabric as though it were a mere door. Begin walking backwards, without so much as a single glance. You will feel three waves crash against you. Before the fourth reaches you, fall backwards through the tear. I will be right beside you. You will awaken in the realm of the Baths and we will find that inspiration or purification or whatever it is you are after. Understood?”
I could hardly say that I did. But I trusted Loforai. Held to the line she had proffered me. In the decades I had known her, she had not once proved anything but capable and honest. Heaven and earth held wonders aplenty, a tear in the world from the wake of an iron titan seemed not implausible.
Turning from the sea, I lifted my arms and closed my eyes tight, colors bursting behind my lids.
“I am right here,” came Loforai’s voice beside me. Calm and reassuring, yet filled with a contagious energy. I nodded. So close. I would find the Baths, be cleansed of this fear, extirpate the inhibitions that kept my soul bottled within me.
“Let us do this,” I said. And took the first step backward, sand whispering beneath my step. Near me, I heard Loforai do the same. A second step followed, then a third. And another.
I let out a sudden gasp as the thin fingers of the first wave lapped around my ankles. The cold was a shock, but as my heart raced in reaction I felt vigor spread through me. A ring slid from one of my fingers. I let it fall to the sand with a pitiful plfft.
“Do not stop now,” Loforai said. “Two more waves before you can enter the Baths.”
Though I knew her eyes were closed, I nodded. Perhaps more to myself than her. Sloshing through the tide, I felt it begin to recede. In a moment my steps slapped against damp sand, moving toward the next wave.
“Faster,” hissed Loforai. I obeyed and hasted down the incline as quickly as I could without risking a fall. I gritted my teeth as my arms began to grow heavy.
The second wave pounded against the pits behind my knees, biting cold. But welcome. I felt a smile pull across my face and my arms once again felt light as blood pulsed through them. Movement was now difficult and I nearly lost my balance as the second wave rolled back into the sea, threatening to undermine my footing. The water stayed halfway up my shins. By the sound of it, Loforai was pulling ahead, so I picked up my pace.
I let out a squawk as I stepped on a smooth stone beneath the water and nearly lost my balance. I might have fallen were it not for the third wave, which crashed into my waist with such force that I was pushed back to my feet. Brine shot up my back, turning my hair damp and plastering it to the sides of my face.
“Careful there, old one,” Loforai said, her voice a sing-song chiding cadence between bouts of bright laughter. “Sounded like you almost bit it.”
“I’ll show you,” I shouted back. “This—“
“Save your breath. That was the third wave and we still are not quite there. I can feel it. We need to make it a little further out before the fourth wave or we won’t be able to reach the Baths today.”
I could not let myself fail in front of Loforai. The one person who seemed to still believe in me, to remember who I once was and was capable of.
With a roar, I ploughed against the waters, making what felt like precious little progress. The water nipped at my thighs like icy needles, but I continued.
Loforai’s sudden shout pierced through the rolling din of the sea.
“Now! Fall backwards!”
v.
Every part of my body ached. Most of all, my hands. I rubbed one with the other, trying to smooth away the cramping pain, and stepped back from my completed work. The Death of Talos was finished. By the light of the gods, it was finished. And damn near genius.
I felt as though something had been torn from me and placed into this work. Every thread and blot of paint bore a sliver of my soul. But though I felt something taken from me, what remained seemed larger. Stronger. More substantial than it had before I had completed The Death of Talos.
vi.
Behind me came the roar of an approaching wave, its violent tumbling grew close, nearly upon me. I obeyed Loforai and threw myself backward. After a moment of thrashing violence, the water welcomed me and I sunk below the surface. From above I could hear the muted roar of the fourth wave passing, could feel its force as it tumbled toward the shore.
I remained underwater, my lungs soon strained against the held breath and a few bubbles escaped my nostrils. How would I know if it worked? In the cold calm of the sea, I let the currents buffet my body.
Loforai would come get me if it didn’t work. Until then, I ought wait for a sign, an obvious hint that I had crossed over to the Baths.
I waited, rocked back and forth by the shifting tides. Pulled toward the shore one moment. Then nothing but a gentle stasis. Pulled out toward the depths, feet dragging along the sandy bed. Then stillness.
This cycle continued for what must have been at least a minute, until my lungs were threatening to burst. Still no sign, neither from Loforai nor that I had crossed to the Baths.
I was faced with a choice. Remain below, or return to the surface.
vii.
“Did something happen?” someone asked.
My knuckles ached, pale and bloodless in their grip on my brush. Or, on the remains of my brush. A moment before, I had jabbed the priceless instrument bristles-first into the wall, buried it up to the ferrule. A few crumbs of plaster littered the floor around my toes, some had made their way beneath the straps of my sandals and now itched.
I waved the voice away. “I am fine. Don’t pay me any mind.”
The sound of fading footsteps told me that whoever it was had listened.
The sound of approaching footsteps replaced them. Letting go of the brush in the wall, I turned, ready to scream at whoever it was. Veins throbbing, jaw swung wide in rage, tongue poised to lash. Nothing came out.
“You look a mess,” Loforai said, grinning as she strode through the door, a pair of young men trailing behind her. Her grin faded as her eyes fell upon the brush in the wall.
“You didn’t,” she gasped. Heat rose in my cheeks, shame boiled into my extremities until I had to look away. She swept across the room to inspect the brush, her followers remained in the doorway.
“It isn’t like I was doing anything with it,” I snapped. “So what if it is ruined. Never did me any good anyway.”
Immediately, I regretted the words and pincered my tongue between my molars until I was sure I drew blood. I forced myself to watch as Loforai lifted a trembling hand toward my brush, a work of genius in its own right, created specially for my painting technique. A singularly brilliant tool, destroyed by my own hand.
Created by Loforai. Given to me as a gift.
Loforai ran a finger along the handle, but she did not remove it from the wall. Her head lowered, her short hair too still. And for a moment I feared time had stopped, that she would be forever frozen in this posture of disappointment. But the seconds passed and she looked up, her eyes hard though a warmth lay beneath them.
A single word left her lips. “Why?”
A single word, but the weight of it brought me to a crouch. Or rather, the weight of the answer. I knew it. Why? Because I was a fraud, because my previous masterpiece, hanging so proud in my room would never be repeated. Because, try as I might, there was nothing in any of my works anymore. My skill remained, but no substance filled the works. I feared the danger of creation, and hid within myself, allowing my hand to move paint and thread, conjuring an object that might be called art.
“This place is poison,” Loforai muttered.
I hung my head. The straps of Loforai’s sandals creaked as she moved across the room, moved toward me. A warm hand was suddenly on my shoulder, gentle but with a weight behind it that I envied and admired at once. Only for a moment. The hand lifted and the weight and warmth went with it, leaving me alone in a room, arms wrapped around myself for fear a breeze may pass through my window and carry me away.
Loforai left The Circle the following day.
viii.
Restraint failed and I let out the final burst of air in my lungs, eyes opening wide. Water rushed in to replace it. Fire tore through my chest on a current of salt water, bidding me to rise from the shallows. Light ricocheted around me through the swirling waters. Lurching toward it, I broke the surface and heaved brine from my lungs. It felt like it was taking chunks of me with it, sanding away my throat with each sputtering gasp. I could not stop.
I thought back to Talos’ dying moments, to the molten ichor that poured from its body, leaving it weaker each moment. Our first protector, lying helpless as life ran from it and into the sea, steam rising to meet the torrent of its life-blood. All that Talos was, dumped out in a single flow, never to be reclaimed.
A younger version of myself took the fear of that moment, my own fear, and denied it in the hidden underside of a tapestry’s threads. But I had come too close, I had removed the stopper from my own essence and watched helplessly as it flowed into the work of art. Replaced the nail in my own neck, and never dared touch it again. Decades of art—no, decades of failure as I kept myself corked, pressure at all edges like a fermenting bottle. Creating without creation, reduced to safe projects, to the creation of twelve rings woven safely from unpainted threads. Unique, the first of their kind. Empty.
Twelve rings.
As I splashed toward the shore I held my hands before my face. They were barren, not a single ring left on a single finger.
But there was no sense of loss. Why should there be?
Drenched clothes clung to my body, hugged my aging skin like a lover refusing to let go. A gust from the sea pushed past me, tugging much of any remaining warmth from my body. By the time I reached dry sand I was wracked with shivering. Where was Loforai?
Water dripped from my hair across my face, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. Once wiped clear, I saw Loforai seated further up the beach, lounging with legs stretched forward and leaning back against a single elbow. She waved in my direction, her clothes quite obviously dry.
Wind tugged her short hair in all directions, a stark contrast to the damp strands on my own head.
“What are you playing at?” I growled as I approached her. Sand grated beneath my sandal straps, and a fair amount chafed between my clothes and skin. “It didn’t work!”
Her face split into a wide grin and she barked out a laugh. “Of course it didn’t. Baths of Talos? What sort of nonsense is that? A tear in reality left in Thaumata’s wake? You completely fell for it.”
“Is this all a joke to you?”
Her smile dropped. “How could it not be? The Circle, this island, our creations, our research—it is all a joke.”
“What we are doing is important,” I retorted. “We are the lifeblood of civilization.”
“I never said it was not important,” she said, her voice suddenly hard. “But The Circle certainly takes all the fun out of it, turning wonder and creation into severity. There is no spontaneity here. Look at you, fuming because you got a little damp.”
“I’m fuming because you lied to me.”
“No,” she said, her voice hard as she stood to her feet. “You are godsdamned fuming because you haven’t let yourself out in years. I have seen your works, and they are patently Circlian. Beautiful, exact, soulless. Rings! Godsdamned rings! You are fuming because you have not put your soul into anything since The Death of Talos for fear of…something. You believe the lie that The Circle tells everyone it traps. It takes bright people like you and leaves you too afraid to shine. You don’t need any mystical Baths to cleanse you of that, just a normal, sharp wakeup dunk in an entirely mundane sea. You are welcome.”
With each word, my mouth opened further, my lungs pulled air in to prepare for a counterargument. But none came. The only noise that made its way out was a wet, stinging groan.
Loforai stomped through the sand and came within arm’s reach. She pulled something from her robes and thrust it in my face. A brush, a work of such fine craftsmanship that my breath caught in my throat. A brush exactly like the one I had ruined years before, the day Loforai had left The Circle.
“This is why I came back to this place.” Loforai’s voice was nearly a whisper. “I would have come sooner, but it took a long time to make…and I had to work up the courage to face this place, if I’m being honest.”
Slowly, I reached up for it, wrapped my fingers around the handle as Loforai’s fingers uncurled from around it. It was light, barely felt against the still-damp skin of my hand. But I clung to it like a ship to an anchor.
“I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come up,” she said. “You were under for quite some time.”
“It couldn’t have been more than a minute,” I shrugged. My tongue clumsy over the simple words.
“No,” she said. “Metaphorically. You were under for decades.”
I twisted the brush in my hands. Impossibly thin bristles sprouted from the tip. It was a brush that should not exist. But it felt reassuring, devoid of the anxiety and fear that accompanied its predecessor any time I picked it up to work.
“Years,” I muttered. “Wasted.”
Loforai shook her head. “Wasted? No. Lost, perhaps, never to return. But certainly not wasted.”
She turned and strode back the way we had come. Several steps away she stopped and looked over her shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You were under the water itself for quite some time as well. The literal water.”
I raised an eyebrow.
She continued, “Nearly twelve days. And your colleagues at The Circle are getting worried. Better go reassure their wrinkly old asses that their favorite prodigy didn’t actually drown.”
I blinked.
And followed behind, stepping in Loforai’s footprints in the sand. Her brush cradled to my chest.
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AARON WEINZAPFEL
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