Wow. There are two blogfests this week. First up is Simon’s PG Love Scene Blogfest which is really a challenge to write a PG/MG Sex Scene. So here it is. My entry. All 210 words of it. Which probably explains why I don’t write YA or MG. The results aren’t pretty and my brain just isn’t wired for it.
The buzzer explodes with the start of the second quarter.
Fifteen minutes.
Light spills under the bleachers in the upper gym. Brandon’s breath is hot and heavy in her ear, on her neck.
Stupid Jaycee thinks she’s so cool.
Down below, the buzzer explodes again, and the crowd roars loud in her ears.
Rolling her eyes and putting her makeup on in the bathroom every morning.
Brandon’s hips jerk against hers, push her up against the bleachers. She thinks she’s going to have to have bruises on her back tomorrow.
Ranting about all the fat, ugly, annoying girls and how she blows everyone up on her My Space.
She turns her head to the shadow in the spill of light pooling under the bleachers. Her eyes meet Sam’s wide open ones.
Stupid, dirty girl thinks she’s so hot, putting up her slutty pictures so everyone can tell her how sexiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii and pretty she is.
His face is locked in a rictus of shock. He can’t take his eyes off her. And Brandon.
Making sure the whole school knows how hot Brandon is and how into her he was.
A broken smile bleeds across her lips as Sam backs off and disappears.
Yeah, Jaycee, take that. That’s gonna blow up your My Space.
Showing posts with label challenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label challenge. Show all posts
Monday, March 15, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Infinite Possibility
This is the ninth and final part of what is now a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
Out over the lake clouds mass and roll in a purple-pink sky; carry the promise of a late afternoon storm.
I slide the van along a slow winding curve, guide it to a stop.
Air thick and heavy with humidity presses close; settles like a shroud over me as I leverage myself out of the car. I can feel the heat rising from the thin ribbon of concrete that curls through the lush green landscape.
I roll tight shoulders, crack my neck. It explodes in my ear, sharp and loud in the stillness.
My eyes drift over long, neat rows of stone standing silent under a burning sky; watch the sun reflect off the mirror-flat surface of the pond as it arcs across the horizon.
I lean in, reach over and snag the flowers sitting on the passenger’s seat. The careful, almost silent snick of the door closing doesn’t disturb the silence.
Short, slow steps walk me around the front of the van.
Suddenly too tired to move, I lean back against the hood. I wrap myself in my arms and try to drag a lungful of air deep into my chest as memory suffocates me.
Wrapped up in silence and sunset, I don’t know how long I sit and stare. I’m not ready to leave, have no place to be. Not yet.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Canada geese glide along the calm, smooth surface of the pond. I tilt my head and track the baby as it tips its body, dips under water.
One of the adults runs along the surface, gain lift for takeoff. Slow, deep wingbeats carry it aloft as the rest of the family takes flight.
The breeze shifts; picks up. I push off the hood and begin to move.
Careful, silent footsteps sink into the soft ground as I step off the concrete and slip down two rows and over one, into the shade of the Eastern Cottonwood’s canopy.
I drop to my knees, feel the warm solid earth beneath them, hallowed ground, and push words, brittle and low through a dry, tight throat. “Hi. Heather.”
I run a gentle hand along the smooth stone; reverent fingers trace the carved letters of my sister’s name. “It’s been a while.”
Out over the lake clouds mass and roll in a purple-pink sky; carry the promise of a late afternoon storm.
I slide the van along a slow winding curve, guide it to a stop.
Air thick and heavy with humidity presses close; settles like a shroud over me as I leverage myself out of the car. I can feel the heat rising from the thin ribbon of concrete that curls through the lush green landscape.
I roll tight shoulders, crack my neck. It explodes in my ear, sharp and loud in the stillness.
My eyes drift over long, neat rows of stone standing silent under a burning sky; watch the sun reflect off the mirror-flat surface of the pond as it arcs across the horizon.
I lean in, reach over and snag the flowers sitting on the passenger’s seat. The careful, almost silent snick of the door closing doesn’t disturb the silence.
Short, slow steps walk me around the front of the van.
Suddenly too tired to move, I lean back against the hood. I wrap myself in my arms and try to drag a lungful of air deep into my chest as memory suffocates me.
Wrapped up in silence and sunset, I don’t know how long I sit and stare. I’m not ready to leave, have no place to be. Not yet.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Canada geese glide along the calm, smooth surface of the pond. I tilt my head and track the baby as it tips its body, dips under water.
One of the adults runs along the surface, gain lift for takeoff. Slow, deep wingbeats carry it aloft as the rest of the family takes flight.
The breeze shifts; picks up. I push off the hood and begin to move.
Careful, silent footsteps sink into the soft ground as I step off the concrete and slip down two rows and over one, into the shade of the Eastern Cottonwood’s canopy.
I drop to my knees, feel the warm solid earth beneath them, hallowed ground, and push words, brittle and low through a dry, tight throat. “Hi. Heather.”
I run a gentle hand along the smooth stone; reverent fingers trace the carved letters of my sister’s name. “It’s been a while.”
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
This Business of Jupiter
This is the eighth part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
I love the rain, soft and cool in the quiet and the pale moonlight.
Sitting on the front porch, wrapped up in two sweaters and a wool hat, I listen to the stillness that comes after a short, furious shower and stare at the silver reflection coming off the mirrored surface of rain drops on pavement.
Out over the lake lightning flashes and I wait for the roll of thunder.
The storm won’t be here for a while yet.
Eyes closed, I settle more comfortably in my seat, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, and lift my face to the cool mist that’s carried on the breeze.
“Hey, Lib.”
My eyes drift open. I pull back my legs, sit up.
She’s standing right in front of me looking so much like I remembered it makes my heart hurt.
Her words are as soft and as gentle as the rain running down her face. “How are you doing?”
Brittle words pushed through a dry, tight throat break in my ear. “Why are you here?”
I breathe through the pressure in my chest. “It’s been a long time.”
“I’ve been here.” A sad smile bleeds across her lips. “You didn’t want to see me.”
I reach a hand toward her; stop, let it drop. “Didn’t seem much point.”
She tilts her head and the shadows on her face shift. “Don’t be like that, Libby.”
I blink against the mist in my eyes. “Why not?”
Her eyes soften with sorrow. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
I breathe deep and exhale; a harsh, jagged sound that slashes the stillness. “Why not?”
“Because I love you and I want you to be happy.”
A last lesson to me; I should be taking notes.
“I love you, too.” My throat tightens on words that turn to ash on my tongue. “You have to go now.”
I love the rain, soft and cool in the quiet and the pale moonlight.
Sitting on the front porch, wrapped up in two sweaters and a wool hat, I listen to the stillness that comes after a short, furious shower and stare at the silver reflection coming off the mirrored surface of rain drops on pavement.
Out over the lake lightning flashes and I wait for the roll of thunder.
The storm won’t be here for a while yet.
Eyes closed, I settle more comfortably in my seat, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, and lift my face to the cool mist that’s carried on the breeze.
“Hey, Lib.”
My eyes drift open. I pull back my legs, sit up.
She’s standing right in front of me looking so much like I remembered it makes my heart hurt.
Her words are as soft and as gentle as the rain running down her face. “How are you doing?”
Brittle words pushed through a dry, tight throat break in my ear. “Why are you here?”
I breathe through the pressure in my chest. “It’s been a long time.”
“I’ve been here.” A sad smile bleeds across her lips. “You didn’t want to see me.”
I reach a hand toward her; stop, let it drop. “Didn’t seem much point.”
She tilts her head and the shadows on her face shift. “Don’t be like that, Libby.”
I blink against the mist in my eyes. “Why not?”
Her eyes soften with sorrow. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
I breathe deep and exhale; a harsh, jagged sound that slashes the stillness. “Why not?”
“Because I love you and I want you to be happy.”
A last lesson to me; I should be taking notes.
“I love you, too.” My throat tightens on words that turn to ash on my tongue. “You have to go now.”
Monday, February 15, 2010
Shattered Mirrors
This is the seventh part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
The warm glow of the lobby welcomes us as we step through the glass double doors and stop.
I slide my eyes around the still life; over the delicate pattern of the plush, dark carpet, the well-padded and upholstered sofas, loveseats, and chairs grouped for conversation and consolation, the demure oils on the cream colored walls.
The soft murmur of voices from another room plays like a dirge.
A tall, well-dressed man steps into the portrait. White shirt, dark tie, a shimmer of soft grey dancing along his well-tailored suit, he’s walking toward us, perfect smile painted on his perfect face, hand outstretched.
I recognize the look of a professional comfort giver. I wonder what secret thoughts he harbors behind his very caring facade.
You really are paranoid. Not everyone spends as much time and effort talking to themselves as you do.
"Welcome." His voice is as warm as his hand as it wraps mine. "You must be Libby.”
I stare at that perfect smile.
“Allow me to say how very sorry I am for your loss. Is there anything you need or that I can get for you? Anything I can do for you?"
Can you raise the dead?
I pull my hand out of his; drop a white-knuckled fist to my side.
Didn't think so.
"Please let me know if I or any of my staff can be any assistance to you in your time here."
I feel Mike's hand slide around my waist as I shake my head.
"You must be anxious to see your family. Your brother-in-law and nieces are talking with my brother in the main chapel, going over flower arrangements and details for tomorrow.”
The air is suddenly thick and heavy and those lovely cream walls are pressing in on me, making it hard to breathe.
“Your sister is in the main viewing room downstairs." A sedate arm gestures toward the far wall of the room. "Through those doors, down the steps, down the hallway, first door on your left."
It’s so low key, understated, as if he’s giving me directions to the ladies room.
"Would you like me to escort you?"
Elegant in his delivery, he’s the perfect host and guide through the whole ugly death thing.
“No thanks.” Mike tightens his grip on my waist, fingers digging hard. “We'll be alright. We'll let you know if we need anything."
The man smiled his perfect smile again, touches his hand to my arm, and bows himself away.
I twist slightly in Mike's grip and turn my head to look at his face. He’s looking down at me, waiting for me to tell him that I’m ready.
With one last look around the lobby, my feet start moving toward the door and the stairs. It’s like walking underwater, everything hazy and limbs heavy like lead.
Through the door. Down the steps. Into the hallway.
A sign on the wall identifies our destination.
Viewing Room.
I pull up short at the door; feel Mike's hand around my waist, his other hand holding my mine. I know he’s talking to me, I can hear his voice, low in my ear. I can't understand a word he’s saying, but I think the sound is comforting.
I let him to guide me through the door.
She's there.
Tentative feet walk me those final few steps to my sister.
Looking down, reality hits like a physical blow.
My chest tightens with the pain I normally associate with a panic attack.
You know, that pain that radiates front to back through your chest and down your left arm, making you think you might be lucky enough to be having a heart attack so that at least the damned doctors could quantify the thing and do something useful for you.
You know the pain. The one you’re so scared of that might be a heart attack and you wouldn’t know the difference?
Don't think like that. Remember Jordan. Triple by-pass. You're the same age and she's six years now into the ten they gave her on her veins.
I look back at Heather. She looks so calm and peaceful. Isn't that what they always say? Like she's sleeping.
No. I've seen Heather sleeping and she never looked like this.
Yes, the funeral home had done a good job with her. The hair, make-up, and clothes, they were all Heather, but I would never mistake her for being asleep.
She’s dead.
I reach out a hand, touch her face.
So cold, so plastic, so lifeless.
My world tilts, spins; I can feel my precious control slipping, feel the walls closing in on me.
Remember, Heather? When we were growing up? What they would tell us. Mother, grandmothers, aunts. Play the game by the rules. Always be in control.
Standing silent in a silent room, in a silent basement, I can pretend I’m just an ordinary person with an ordinary life.
Be a good girl. Don't be a slut, don't do drugs or alcohol, go to school, be educated, but not too educated because that scares people, make the right decisions and you will get it all. Nice husband, nice kids, nice house.
I move my hand over Heather's face, along her eyebrow, down her cheek, across her lips.
The picture of perfection. The illusion of perfection. You will be happy.
Guilt and fear and rage coil in my gut, crush my chest.
What happened when you weren't?
I know I have a hole in my perfect life.
We both got it all. It filled you, made you happy. I envied you for that.
I love my husband and kids.
Why wasn't that enough?
I wish that they had not come at such a high price. I wish that I could let go.
I never let anything go.
Underneath the surface, in secret, in the dark, deep in the cage I so carefully constructed for it, I wished for something different.
Never often enough or strong enough to form a fully conscious, articulate thought, but that didn’t keep the wish from festering and surfacing.
I wouldn't trade anything I had or was for anything different.
I’m nauseous with the sense of emptiness, loss, and grief for something unknown. And I don’t think it seems so much to ask.
The illusion of happiness. Normalcy.
Just keep making those right decisions, keep going through the motions, keep meeting your responsibilities and maybe, finally, in the end everything will be all right.
You will be happy.
Are you high?
I can hear Jordan's voice.
Nothing's ever gonna be all right, ever again.
Heather never said that, never thought that.
What the fuck does happy have to do with anything?
I never expressed that thought to my sister. She never would have understood.
Heather and Jordan. Flip sides of the same coin that was me.
Maybe it was because I was older, the first, and Mom visited her anger and demons on me.
I hated her.
Maybe because she had nothing left for you except benign neglect.
I loved you.
I took my place as surrogate mom, met my responsibility and did a damn fine job raising you.
A fucking great job.
I was so damn proud of how you turned out.
And forget the fucking price tag.
I don't know why or what's missing.
I'm nothing but a fucking walking, talking, gaping black hole of need.
Now that you’re gone, what am I supposed to do?
See that Heather? I’m still tap dancing on landmines.
And then suddenly, without warning, Heather's voice cuts through all the static and screaming in my head. "Slow down. Don't dance so fast."
Good advice from a dead woman.
The warm glow of the lobby welcomes us as we step through the glass double doors and stop.
I slide my eyes around the still life; over the delicate pattern of the plush, dark carpet, the well-padded and upholstered sofas, loveseats, and chairs grouped for conversation and consolation, the demure oils on the cream colored walls.
The soft murmur of voices from another room plays like a dirge.
A tall, well-dressed man steps into the portrait. White shirt, dark tie, a shimmer of soft grey dancing along his well-tailored suit, he’s walking toward us, perfect smile painted on his perfect face, hand outstretched.
I recognize the look of a professional comfort giver. I wonder what secret thoughts he harbors behind his very caring facade.
You really are paranoid. Not everyone spends as much time and effort talking to themselves as you do.
"Welcome." His voice is as warm as his hand as it wraps mine. "You must be Libby.”
I stare at that perfect smile.
“Allow me to say how very sorry I am for your loss. Is there anything you need or that I can get for you? Anything I can do for you?"
Can you raise the dead?
I pull my hand out of his; drop a white-knuckled fist to my side.
Didn't think so.
"Please let me know if I or any of my staff can be any assistance to you in your time here."
I feel Mike's hand slide around my waist as I shake my head.
"You must be anxious to see your family. Your brother-in-law and nieces are talking with my brother in the main chapel, going over flower arrangements and details for tomorrow.”
The air is suddenly thick and heavy and those lovely cream walls are pressing in on me, making it hard to breathe.
“Your sister is in the main viewing room downstairs." A sedate arm gestures toward the far wall of the room. "Through those doors, down the steps, down the hallway, first door on your left."
It’s so low key, understated, as if he’s giving me directions to the ladies room.
"Would you like me to escort you?"
Elegant in his delivery, he’s the perfect host and guide through the whole ugly death thing.
“No thanks.” Mike tightens his grip on my waist, fingers digging hard. “We'll be alright. We'll let you know if we need anything."
The man smiled his perfect smile again, touches his hand to my arm, and bows himself away.
I twist slightly in Mike's grip and turn my head to look at his face. He’s looking down at me, waiting for me to tell him that I’m ready.
With one last look around the lobby, my feet start moving toward the door and the stairs. It’s like walking underwater, everything hazy and limbs heavy like lead.
Through the door. Down the steps. Into the hallway.
A sign on the wall identifies our destination.
Viewing Room.
I pull up short at the door; feel Mike's hand around my waist, his other hand holding my mine. I know he’s talking to me, I can hear his voice, low in my ear. I can't understand a word he’s saying, but I think the sound is comforting.
I let him to guide me through the door.
She's there.
Tentative feet walk me those final few steps to my sister.
Looking down, reality hits like a physical blow.
My chest tightens with the pain I normally associate with a panic attack.
You know, that pain that radiates front to back through your chest and down your left arm, making you think you might be lucky enough to be having a heart attack so that at least the damned doctors could quantify the thing and do something useful for you.
You know the pain. The one you’re so scared of that might be a heart attack and you wouldn’t know the difference?
Don't think like that. Remember Jordan. Triple by-pass. You're the same age and she's six years now into the ten they gave her on her veins.
I look back at Heather. She looks so calm and peaceful. Isn't that what they always say? Like she's sleeping.
No. I've seen Heather sleeping and she never looked like this.
Yes, the funeral home had done a good job with her. The hair, make-up, and clothes, they were all Heather, but I would never mistake her for being asleep.
She’s dead.
I reach out a hand, touch her face.
So cold, so plastic, so lifeless.
My world tilts, spins; I can feel my precious control slipping, feel the walls closing in on me.
Remember, Heather? When we were growing up? What they would tell us. Mother, grandmothers, aunts. Play the game by the rules. Always be in control.
Standing silent in a silent room, in a silent basement, I can pretend I’m just an ordinary person with an ordinary life.
Be a good girl. Don't be a slut, don't do drugs or alcohol, go to school, be educated, but not too educated because that scares people, make the right decisions and you will get it all. Nice husband, nice kids, nice house.
I move my hand over Heather's face, along her eyebrow, down her cheek, across her lips.
The picture of perfection. The illusion of perfection. You will be happy.
Guilt and fear and rage coil in my gut, crush my chest.
What happened when you weren't?
I know I have a hole in my perfect life.
We both got it all. It filled you, made you happy. I envied you for that.
I love my husband and kids.
Why wasn't that enough?
I wish that they had not come at such a high price. I wish that I could let go.
I never let anything go.
Underneath the surface, in secret, in the dark, deep in the cage I so carefully constructed for it, I wished for something different.
Never often enough or strong enough to form a fully conscious, articulate thought, but that didn’t keep the wish from festering and surfacing.
I wouldn't trade anything I had or was for anything different.
I’m nauseous with the sense of emptiness, loss, and grief for something unknown. And I don’t think it seems so much to ask.
The illusion of happiness. Normalcy.
Just keep making those right decisions, keep going through the motions, keep meeting your responsibilities and maybe, finally, in the end everything will be all right.
You will be happy.
Are you high?
I can hear Jordan's voice.
Nothing's ever gonna be all right, ever again.
Heather never said that, never thought that.
What the fuck does happy have to do with anything?
I never expressed that thought to my sister. She never would have understood.
Heather and Jordan. Flip sides of the same coin that was me.
Maybe it was because I was older, the first, and Mom visited her anger and demons on me.
I hated her.
Maybe because she had nothing left for you except benign neglect.
I loved you.
I took my place as surrogate mom, met my responsibility and did a damn fine job raising you.
A fucking great job.
I was so damn proud of how you turned out.
And forget the fucking price tag.
I don't know why or what's missing.
I'm nothing but a fucking walking, talking, gaping black hole of need.
Now that you’re gone, what am I supposed to do?
See that Heather? I’m still tap dancing on landmines.
And then suddenly, without warning, Heather's voice cuts through all the static and screaming in my head. "Slow down. Don't dance so fast."
Good advice from a dead woman.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Earnest Mockery
This is the sixth part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
Walking through the now empty halls on my way to the faculty parking lot, I glance at the broken window and the dried blood trail on the carpet.
All things considered, someone’s actually done a pretty good job of clean-up.
I push my way through the door and realize that leaving early means that the sun is still high on the horizon, that the day is still warm and bright in that end of summer way, and that I’m going to have some down time, something almost non-existent during my week.
I pop the lock and hit the remote start as I walk, hear the engine purr to life.
Opening the door, I drop into the driver’s seat, shove open the sun roof, reach over and slide in a CD and surf tracks until I found something I can live with.
I look down at my crimson splattered self and mentally run down the options for my unexpected windfall.
I can't go anywhere public without attracting at great deal of attention. I’m not ready to go home just yet, but I can get some coffee and have some select company if I want to.
Reaching over, I rummage in my bag and snag my cell. I dial my best friend Jordan's number while navigating the van out of the parking lot.
By the time I reach the gate, she's picked up and a very bored voice answers. “Good afternoon, St. Ursula's Academy. This is Mrs. Miles. Can I help you?”
“Probably not, but thanks for asking.” I hear Jordan’s soft snort and smile. “How’s life in your special little corner of the universe?”
“Life sucks.” Her voice floats in my ear. “Mine in particular, but yours can too if you want. I'm in an extra special mood today, and I can share.”
“That's what I've always loved about you, J. No matter polluted your aura, you're never too depressed to reach out and touch someone.”
My head does a quick flip back and forth before I spin the wheel left and pull out of the gate. “Gives me the warm fuzzies just thinkin' about it. I mean, it's just so nice to have company in my special little corner of hell.”
“Yeah, well, that's just me, ya know. My attitude sucks and so does yours, but that's just because we both live in the same zip code.”
I hear the bell explode in the background and the sound of passing students in the hall.
Jordan waits for it to finish. “Seriously. Some days, like today, I'm just soooo out there over the edge that I have warm fuzzy thoughts of just dropping dead. Can't stand the factory anymore. Just wanna walk.”
“Wanna play hooky?” I tap the brakes coming up on the empty intersection and do a quick double take left and right, before rolling through the stop.
I know the cops won’t be here for another hour until the high school lets out and they have a better shot at stopping students. “I just got sprung early and I could use a cup of coffee and a little time to decompress.”
“God, that sounds good. I think it could work. Boss is outta the building today at some lame ass conference or something equally unimportant, so if I just slide on outta here no one in the office is gonna notice.”
She snorts in my ear again. “And fuck them if they do. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not their whore. And it's not like I got lunch or a break today.”
I hang a quick right at the corner, more careful now that traffic is starting to pick up. “How long will you need to get out?”
“Give me ten minutes to clean the place up and I'll meet you at the side door by my office.”
“Ten minutes. Ok. I'll see you there.” I flip my cell onto the passenger’s seat and drive.
*************************
“Well, don't you just look like shit.” Jordan’s conversational tone floats in the interior as she settles herself in the passenger seat and gives me a casual once over.
She’s nothing if not observant. A nurse who works with kids and a mother herself, the sight of blood, especially dried and not in danger of spilling all over, doesn't faze her.
Even when it’s all over her best friend who’s picking her up for a quick cup of coffee.
“Yeah, well at least it's dried and it’s not smearing all over the place.” I hit the gas as she clicks her seat belt closed. “And yeah, I know I need to change, but I didn't feel like going home just yet. I need some coffee and some down time.”
“I'll bet.” Jordan settles deeper in her seat and begins digging in her bag. “What the hell happened?”
I give her the short and sweet version of my day, and thank God that Jordan knows how to listen.
She comes up with her cigarettes and lighter, rolls her eyes and nods at the right times in my narrative, and saves her verbal assessment of the situation until I finish talking.
“God, they're fucked up.” She lights up, takes a deep drag, blows out as she slides her eyes in my direction. “So how's the boy?”
“Last I heard he was in surgery with some vascular guy who's supposed to be pretty good.”
I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror. “I guess they've got a pretty good chance at repairing all the damage since they got to it pretty quickly.”
I flick them back and hit the brake as red lights flare in front of me. “Hey, asshole, you wanna drive that piece of shit?”
I ease back onto the accelerator. “I checked with the office before I left and they said the hospital figured he would be another three hours or so in surgery.”
Jordan cracks her window, a silent apology for the second hand smoke, and watches it slip out on the breeze. “What about the girl?”
Right hand on the wheel, I rest my left elbow on the top of the door; feel the cool of the window against it.
“Oh, she's there too, waiting for him to get into Recovery.” I lean my head into my hand and rub the dull ache at my temple. “Probably can't wait to pledge her undying love for him now that he's been all romantic and everything.”
I lean my head against the cool of the glass, try to stop the slow build-up of pain marching through my head. “Her parents are there too, believe it or not. From what I hear they're good with that relationship and really don’t see any reason for it to end.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
Jordan barks a laugh. “Well…that's just…twisted.”
“Yup.”
“Didn’t you have another kid like that not too long ago?”
My fingers find the balled up knot at the join of my neck and shoulder and rub hard. “You mean the little punk ass who sold the wrong kid some bad shit and the kid took exception to being ripped off?
“No.” Jordan flicks her butt out the window. “You didn’t tell me about that one.”
“Punk ass tried to catch him out back to beat his ass, but the kid ran. Tried to cut through the commons to the parking lot and wasn’t paying attention to where he was.”
I shrug a tight shoulder. “Musta been scared shitless cuz he never saw the double door. Never even slowed down. Just went smack through the glass.”
“No. That’s not the one.” Jordan shakes back her hair, lights up another cigarette. “I’da remembered that. It was another one.”
I crack my own window for some air and try to remember.
My head’s pounding; it takes a minute to click in place. “You mean the kid who ran his head through the glass in the double doors by the main office?” I breathe deep. “Jesus. That was a mess.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Well, that wasn’t for love or drugs; that was for money.” I wave a dismissive hand. “His friends bet him he wouldn’t do it.”
Jordan slides her eyes to me. “It really is a good thing you guys have so few windows in your place.”
“No, it’s not. I miss windows.”
“If you had any more, god knows your kids would probably be jumping out of them.”
I feel my lips twitch to the left. “No, they do that from the second floor landing in the Media Center.”
“Christ.”
“No shit. They’re idiots.” I tap my brakes; roll up on the red light. “You know we had to put sheet rock up on the walls in the hallways so that the kids couldn’t punch holes in them anymore.”
“Didn’t one of your kids go through a wall?”
“Yeah. Outside Bobby’s room. Girl fight.” My fingers drum a mindless rhythm on the steering wheel. “The little girl punched the big girl and the big girl’s ass went into the wall. Left an ass sized crater in it.”
Jordan snorts a harsh exhale. “So at least now they don’t punch the walls in the halls.”
“It only took them about a day of hurting their hands before they figured out that if they actually went into the classrooms they could punch walls and make holes that way.” The light turns and I hit the gas. “It’s perfect really. Go in. Cause some damage. Leave.”
I lean forward and squint into the early afternoon sun. “Who says we don’t teach problem solving skills in schools?”
My stomach rolls from the smoke and hunger; reminds me I missed lunch today. “Anyway how was your day?”
“Not nearly as interesting, romantic, or messy as yours, but it did have its special moments.”
Jordan pops the CD out and begins surfing channels. “Today was Lunch on the Lawn and it was nice to get outside for awhile and do the whole picnic, we like everybody here thing.”
“Yeah, I always did kinda like that about working at the factory.”
I spot what I’m looking for and flick on my turn signal. “They might not pay you anything for working there, but they do stuff like every once in awhile to make it seem like they're glad you're working there.”
I pull into the drive way and roll up to the drive through. “Hey, whaddya want?”
Walking through the now empty halls on my way to the faculty parking lot, I glance at the broken window and the dried blood trail on the carpet.
All things considered, someone’s actually done a pretty good job of clean-up.
I push my way through the door and realize that leaving early means that the sun is still high on the horizon, that the day is still warm and bright in that end of summer way, and that I’m going to have some down time, something almost non-existent during my week.
I pop the lock and hit the remote start as I walk, hear the engine purr to life.
Opening the door, I drop into the driver’s seat, shove open the sun roof, reach over and slide in a CD and surf tracks until I found something I can live with.
I look down at my crimson splattered self and mentally run down the options for my unexpected windfall.
I can't go anywhere public without attracting at great deal of attention. I’m not ready to go home just yet, but I can get some coffee and have some select company if I want to.
Reaching over, I rummage in my bag and snag my cell. I dial my best friend Jordan's number while navigating the van out of the parking lot.
By the time I reach the gate, she's picked up and a very bored voice answers. “Good afternoon, St. Ursula's Academy. This is Mrs. Miles. Can I help you?”
“Probably not, but thanks for asking.” I hear Jordan’s soft snort and smile. “How’s life in your special little corner of the universe?”
“Life sucks.” Her voice floats in my ear. “Mine in particular, but yours can too if you want. I'm in an extra special mood today, and I can share.”
“That's what I've always loved about you, J. No matter polluted your aura, you're never too depressed to reach out and touch someone.”
My head does a quick flip back and forth before I spin the wheel left and pull out of the gate. “Gives me the warm fuzzies just thinkin' about it. I mean, it's just so nice to have company in my special little corner of hell.”
“Yeah, well, that's just me, ya know. My attitude sucks and so does yours, but that's just because we both live in the same zip code.”
I hear the bell explode in the background and the sound of passing students in the hall.
Jordan waits for it to finish. “Seriously. Some days, like today, I'm just soooo out there over the edge that I have warm fuzzy thoughts of just dropping dead. Can't stand the factory anymore. Just wanna walk.”
“Wanna play hooky?” I tap the brakes coming up on the empty intersection and do a quick double take left and right, before rolling through the stop.
I know the cops won’t be here for another hour until the high school lets out and they have a better shot at stopping students. “I just got sprung early and I could use a cup of coffee and a little time to decompress.”
“God, that sounds good. I think it could work. Boss is outta the building today at some lame ass conference or something equally unimportant, so if I just slide on outta here no one in the office is gonna notice.”
She snorts in my ear again. “And fuck them if they do. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not their whore. And it's not like I got lunch or a break today.”
I hang a quick right at the corner, more careful now that traffic is starting to pick up. “How long will you need to get out?”
“Give me ten minutes to clean the place up and I'll meet you at the side door by my office.”
“Ten minutes. Ok. I'll see you there.” I flip my cell onto the passenger’s seat and drive.
*************************
“Well, don't you just look like shit.” Jordan’s conversational tone floats in the interior as she settles herself in the passenger seat and gives me a casual once over.
She’s nothing if not observant. A nurse who works with kids and a mother herself, the sight of blood, especially dried and not in danger of spilling all over, doesn't faze her.
Even when it’s all over her best friend who’s picking her up for a quick cup of coffee.
“Yeah, well at least it's dried and it’s not smearing all over the place.” I hit the gas as she clicks her seat belt closed. “And yeah, I know I need to change, but I didn't feel like going home just yet. I need some coffee and some down time.”
“I'll bet.” Jordan settles deeper in her seat and begins digging in her bag. “What the hell happened?”
I give her the short and sweet version of my day, and thank God that Jordan knows how to listen.
She comes up with her cigarettes and lighter, rolls her eyes and nods at the right times in my narrative, and saves her verbal assessment of the situation until I finish talking.
“God, they're fucked up.” She lights up, takes a deep drag, blows out as she slides her eyes in my direction. “So how's the boy?”
“Last I heard he was in surgery with some vascular guy who's supposed to be pretty good.”
I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror. “I guess they've got a pretty good chance at repairing all the damage since they got to it pretty quickly.”
I flick them back and hit the brake as red lights flare in front of me. “Hey, asshole, you wanna drive that piece of shit?”
I ease back onto the accelerator. “I checked with the office before I left and they said the hospital figured he would be another three hours or so in surgery.”
Jordan cracks her window, a silent apology for the second hand smoke, and watches it slip out on the breeze. “What about the girl?”
Right hand on the wheel, I rest my left elbow on the top of the door; feel the cool of the window against it.
“Oh, she's there too, waiting for him to get into Recovery.” I lean my head into my hand and rub the dull ache at my temple. “Probably can't wait to pledge her undying love for him now that he's been all romantic and everything.”
I lean my head against the cool of the glass, try to stop the slow build-up of pain marching through my head. “Her parents are there too, believe it or not. From what I hear they're good with that relationship and really don’t see any reason for it to end.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
Jordan barks a laugh. “Well…that's just…twisted.”
“Yup.”
“Didn’t you have another kid like that not too long ago?”
My fingers find the balled up knot at the join of my neck and shoulder and rub hard. “You mean the little punk ass who sold the wrong kid some bad shit and the kid took exception to being ripped off?
“No.” Jordan flicks her butt out the window. “You didn’t tell me about that one.”
“Punk ass tried to catch him out back to beat his ass, but the kid ran. Tried to cut through the commons to the parking lot and wasn’t paying attention to where he was.”
I shrug a tight shoulder. “Musta been scared shitless cuz he never saw the double door. Never even slowed down. Just went smack through the glass.”
“No. That’s not the one.” Jordan shakes back her hair, lights up another cigarette. “I’da remembered that. It was another one.”
I crack my own window for some air and try to remember.
My head’s pounding; it takes a minute to click in place. “You mean the kid who ran his head through the glass in the double doors by the main office?” I breathe deep. “Jesus. That was a mess.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Well, that wasn’t for love or drugs; that was for money.” I wave a dismissive hand. “His friends bet him he wouldn’t do it.”
Jordan slides her eyes to me. “It really is a good thing you guys have so few windows in your place.”
“No, it’s not. I miss windows.”
“If you had any more, god knows your kids would probably be jumping out of them.”
I feel my lips twitch to the left. “No, they do that from the second floor landing in the Media Center.”
“Christ.”
“No shit. They’re idiots.” I tap my brakes; roll up on the red light. “You know we had to put sheet rock up on the walls in the hallways so that the kids couldn’t punch holes in them anymore.”
“Didn’t one of your kids go through a wall?”
“Yeah. Outside Bobby’s room. Girl fight.” My fingers drum a mindless rhythm on the steering wheel. “The little girl punched the big girl and the big girl’s ass went into the wall. Left an ass sized crater in it.”
Jordan snorts a harsh exhale. “So at least now they don’t punch the walls in the halls.”
“It only took them about a day of hurting their hands before they figured out that if they actually went into the classrooms they could punch walls and make holes that way.” The light turns and I hit the gas. “It’s perfect really. Go in. Cause some damage. Leave.”
I lean forward and squint into the early afternoon sun. “Who says we don’t teach problem solving skills in schools?”
My stomach rolls from the smoke and hunger; reminds me I missed lunch today. “Anyway how was your day?”
“Not nearly as interesting, romantic, or messy as yours, but it did have its special moments.”
Jordan pops the CD out and begins surfing channels. “Today was Lunch on the Lawn and it was nice to get outside for awhile and do the whole picnic, we like everybody here thing.”
“Yeah, I always did kinda like that about working at the factory.”
I spot what I’m looking for and flick on my turn signal. “They might not pay you anything for working there, but they do stuff like every once in awhile to make it seem like they're glad you're working there.”
I pull into the drive way and roll up to the drive through. “Hey, whaddya want?”
Friday, February 12, 2010
Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart
This is the fifth part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
I hear the voices yelling at each other above the surrounding din as I bob and weave through the passing time throng that’s slowed up to check out the burgeoning knot of bodies pressing in around something in the middle of the hallway.
I can't hear the words yet, but I can isolate the two voices at the center of the scene.
One male. One female.
Both of them loud above the almost controlled chaos of passing time in the hallway.
Even over the cacophony, I can identify the sound of imminent confrontation, feel it, alive and humming, shimmering in the air as I walk and wonder what’s going on and how bad it’s going to be.
It’s the lunch block.
Twenty-two hundred students fed and watered during a two hour chunk of time. Five hundred plus hungry students at a time shoved and herded through lines in the commons like cattle on a tight twenty-five minute lunch schedule in an overcrowded open area that was hard to police.
It’s never good. The hallways leading there are never better.
I try never to be in this part of the building during this time of the day, but in spite of my best efforts my timing, like almost everything else in my life lately, is just a little bit off today.
The hallways are always crowded with students trying to beat the clock, but there’s something else going on here. I've gotten close enough to identify the center of attention, Owen Johnson and his girlfriend Chloe Maxwell, our very own poster children for dysfunctional teenage relationships everywhere.
All about the drama, they were always either fighting in public, having sex in public places and on couches at parties, doing it for posterity on videotape, cheating on one another, abusing a variety of substances together, or simply being co-dependent.
Beyond unhealthy, they are now putting on quite a show for the lunchtime crowd, complete with him red-faced and raging and her with tears running down her cheeks.
I can see they’ve already reached the pushing and shoving part of the program.
“Fucking bitch!”
Owen’s push off Chloe’s shoulders forces her back up to the bank of windows running long lower D wing, framing her against the bright blue sky and well manicured green grass of the outside common area.
After the sterile, brown brick walls and dark, dirty-blue carpet that makes up my interior life in the institution, the bright almost burns.
The study in contrast seems lost on Owen. “You're such a whore!”
“Fuck you! I hate you!” Chloe shoves him back, hard in the chest. “You are such a fucking asshole!”
There’s never been any doubt in my mind that Chloe can wax poetic when the mood hits her.
I watch with some kind of morbid fascination as I pick up my pace.
The audience is appreciative enough to take up sides and whisper amongst themselves. They stand a respectful distance off, giving the two combatants a clearing in the middle to work with.
Just as I reach the back of the group, Owen's right hand balls up into a fist and cocks back.
Shit, shit, shit.
I have a new mantra running unbidden through my mind.
He's gonna hit her.
I run my eyes along the hallway searching for either a uniform or another staff member, but it’s lunchtime and everybody’s in the commons.
That's just fucking fine.
I start pushing bodies out of my way, using my elbows and shoulders and hands to clear a path and kept moving through the crowd.
“Don't leave me.” Owen's scream of pain, frustration, and anger bounces off the walls, loud and clear over the din coming from the commons. “I love you!”
He pivots on his heel.
What the fuck?
Time slows to a crawl. I watch his hand trace an arc in the air in what seems like slow motion, and then it’s through the floor to ceiling windowpane.
The sound of impact explodes as shards of glass fall everywhere. Cracks run through the glass and sun glints on the spider web pattern.
A river of blood gushes down the broken window and down Owen's right arm and hand as reflexes kick in and he pulls it back through the broken pane.
The sight and smell of the blood dripping down onto the carpet causes everyone closest to the pair to step back. The sight and smell and sound seem to start the normal flow of time for me once again.
In a confluence of the surreal and the ludicrous, I hear the sound of the bell ringing.
B lunch.
I shake myself and try to focus on what’s rapidly becoming a horrendous mess right in front of me.
In the crowd I find a familiar face, reach out and grab the attached body by the shirt.
Looking straight into the face I force the words out calm and clear. “Josh, tell Mr. Anderson to call security and the paramedics.”
The face looks scared shitless, but the body moves in the right direction once I shove it down the hallway toward Jay Anderson's classroom.
I turn my head back to the window.
Chloe’s backed off, a shade of shock and horror beyond Goth on her red, wet face as Owen slumps to the ground. The rest of the students are frozen where they stand, some wrapped around each other, and the sudden silence screams in my head as I elbow my way through the crowd.
It’s gotten an eerie kind of quiet very quickly in our little corner of the universe. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jay come out of his room down the hall.
He looks at the window and yells at me as he begins making his way down the hall. “They're on their way.”
Shit, shit, shit.
“Back off, back off. Let me through.” My voice grates loud and harsh in my ears as I push forward, shoving students out of my way. “Move, move, move.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Owen doesn't look good. Pasty pale and white faced, he's just sitting there, blood flowing off his hand and arm, dripping into the carpet, creating a spreading pool of dark red all around him. He seems to be staring in awe at the carnage he’s created.
In a twisted sort of way, he looks almost pleased.
I, however, am feeling anything but pleased. I feel like screaming, raging, and ranting. I feel like smacking him and her for creating this mess.
But that’s not going to happen because that’s not productive, appropriate, or professional.
I finally get through the crowd to kneel at Owen's side. “Owen, Owen, look at me.”
I grab for the bookbag that he’s dropped on the floor. “Can you look at me?”
The adrenaline rush kicks in and my heart starts to pound.
Shit, shit, shit.
There’s so much blood.
I rip open the bookbag, hoping to hell that he's either had gym today or had some extra practice clothes inside his bag.
God knows he wouldn't have books.
I wonder when cynical had become my default.
Owen's head swings around to meet mine as my hands close on an extra shirt in his bookbag.
Pulling it out, I look right into his face. His eyes widen as he recognizes me next to him.
“Hey, Logan.” He says it affectionately, just like he does every time he sees me.
As if he’s just entering my classroom to spend some time.
“Hey, Owen.”
He just looks at me and smiles.
He’s in shock and I have no gloves, because why would I need gloves for a simple trip to the office?
I take the shirt and start to wrap it around his right arm, direct pressure, trying to remember the training, trying to stop the bleeding.
Trying to keep the blood off me.
Because I have no gloves.
“Owen, I'm just gonna wrap this around your arm until the paramedics get here to take care of you.”
He just looks at me with his soft, goofy smile, trusting me to make this all better.
My kids all think that I can always make everything all better.
Little do they know.
I hear the voices yelling at each other above the surrounding din as I bob and weave through the passing time throng that’s slowed up to check out the burgeoning knot of bodies pressing in around something in the middle of the hallway.
I can't hear the words yet, but I can isolate the two voices at the center of the scene.
One male. One female.
Both of them loud above the almost controlled chaos of passing time in the hallway.
Even over the cacophony, I can identify the sound of imminent confrontation, feel it, alive and humming, shimmering in the air as I walk and wonder what’s going on and how bad it’s going to be.
It’s the lunch block.
Twenty-two hundred students fed and watered during a two hour chunk of time. Five hundred plus hungry students at a time shoved and herded through lines in the commons like cattle on a tight twenty-five minute lunch schedule in an overcrowded open area that was hard to police.
It’s never good. The hallways leading there are never better.
I try never to be in this part of the building during this time of the day, but in spite of my best efforts my timing, like almost everything else in my life lately, is just a little bit off today.
The hallways are always crowded with students trying to beat the clock, but there’s something else going on here. I've gotten close enough to identify the center of attention, Owen Johnson and his girlfriend Chloe Maxwell, our very own poster children for dysfunctional teenage relationships everywhere.
All about the drama, they were always either fighting in public, having sex in public places and on couches at parties, doing it for posterity on videotape, cheating on one another, abusing a variety of substances together, or simply being co-dependent.
Beyond unhealthy, they are now putting on quite a show for the lunchtime crowd, complete with him red-faced and raging and her with tears running down her cheeks.
I can see they’ve already reached the pushing and shoving part of the program.
“Fucking bitch!”
Owen’s push off Chloe’s shoulders forces her back up to the bank of windows running long lower D wing, framing her against the bright blue sky and well manicured green grass of the outside common area.
After the sterile, brown brick walls and dark, dirty-blue carpet that makes up my interior life in the institution, the bright almost burns.
The study in contrast seems lost on Owen. “You're such a whore!”
“Fuck you! I hate you!” Chloe shoves him back, hard in the chest. “You are such a fucking asshole!”
There’s never been any doubt in my mind that Chloe can wax poetic when the mood hits her.
I watch with some kind of morbid fascination as I pick up my pace.
The audience is appreciative enough to take up sides and whisper amongst themselves. They stand a respectful distance off, giving the two combatants a clearing in the middle to work with.
Just as I reach the back of the group, Owen's right hand balls up into a fist and cocks back.
Shit, shit, shit.
I have a new mantra running unbidden through my mind.
He's gonna hit her.
I run my eyes along the hallway searching for either a uniform or another staff member, but it’s lunchtime and everybody’s in the commons.
That's just fucking fine.
I start pushing bodies out of my way, using my elbows and shoulders and hands to clear a path and kept moving through the crowd.
“Don't leave me.” Owen's scream of pain, frustration, and anger bounces off the walls, loud and clear over the din coming from the commons. “I love you!”
He pivots on his heel.
What the fuck?
Time slows to a crawl. I watch his hand trace an arc in the air in what seems like slow motion, and then it’s through the floor to ceiling windowpane.
The sound of impact explodes as shards of glass fall everywhere. Cracks run through the glass and sun glints on the spider web pattern.
A river of blood gushes down the broken window and down Owen's right arm and hand as reflexes kick in and he pulls it back through the broken pane.
The sight and smell of the blood dripping down onto the carpet causes everyone closest to the pair to step back. The sight and smell and sound seem to start the normal flow of time for me once again.
In a confluence of the surreal and the ludicrous, I hear the sound of the bell ringing.
B lunch.
I shake myself and try to focus on what’s rapidly becoming a horrendous mess right in front of me.
In the crowd I find a familiar face, reach out and grab the attached body by the shirt.
Looking straight into the face I force the words out calm and clear. “Josh, tell Mr. Anderson to call security and the paramedics.”
The face looks scared shitless, but the body moves in the right direction once I shove it down the hallway toward Jay Anderson's classroom.
I turn my head back to the window.
Chloe’s backed off, a shade of shock and horror beyond Goth on her red, wet face as Owen slumps to the ground. The rest of the students are frozen where they stand, some wrapped around each other, and the sudden silence screams in my head as I elbow my way through the crowd.
It’s gotten an eerie kind of quiet very quickly in our little corner of the universe. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jay come out of his room down the hall.
He looks at the window and yells at me as he begins making his way down the hall. “They're on their way.”
Shit, shit, shit.
“Back off, back off. Let me through.” My voice grates loud and harsh in my ears as I push forward, shoving students out of my way. “Move, move, move.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Owen doesn't look good. Pasty pale and white faced, he's just sitting there, blood flowing off his hand and arm, dripping into the carpet, creating a spreading pool of dark red all around him. He seems to be staring in awe at the carnage he’s created.
In a twisted sort of way, he looks almost pleased.
I, however, am feeling anything but pleased. I feel like screaming, raging, and ranting. I feel like smacking him and her for creating this mess.
But that’s not going to happen because that’s not productive, appropriate, or professional.
I finally get through the crowd to kneel at Owen's side. “Owen, Owen, look at me.”
I grab for the bookbag that he’s dropped on the floor. “Can you look at me?”
The adrenaline rush kicks in and my heart starts to pound.
Shit, shit, shit.
There’s so much blood.
I rip open the bookbag, hoping to hell that he's either had gym today or had some extra practice clothes inside his bag.
God knows he wouldn't have books.
I wonder when cynical had become my default.
Owen's head swings around to meet mine as my hands close on an extra shirt in his bookbag.
Pulling it out, I look right into his face. His eyes widen as he recognizes me next to him.
“Hey, Logan.” He says it affectionately, just like he does every time he sees me.
As if he’s just entering my classroom to spend some time.
“Hey, Owen.”
He just looks at me and smiles.
He’s in shock and I have no gloves, because why would I need gloves for a simple trip to the office?
I take the shirt and start to wrap it around his right arm, direct pressure, trying to remember the training, trying to stop the bleeding.
Trying to keep the blood off me.
Because I have no gloves.
“Owen, I'm just gonna wrap this around your arm until the paramedics get here to take care of you.”
He just looks at me with his soft, goofy smile, trusting me to make this all better.
My kids all think that I can always make everything all better.
Little do they know.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Omitting Your Mistakes
This is the fourth part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
I've never really liked the dark. If the truth be known, I've always been a little afraid of it. Maybe even a lot afraid.
I've slept with the TV on in my bedroom every night for as long as I can remember. The quiet sound of the volume on low lulls me to sleep, and the soft light allows me to orient myself and focus when I wake shaking and sweating during the night.
On good nights, the light and sound calm me enough to end the possibility of a panic attack and let me go back to sleep. On bad nights, the light lets me dress quickly enough and quietly enough not to disturb Mike too much before I make my desperate escape to the outside world.
Now, sitting in the car, in the dark, in the parking lot of the funeral home with Mike, I find the darkness welcome.
Comforting. Appropriate.
Looking up at the clear black that forms the backdrop for the shining sprinkle of stars in the night sky, I feel strangely safe. I've forgotten how beautiful and awe inspiring the night sky can be.
Here, away from the city lights that obscure its nighttime beauty, I can lose myself in a multitude of emotions and feelings that really are better left in the dark, covered by a comforting blanket of pure ebony.
We pulled in here a few minutes ago, pulled into an almost empty parking lot and now we just sit.
Silent. Waiting.
The funeral home is really quite beautiful, lit with soft white light against the clear blackness of the night sky. A tall, white, Southern colonial style building that shines in an almost ethereal way in the darkness, exuding a calm stillness that seems to offer the promise of comfort to those most sorely in need of it.
It scares the hell out of me.
She's in there. Waiting for you.
I can feel my heart already pounding in my chest, the hammering rush of my pulse reverberating in my temples.
And I’m even out of the car yet.
I don't know exactly how long we sit there, but when Mike finally speaks, his voice is calm, quiet, and soothing.
He cocks his head to slide a sidelong glance at me, almost as if measuring my stability. "You ready, babe?"
He slides his hand to my cheek and strokes it gently.
I’ve always wondered where his endless supply of affection for me comes from. It seems inexhaustible.
I think about Mark. I know he and the girls are here, I can see his car in the lot. And I wonder who’ll be doing that for him now that Heather was gone?
"I guess so." I try to will the pounding in my head into submission.
I notice the fine trembling in my hands and knot them together in my lap.
Not yet.
"You know, I've probably passed this place hundreds of times before and never thought anything of it. Never thought anything about what actually went on inside of it."
Mea culpa. My bad.
One more item I can add to my list of sins and mistakes.
Sims of omission. Sins of commission.
Omit your mistakes.
I wonder if I’ll ever reach that state of grace.
Mike turns his head and looks at me full on. His eyes reflect the moonlight coming into the car as he slides a gentle hand over my own.
Good God, when had I become so needy? So fucking weak?
A tidal wave of anger floods me and I welcome it. It’s better than the lethargy, the wasted feeling that I’ve been wrapped up in for way too long. I might not be able to feel or express grief, but I can do anger.
I can do it very well.
Do I really need so much fucking care?
"All the times the parking lot was full, someone was going through this and it never even occurred to me.” My voice is so low and harsh I don’t recognize it. “I mean, it's not like this is a grocery store or something."
"It's not like this is something people like to think about, babe."
"I know.” My fingers rub hard at my temples. “We should go. Mark and the girls will be waiting for us."
And so will Heather. She'll be waiting for you.
I reach for the handle, open the door, and step out into the night.
My body’s frozen, cold to the core, and it seems my feet are planted where I stand.
Mike comes around the front of the car and waits for me, his hand extended palm up.
A silent invitation. A silent promise.
It forces my feet to move and I take his hand.
I look up at the perfect stars shining in the perfect velvet blackness of the perfect sky.
It steals my breath.
I may not have flown in a while, but I have always loved flying at night. I want to be flying right now.
Panic pools at the base of my spine, spills out of my gut, squeezes my heart.
I want to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this, but Mike’s guiding me across the parking lot toward the well-lit entrance.
I try to let my mind fade to blank as I walk toward where I know my sister is waiting for me.
I've never really liked the dark. If the truth be known, I've always been a little afraid of it. Maybe even a lot afraid.
I've slept with the TV on in my bedroom every night for as long as I can remember. The quiet sound of the volume on low lulls me to sleep, and the soft light allows me to orient myself and focus when I wake shaking and sweating during the night.
On good nights, the light and sound calm me enough to end the possibility of a panic attack and let me go back to sleep. On bad nights, the light lets me dress quickly enough and quietly enough not to disturb Mike too much before I make my desperate escape to the outside world.
Now, sitting in the car, in the dark, in the parking lot of the funeral home with Mike, I find the darkness welcome.
Comforting. Appropriate.
Looking up at the clear black that forms the backdrop for the shining sprinkle of stars in the night sky, I feel strangely safe. I've forgotten how beautiful and awe inspiring the night sky can be.
Here, away from the city lights that obscure its nighttime beauty, I can lose myself in a multitude of emotions and feelings that really are better left in the dark, covered by a comforting blanket of pure ebony.
We pulled in here a few minutes ago, pulled into an almost empty parking lot and now we just sit.
Silent. Waiting.
The funeral home is really quite beautiful, lit with soft white light against the clear blackness of the night sky. A tall, white, Southern colonial style building that shines in an almost ethereal way in the darkness, exuding a calm stillness that seems to offer the promise of comfort to those most sorely in need of it.
It scares the hell out of me.
She's in there. Waiting for you.
I can feel my heart already pounding in my chest, the hammering rush of my pulse reverberating in my temples.
And I’m even out of the car yet.
I don't know exactly how long we sit there, but when Mike finally speaks, his voice is calm, quiet, and soothing.
He cocks his head to slide a sidelong glance at me, almost as if measuring my stability. "You ready, babe?"
He slides his hand to my cheek and strokes it gently.
I’ve always wondered where his endless supply of affection for me comes from. It seems inexhaustible.
I think about Mark. I know he and the girls are here, I can see his car in the lot. And I wonder who’ll be doing that for him now that Heather was gone?
"I guess so." I try to will the pounding in my head into submission.
I notice the fine trembling in my hands and knot them together in my lap.
Not yet.
"You know, I've probably passed this place hundreds of times before and never thought anything of it. Never thought anything about what actually went on inside of it."
Mea culpa. My bad.
One more item I can add to my list of sins and mistakes.
Sims of omission. Sins of commission.
Omit your mistakes.
I wonder if I’ll ever reach that state of grace.
Mike turns his head and looks at me full on. His eyes reflect the moonlight coming into the car as he slides a gentle hand over my own.
Good God, when had I become so needy? So fucking weak?
A tidal wave of anger floods me and I welcome it. It’s better than the lethargy, the wasted feeling that I’ve been wrapped up in for way too long. I might not be able to feel or express grief, but I can do anger.
I can do it very well.
Do I really need so much fucking care?
"All the times the parking lot was full, someone was going through this and it never even occurred to me.” My voice is so low and harsh I don’t recognize it. “I mean, it's not like this is a grocery store or something."
"It's not like this is something people like to think about, babe."
"I know.” My fingers rub hard at my temples. “We should go. Mark and the girls will be waiting for us."
And so will Heather. She'll be waiting for you.
I reach for the handle, open the door, and step out into the night.
My body’s frozen, cold to the core, and it seems my feet are planted where I stand.
Mike comes around the front of the car and waits for me, his hand extended palm up.
A silent invitation. A silent promise.
It forces my feet to move and I take his hand.
I look up at the perfect stars shining in the perfect velvet blackness of the perfect sky.
It steals my breath.
I may not have flown in a while, but I have always loved flying at night. I want to be flying right now.
Panic pools at the base of my spine, spills out of my gut, squeezes my heart.
I want to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this, but Mike’s guiding me across the parking lot toward the well-lit entrance.
I try to let my mind fade to blank as I walk toward where I know my sister is waiting for me.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
An Ambiance of Technology
This is the third part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
I can’t breathe.
I’m lying in a dark, dank hole in the ground and there’s something huge and heavy on my chest, crushing me and I can’t breathe.
Above me, in the dark and the shadows, someone is shoveling dirt on me. I can feel it land on my face and my body, filling in the hole around me.
I can’t breathe.
Heart pounding in my chest and gasping for breath, I try to find enough air to drag into my lungs. I’m pinned and suffocating and I can’t get my body to move.
There’s a burning in my chest, like someone’s shoved a spear on fire clean through, front to back.
It burns and I can’t breathe as I sit bolt upright in my bed, scared out of my mind, sweating, shaking, just trying to find enough air to breathe.
With years of practice my husband rolls over and reaches for me, out of habit, still half-asleep. “Are you ok?”
For all that this is our script he never fails to say the words with love and concern.
“No.” I push the strangled word through a dry, tight throat.
I was too damn hot. It was too damn hot in the room and I couldn’t breathe.
I need to move. Throwing the covers back, I roll off the bed, stand locked and rigid. Rapid-fire bursts of light from the changing images on the tv flicker in the dark, dance along the walls.
The only sound in the stillness is the roar of my pulse in my ears.
I grab the tiny bottles on the nightstand and stagger out of the bedroom.
************************
Soft, silver light from the full-moon hanging bright-white in a black sky streams in through the foyer window, meets me at the foot of the stairs.
I throw open the door and step out onto the porch, stand barefoot on the threshold, pulling huge shuddering breaths of cold, clear, night air deep into my lungs.
It’s like a slap in the face, forcing my head to snap back in physical response. The effect on my panic is almost like magic.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The shock is just enough to knock down the terror, the panic, and along with the deep breathing I could feel the anxiety begin to back off just enough, just under the border of panic.
My fingers curl white-knuckled around the bottles in my hand. I don’t need to see the labels to know what they are.
Ambien. Lorazepam. Effexor. Wellbutrin. Clonazepam. Celexa. Buspar.
Mix and match. I think I should be able to sleep for weeks.
Forever.
I think that would be really nice; a really welcome change.
So sad, too bad.
The wind shifts, a cold arctic breeze that sweeps down from the north and slides through trees and power lines already coated with a fine crystalline sheen.
A hard shiver rips through me and I wrap my arms around myself as I back into the house and close the door.
************************
I’m wrapped up in my blanket and the spill of light from the street lamp that pools on my desk top.
Tension coils in my gut, claws its way up and out into my chest, creeps up my spine toward my shoulders. I can feel it trying to wrap its fingers around the base of my neck.
I pop the top on the Lorazapam, shake two pills into the palm of my hand.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I pop the pills and sip on my coffee as I sit and stare at the warm, backlit glow of my monitor and click in the stillness and the dark.
Upstairs my husband and children are sleeping. I imagine I can hear soft breathing and wish I could sleep like they do.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Alone is good. Quiet is good.
Better living through chemistry.
Hunched into myself, I sit and stare and click in the dark as I wait for the pills to kick in.
I can’t breathe.
I’m lying in a dark, dank hole in the ground and there’s something huge and heavy on my chest, crushing me and I can’t breathe.
Above me, in the dark and the shadows, someone is shoveling dirt on me. I can feel it land on my face and my body, filling in the hole around me.
I can’t breathe.
Heart pounding in my chest and gasping for breath, I try to find enough air to drag into my lungs. I’m pinned and suffocating and I can’t get my body to move.
There’s a burning in my chest, like someone’s shoved a spear on fire clean through, front to back.
It burns and I can’t breathe as I sit bolt upright in my bed, scared out of my mind, sweating, shaking, just trying to find enough air to breathe.
With years of practice my husband rolls over and reaches for me, out of habit, still half-asleep. “Are you ok?”
For all that this is our script he never fails to say the words with love and concern.
“No.” I push the strangled word through a dry, tight throat.
I was too damn hot. It was too damn hot in the room and I couldn’t breathe.
I need to move. Throwing the covers back, I roll off the bed, stand locked and rigid. Rapid-fire bursts of light from the changing images on the tv flicker in the dark, dance along the walls.
The only sound in the stillness is the roar of my pulse in my ears.
I grab the tiny bottles on the nightstand and stagger out of the bedroom.
************************
Soft, silver light from the full-moon hanging bright-white in a black sky streams in through the foyer window, meets me at the foot of the stairs.
I throw open the door and step out onto the porch, stand barefoot on the threshold, pulling huge shuddering breaths of cold, clear, night air deep into my lungs.
It’s like a slap in the face, forcing my head to snap back in physical response. The effect on my panic is almost like magic.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The shock is just enough to knock down the terror, the panic, and along with the deep breathing I could feel the anxiety begin to back off just enough, just under the border of panic.
My fingers curl white-knuckled around the bottles in my hand. I don’t need to see the labels to know what they are.
Ambien. Lorazepam. Effexor. Wellbutrin. Clonazepam. Celexa. Buspar.
Mix and match. I think I should be able to sleep for weeks.
Forever.
I think that would be really nice; a really welcome change.
So sad, too bad.
The wind shifts, a cold arctic breeze that sweeps down from the north and slides through trees and power lines already coated with a fine crystalline sheen.
A hard shiver rips through me and I wrap my arms around myself as I back into the house and close the door.
************************
I’m wrapped up in my blanket and the spill of light from the street lamp that pools on my desk top.
Tension coils in my gut, claws its way up and out into my chest, creeps up my spine toward my shoulders. I can feel it trying to wrap its fingers around the base of my neck.
I pop the top on the Lorazapam, shake two pills into the palm of my hand.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I pop the pills and sip on my coffee as I sit and stare at the warm, backlit glow of my monitor and click in the stillness and the dark.
Upstairs my husband and children are sleeping. I imagine I can hear soft breathing and wish I could sleep like they do.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Alone is good. Quiet is good.
Better living through chemistry.
Hunched into myself, I sit and stare and click in the dark as I wait for the pills to kick in.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Fear of Writing
This is the second part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
I’ve lived my life in limbo, ping-ponging between my myriad fears, paralyzed. At this point in time, I cling to the hope that I am more than the sum of my all of my fears, that in my roles of wife, mother, teacher, friend, I have faced, challenged, surmounted them all and reached some sort of state of grace on the other side.
I know this not to be true, yet I cling to that belief with more tenacity that I cling to all others.
If I persevere all will be well, and I will be happy. Such are dreams and illusions, hopes and hallucinations.
Between the twin torrents of my fears of failure and success lies the desert of my fear that no matter what, I am just not good enough, and that sooner or later I will be exposed as the fraud and charlatan that I am.
And between the lines of fear and blame, I wonder just how much or how long I’m doomed to repeat my mistakes.
I self-identify in the following ways: wife, mother, teacher, friend, writer. It’s telling, I think, that it is only as the last one that I see the real me. No hats, no masks, no personas or preconceptions.
I am terrified of writing. It guts me, hollows me out, when the words cut loose and pour out, cascading like they’ll never stop. Because it’s me, distilled and unedited, my self created and expressed in ways and words no one else has.
When they slide under my skin and burrow into my brain, and slash and claw but won’t come out. When they don’t come out, I am terrified of not writing. Of not being able to write.
Because if the words don’t come out, if I can’t call them, birth them, if they don’t exist, who am I?
I use words for a living. They are my tools, my weapons, and my stock in trade. I stand in front of a high school classroom of children, an average of thirty a class, a hundred a day, and spray them, sometimes scattershot, to educate, to entertain, to enlighten. After more than a decade I am comfortable in front of a classroom. I slide into teacher; put on my persona, and like an actor, the show goes on.
For over a quarter of a century I have been a wife and mother. My words have whispered my love and comfort; have created laughter and dried tears. My words have met needs; been consumed and subsumed and I see my words in my children, in my life.
But spoken words are fleeting. Written words bleed; into your soul, out through your fingers, onto a piece of paper or a blank screen and they are forever. They burn and writhe, but you can hold them, shape them, and they are you.
Sharp edged like a razor or serrated, jagged and slashing, they ghost along neural pathways, ghost in the walls, whisper in the silence and the shadows. Swirling in the obscure mist of memory, just out of reach, they murmur in the dark about love, and hope and dreams. When I fear I’ve forgotten how to dream, when I fear I can’t find the words when I really need them, they break in a wave, tidal, dragging me in and pulling me under.
And sometimes, when they run endlessly, bitter and acid, dripping with venom or dancing with joy, my head hurts from all the words; from the lack of sleep, the lack of sanity they bring me.
I’ve stood in the doorways of my children’s bedrooms and watched them sleep, listened to the soft whisper of their breathing. I counted my blessings, counted myself lucky. And later, wrapped up in the heft and the weight of the moment as the silence and the dark congeal around me, my eyes adjust to the backlit glow of a blank screen and I wait, listen for the rhythm of the words.
Sometimes I can’t quite remember, can’t quite put the pieces of the puzzle together. Everything is locked up in memory.
But I face my fear and dream, and something deep inside shifts, raw and sharp and clear as crystal, unlocks the memory, and the words flow, collide, ignite.
And I write.
I’ve lived my life in limbo, ping-ponging between my myriad fears, paralyzed. At this point in time, I cling to the hope that I am more than the sum of my all of my fears, that in my roles of wife, mother, teacher, friend, I have faced, challenged, surmounted them all and reached some sort of state of grace on the other side.
I know this not to be true, yet I cling to that belief with more tenacity that I cling to all others.
If I persevere all will be well, and I will be happy. Such are dreams and illusions, hopes and hallucinations.
Between the twin torrents of my fears of failure and success lies the desert of my fear that no matter what, I am just not good enough, and that sooner or later I will be exposed as the fraud and charlatan that I am.
And between the lines of fear and blame, I wonder just how much or how long I’m doomed to repeat my mistakes.
I self-identify in the following ways: wife, mother, teacher, friend, writer. It’s telling, I think, that it is only as the last one that I see the real me. No hats, no masks, no personas or preconceptions.
I am terrified of writing. It guts me, hollows me out, when the words cut loose and pour out, cascading like they’ll never stop. Because it’s me, distilled and unedited, my self created and expressed in ways and words no one else has.
When they slide under my skin and burrow into my brain, and slash and claw but won’t come out. When they don’t come out, I am terrified of not writing. Of not being able to write.
Because if the words don’t come out, if I can’t call them, birth them, if they don’t exist, who am I?
I use words for a living. They are my tools, my weapons, and my stock in trade. I stand in front of a high school classroom of children, an average of thirty a class, a hundred a day, and spray them, sometimes scattershot, to educate, to entertain, to enlighten. After more than a decade I am comfortable in front of a classroom. I slide into teacher; put on my persona, and like an actor, the show goes on.
For over a quarter of a century I have been a wife and mother. My words have whispered my love and comfort; have created laughter and dried tears. My words have met needs; been consumed and subsumed and I see my words in my children, in my life.
But spoken words are fleeting. Written words bleed; into your soul, out through your fingers, onto a piece of paper or a blank screen and they are forever. They burn and writhe, but you can hold them, shape them, and they are you.
Sharp edged like a razor or serrated, jagged and slashing, they ghost along neural pathways, ghost in the walls, whisper in the silence and the shadows. Swirling in the obscure mist of memory, just out of reach, they murmur in the dark about love, and hope and dreams. When I fear I’ve forgotten how to dream, when I fear I can’t find the words when I really need them, they break in a wave, tidal, dragging me in and pulling me under.
And sometimes, when they run endlessly, bitter and acid, dripping with venom or dancing with joy, my head hurts from all the words; from the lack of sleep, the lack of sanity they bring me.
I’ve stood in the doorways of my children’s bedrooms and watched them sleep, listened to the soft whisper of their breathing. I counted my blessings, counted myself lucky. And later, wrapped up in the heft and the weight of the moment as the silence and the dark congeal around me, my eyes adjust to the backlit glow of a blank screen and I wait, listen for the rhythm of the words.
Sometimes I can’t quite remember, can’t quite put the pieces of the puzzle together. Everything is locked up in memory.
But I face my fear and dream, and something deep inside shifts, raw and sharp and clear as crystal, unlocks the memory, and the words flow, collide, ignite.
And I write.
Monday, February 8, 2010
A Random Memory
This is the first part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.
Sunlight glints under a clear blue sky, glistens in long chestnut hair that frames a pale, perfect face.
She stands in front of me, smiling, eyes bright and shining. Long, elegant fingers hold her mortarboard in small, fine-boned hands as she leans in to kiss me. “Hi, Mommy.”
So tiny, so happy, so proud.
The scent of vanilla, coconut, and lily of the valley tickles my nose, tightens my chest with memory. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“That’s ok.” Her lips slide into a quiet smile, and I see the echoes of the child in the exquisite young woman she has become. “We just have to go.”
She turns and I fall into step. The staccato click of her stiletto heels pounds a backbeat on the pavement as we make our way over to State Street.
It’s more crowded here now, as we thread our way through the ebb and flow of the masses, the sea of black robes bobbing and weaving among the bodies wrapped in brightly colored fabric and finery.
The warm, mid-afternoon breeze stirs memories of late spring and the sun on my skin brings a full-body feeling of joy that anchors itself deep in my cells. An undercurrent of anticipation hums in the sun-warmed air like electricity.
I resist the urge to slide my hand around hers as we thread our way through the crushing throng. Once I had slowed, waited, her tiny hand in my mine as little legs struggled to keep up. Now I push hard not to slow her down as the rush hour traffic crawls by.
We catch a light and cross the street. The sounds of the city slip away as we climb the stairs to East Hall, push through the shiny glass and steel doors for our first stop on the evening’s program.
She herds me gently through the hallway into line.
I hate myself in pictures. They shame me. My hair is still pulled back in my teacher bun. It’s shot through with grey. There’s no makeup on my face to cover the unevenness of my skin, and I’m still in my teacher clothes.
But when she presses close I smile dutifully as our moment is captured for posterity. And then we’re off, down another hallway filled with bodies milling and gathering.
Her hand on my arm stops me and a long, elegant forefinger finds her name on the list on the wall, her achievements there for all to see.
I take the picture this time, so very careful to capture the cap and gown and the gentle curve of her smile as she stands there and I see her at five, so tiny, so happy, so proud, handing me her handprint for the refrigerator.
The memory shoots straight to my heart, my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. I lower the camera, hold it out to her.
She drops it into her bag without looking. “Want to get something to eat?”
I blink once and swallow, paint on my own smile. “Sure.”
We move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, make our way into the Psychology Atrium.
Crystal and silver gleam in the soft light spilling on white-robed tables, the dull murmur of muted conversation hums in the background as we follow the line snaking toward the Third Floor Terrace buffet.
************************
The wind’s picked up. There’s a chill in the air and the clear blue sky has given way to a purple-pink as the sun slides lower on the horizon.
We flow with the river of people, down the sidewalk, up the white stone steps warmed by the last of the dying sun, into the Mendelssohn Theatre.
Soft, yellow light spills over the solid oak paneling, pools on the marble floor, the weight of a century of history and tradition pressing down on us as we negotiate our way down the hall for the evening’s La Celebración Latina.
There’s another line and more pictures. She slides her arm around my waist as mine goes around hers and we smile. The photographer shows us what we will look like and then we’re off, moving into a private dining room just off the hallway.
Another line, another buffet, set up along the far wall. There’s a trio playing softly in the corner of the room as we thread our way between the small groups of people seated around small-circle tables and those standing in groups.
I can tell that we’re late by what’s left on the table. I skip the salads and find the deserts, pull something that’s chocolate onto my plate, and turn, run my eyes over the room searching for a seat.
It’s been a long day. I’m tired and my feet hurt.
I find her. She’s found her friends.
Plate in hand, I watch her, the child who used to sit in my lap, and it’s a strange kind of time travel. She moves with such self-assured grace, quick kisses and hugs for everyone.
And when I look at her I see my life, my love, my dreams, my hope, the very best of me.
Her eyes come up and find me, and a delicate hand waves.
She introduces me to her friends, Roxanna and Paula, Claudia and Monica and their mothers from Ecuador and Venezuela and Mexico who don’t speak English.
I smile and nod and extend my hand and wonder what they’ve given up, what they’ve gone without to get their daughters here.
They’re calling us to line up again, parents and family in one line, graduates in another room. I check her cap and gown again before she leaves me and find my dutiful place in line.
We move in lockstep down the hall and into the darkened theatre. Running lights on the floor and the glow of the sconces on the walls guide us. I duck out of line and into a seat at the back of the theatre as the river of people flows past me.
The music starts and we stand, eyes glued to the doorways. My eyes run over the processional and finally she’s there, so tiny, so happy, so proud.
I blink against the crystalline sheen in my eyes as I take my seat and the speakers begin.
Welcome. Opening remarks. The student and keynote speakers. The awards.
I float on a river of memory. The images play in vivid technicolor and soundless, seamless progression in my mind, punctuated only by the sounds of laughter and applause.
And then it’s time. The Class stands and their names are called, loud and clear.
Tomorrow her father and brothers will sit beside me in the Big House for all the pomp and circumstance befitting a graduation. Tonight I sit wrapped up in my memories in the stillness and dark of an auditorium.
I hear her name and watch my little girl walk across the stage.
Sunlight glints under a clear blue sky, glistens in long chestnut hair that frames a pale, perfect face.
She stands in front of me, smiling, eyes bright and shining. Long, elegant fingers hold her mortarboard in small, fine-boned hands as she leans in to kiss me. “Hi, Mommy.”
So tiny, so happy, so proud.
The scent of vanilla, coconut, and lily of the valley tickles my nose, tightens my chest with memory. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“That’s ok.” Her lips slide into a quiet smile, and I see the echoes of the child in the exquisite young woman she has become. “We just have to go.”
She turns and I fall into step. The staccato click of her stiletto heels pounds a backbeat on the pavement as we make our way over to State Street.
It’s more crowded here now, as we thread our way through the ebb and flow of the masses, the sea of black robes bobbing and weaving among the bodies wrapped in brightly colored fabric and finery.
The warm, mid-afternoon breeze stirs memories of late spring and the sun on my skin brings a full-body feeling of joy that anchors itself deep in my cells. An undercurrent of anticipation hums in the sun-warmed air like electricity.
I resist the urge to slide my hand around hers as we thread our way through the crushing throng. Once I had slowed, waited, her tiny hand in my mine as little legs struggled to keep up. Now I push hard not to slow her down as the rush hour traffic crawls by.
We catch a light and cross the street. The sounds of the city slip away as we climb the stairs to East Hall, push through the shiny glass and steel doors for our first stop on the evening’s program.
She herds me gently through the hallway into line.
I hate myself in pictures. They shame me. My hair is still pulled back in my teacher bun. It’s shot through with grey. There’s no makeup on my face to cover the unevenness of my skin, and I’m still in my teacher clothes.
But when she presses close I smile dutifully as our moment is captured for posterity. And then we’re off, down another hallway filled with bodies milling and gathering.
Her hand on my arm stops me and a long, elegant forefinger finds her name on the list on the wall, her achievements there for all to see.
I take the picture this time, so very careful to capture the cap and gown and the gentle curve of her smile as she stands there and I see her at five, so tiny, so happy, so proud, handing me her handprint for the refrigerator.
The memory shoots straight to my heart, my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. I lower the camera, hold it out to her.
She drops it into her bag without looking. “Want to get something to eat?”
I blink once and swallow, paint on my own smile. “Sure.”
We move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, make our way into the Psychology Atrium.
Crystal and silver gleam in the soft light spilling on white-robed tables, the dull murmur of muted conversation hums in the background as we follow the line snaking toward the Third Floor Terrace buffet.
************************
The wind’s picked up. There’s a chill in the air and the clear blue sky has given way to a purple-pink as the sun slides lower on the horizon.
We flow with the river of people, down the sidewalk, up the white stone steps warmed by the last of the dying sun, into the Mendelssohn Theatre.
Soft, yellow light spills over the solid oak paneling, pools on the marble floor, the weight of a century of history and tradition pressing down on us as we negotiate our way down the hall for the evening’s La Celebración Latina.
There’s another line and more pictures. She slides her arm around my waist as mine goes around hers and we smile. The photographer shows us what we will look like and then we’re off, moving into a private dining room just off the hallway.
Another line, another buffet, set up along the far wall. There’s a trio playing softly in the corner of the room as we thread our way between the small groups of people seated around small-circle tables and those standing in groups.
I can tell that we’re late by what’s left on the table. I skip the salads and find the deserts, pull something that’s chocolate onto my plate, and turn, run my eyes over the room searching for a seat.
It’s been a long day. I’m tired and my feet hurt.
I find her. She’s found her friends.
Plate in hand, I watch her, the child who used to sit in my lap, and it’s a strange kind of time travel. She moves with such self-assured grace, quick kisses and hugs for everyone.
And when I look at her I see my life, my love, my dreams, my hope, the very best of me.
Her eyes come up and find me, and a delicate hand waves.
She introduces me to her friends, Roxanna and Paula, Claudia and Monica and their mothers from Ecuador and Venezuela and Mexico who don’t speak English.
I smile and nod and extend my hand and wonder what they’ve given up, what they’ve gone without to get their daughters here.
They’re calling us to line up again, parents and family in one line, graduates in another room. I check her cap and gown again before she leaves me and find my dutiful place in line.
We move in lockstep down the hall and into the darkened theatre. Running lights on the floor and the glow of the sconces on the walls guide us. I duck out of line and into a seat at the back of the theatre as the river of people flows past me.
The music starts and we stand, eyes glued to the doorways. My eyes run over the processional and finally she’s there, so tiny, so happy, so proud.
I blink against the crystalline sheen in my eyes as I take my seat and the speakers begin.
Welcome. Opening remarks. The student and keynote speakers. The awards.
I float on a river of memory. The images play in vivid technicolor and soundless, seamless progression in my mind, punctuated only by the sounds of laughter and applause.
And then it’s time. The Class stands and their names are called, loud and clear.
Tomorrow her father and brothers will sit beside me in the Big House for all the pomp and circumstance befitting a graduation. Tonight I sit wrapped up in my memories in the stillness and dark of an auditorium.
I hear her name and watch my little girl walk across the stage.
Friday, January 29, 2010
TGIF
Once again, another Friday. The end of another long, brutal week. My brain is fried and I cannot seem to form coherent thoughts. I must be getting old.
Anyway, every once in a while I write for a challenge, and this is what resulted from one of the last ones I did.
111 words of dialogue only. :)
***************************
“This is your fault.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Fine. It’s not your fault.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Not nearly as hard as this.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Well, what? This was your idea.”
“My idea?
“Forced Family Fun. Or don’t you remember saying Come on babe, the kids will love it?"
“Yeah, well…”
Well, what?”
“On second thought, that was really a bad idea.”
“Not nearly as bad as your last one.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Need I remind you there’s a video?”
“Nope.”
“Or that said video has been tucked away for safekeeping?”
“But we are still stealing it, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are. Right after this.”
Anyway, every once in a while I write for a challenge, and this is what resulted from one of the last ones I did.
111 words of dialogue only. :)
***************************
“This is your fault.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Fine. It’s not your fault.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Not nearly as hard as this.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Well, what? This was your idea.”
“My idea?
“Forced Family Fun. Or don’t you remember saying Come on babe, the kids will love it?"
“Yeah, well…”
Well, what?”
“On second thought, that was really a bad idea.”
“Not nearly as bad as your last one.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Need I remind you there’s a video?”
“Nope.”
“Or that said video has been tucked away for safekeeping?”
“But we are still stealing it, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are. Right after this.”
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