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When I was a little girl I had a dream. I lived to fulfill this dream. Visualized what life would be like when I achieved it. How I would need to work hard, be dedicated, never give up.
I never did get to be a cast member on Saturday Night Live.
Bummer.
But there was this other dream. It all started in 4th grade…
In Science class we had six choices for a project about outer space. I wasn’t the best science student. So these options were daunting…
1. Create a model space ship (uh…no thanks)
2. Create a moon rock (zzzz)
3. Research the space program. Write a report. (eh)
4. Make a diorama (or something science-y like that)
5. Yada yada yada (by this point my brain was mushy…science was never my thing)
But then I got to #6.
6. Write a short story about going on a space mission with your friends.
“Huh,” I thought. “That sounds easy.”
So, that’s the one I picked. It turned out to be not quite so easy. But I loved the work. I wrote about wandering onto a space ship while on a school field trip (yeah…because NASA’s so loose on security). The astronauts mistakenly took off while we were on the ship (somehow we’d managed to get into astronaut outfits). We ate astronaut ice cream and used the funny potties. I do believe that we went for a moon walk and waved at the aliens flying by.
Okay. Okay. SciFi isn’t my genre.
The point is…I loved writing that story. And so I wrote others. Stories about ponies and princesses. About a little girl who played by herself and created friends in her head. I even tried my hand at poetry (you should have read the one I wrote after River Phoenix died).
Eventually, a few years ago, I starting writing a novel. It’s called “Paint Chips”. The experience was beyond exciting. It was terrifying and beautiful and life-changing. It was also incredibly humbling. It was the first time I felt that I was tapping into something other than me. Other writers understand this. And it’s so difficult to explain.
Then, yesterday, I got an email from a publisher. WhiteFire Publishing. They are going to publish my novel.
I folded over, so overjoyed that I was in a little pain. I never knew that was possible.
I’m okay. Don’t worry. The pain only lasted a minute. Then the jump-up-and-down feeling started.
This is actually happening. And it’s so much better than being on SNL.
I’ll keep you updated on what happens now. When the book will be released. How I’ll need your help (beyond buying the book).
Thank you all for your support. You are my core group of readers and I will forever appreciate each of you.
By the way…this is a true story. 😉
~Susie
A small disclaimer: This story has a few words that may be offensive. I debated over using the words…but they were true to the characters. Please, if you are offended by harsh language (or barnyard words), feel free to pass on reading this one. I’m not opening up a debate on appropriate language. This story is based on a true experience.
A nurse walked past me with a bedpan full of human waste. It just added to the smell of urine and sweat and rotten teeth. The other smell was the disinfectant that some nurse aide was obsessively squirting on her hands. It seemed that the stink in the hallway made her feel contaminated.
I hated to admit it to myself, but, I understood the feeling.
My hand was on Jane’s foot. A sock, a sheet and two blankets were between my skin and hers. But still, I felt funny touching her foot. I barely knew her. Just once a week for seven months. And most of that time she never came out of her room.
“Sue, I just wanna get outta here,” she said from her bed that was pushed against the wall. The bars were pulled up to keep her from rolling and crashing on the floor. “You think they’d give me a cigarette?”
“No,” I said. “We have to talk to the doctor.”
“I swear, I didn’t mean to say I’d do that. Just take me back.”
“We have to talk to the doctor. Just hold on.”
“I’m gonna get in trouble for this. I just know I am.”
“No one’s going to be mad at you.”
“Do you think they’d let me go outside for a smoke? Just for a minute?”
“No,” I repeated for the twentieth time in an hour. “They won’t let you smoke.”
The nurse aide rubbed her hands rapidly, moving the hand sanitizer across invisible germs. She stopped over, almost close to the bed. “You want a nicotine patch?” she asked.
“It isn’t the same,” Jane said.
“Why don’t you try it?” I asked. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“Yeah. I guess it couldn’t.”
“So, you want one?” the nurse aide asked.
“Yeah. I guess so.” Jane pulled up her sleeve. “Put it on my arm.”
“I have to talk to your nurse.” The nurse aide looked at me. Rolled her eyes. “I can’t give anybody meds.”
She walked away, stopping at the sanitizer pump that hung on the wall next to where the security guard stood. She covered her hands to dripping with the stuff.
“That shit ain’t gonna save ya,” a younger woman in another bed yelled. “It’s just water. Somebody’s been lyin’ to you about that stuff.”
The aide kept walking. I imagined her still rolling her eyes as she flashed thoughts about hating her job.
I couldn’t say I blamed her. Working in the “suicide watch” hallway wouldn’t be my favorite either.
“My dad was a bastard.” The woman in the other bed was talking to herself. “You know something’s messed up when he been married to my mom for 50 years and she’s glad he’s dead. She laughed, man. She smiled like crazy when he died. We were all glad, man. For real.”
I looked around at the nurses. They made faces at each other. Obviously, they were uncomfortable. But they were acting like the snobs at a high school. I wanted to tell them to “grow up” and to “be professional”. But that would have made me one of the less-than-cool kids. So, I kept my mouth closed.
“Come on, Sue,” Jane said. “Let’s get outta here.”
“We have to talk to the doctor.” I stood up. “I have to make a quick phone call, okay? I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah. That’s fine.” Jane grabbed my hand. “Hey, while you’re gone, will you get me a pack of cigarettes? They don’t have any in here.”
“I can’t. Sorry. But I’ll be right back.”
I walked past the other woman. She was murmuring about something, holding her hands above her head, forming symbols with her fingers. A triangle. A heart. A circle. She looked up at me.
“My dad was a good man,” she said to me. “All’s he ever done his whole life was help other people. You know that, right? He never hurt nobody. I miss him like hell, man. I really do. I just want to go be with him. You know? Just can’t live without him no more. I don’t care if I go to hell. I just got to kill myself so I can see him.”
All I could think to do was nod my head and give her a sympathetic look. You know, the kind that’s half smile, half frown.
“Cindy, you need to stop talking to people,” a woman said. She was sitting in a chair. She was all folded up and spoke so quietly that I barely noticed her. She looked at me. “She don’t know what she’s sayin’.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I do too know what I’m saying, Mom,” Cindy said, her voice raised. “I ain’t stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid,” the mother said. “You just don’t always think straight.”
“Whatever!” Cindy punched the wall. “I swear to God, I wish they’d let me punch you in the head. Then maybe you’d shut up.”
“Don’t let the doctor hear you talkin’ like that. He’ll have you put in the institution again.”
“It’s better than bein’ with you.”
I decided to skip my phone call. I went back to Jane.
“Where’s the doctor?” she asked me. “Are you a doctor?”
“Nope. It’s just me. Sue,” I answered. “The doctor should be here in a minute.”
“What time is it?”
“I think it’s around 9:00.”
“In the morning?”
“No. At night.”
“Okay.”
I looked over at Cindy. She was using her fingernails to cut into the flesh on her arm. As she carved into herself, she kept her eyes on her mother. She formed words with her mouth. All I could hear were faint whispers of words I didn’t understand.
“Let’s just get outta here, Sue,” Jane said again.
“No. We have to wait for the doctor.”
————————————————–
“My name is Doctor John,” the man in a white jacket said. He pulled over a stool and sat near Jane’s head. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Jane.” She didn’t look at him. “Do you smoke?”
“I don’t,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m dyin’ for a smoke.”
“Well, you know that smoking can kill you. Right?”
“I don’t care.”
“Would you like a nicotine patch?”
“They already put one on me.”
“Then you don’t really need to smoke.” Doctor John smiled.
“I can smoke with the patch on.”
“Can you tell me why you’re here today?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you tell someone that you were going to hurt yourself?”
“I think so.”
“Did you have a plan in place? For how you were going to do that?”
“Yeah.” Jane rolled over, her back toward him. “But I don’t want to talk to you about it. I just want to smoke.”
“Okay.” Doctor John pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and made a few notes. He looked up at me. “Are you the daughter?”
“No,” I answered. Part of me was horrified that he thought that I was related to her. It made me feel guilty. “Just a friend, I guess.”
“Okay. How well do you know Jane?”
“I don’t know. Not too well.”
“Has she made these threats before?”
“I think so.”
“Sue, you gotta get me outta here,” Jane said, rolling back over. “I’m gonna get in trouble.”
“Jane, we’ll have you talk to the social worker.” Doctor John put his hand on her forehead. “Then you can get out of here.”
“Do you smoke?” she asked him again.
“No. I don’t.”
————————————————
“I wish my dad would just die,” Cindy yelled. “All he does is hurt me, man. He touches me, you know. Been doin’ that since I was little. I told him that he shouldn’t create incest, I beg him all the time to leave me alone. But he won’t.”
“She’s lyin’,” her mother said to me, looking over the back of her chair. “She don’t know what she’s talkin’ about.”
Jane looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
“I ain’t lyin’, Mom. You know it’s the truth.” Cindy started making the symbols over her head again. Triangle. Heart. Circle. Over and over.
“Let’s just get outta here, Sue,” Jane said. “I just need to get home. I don’t belong here.”
Cindy got herself out of the bed. She was stomping her feet on the floor. Her hands still over her head. She was humming and mumbling. It seemed to be some kind of ceremonial dance.
“Damn it, Cindy,” her mother said. “Sit your ass down. People’re lookin’ at you.”
She wrapped her arms around Cindy’s waist and tried to pull her back to the bed. Cindy lowered her hands, still in the triangle shape, and shoved her mother away, knocking her to the floor.
“You keep your hands off me,” Cindy said, seething. “Don’t you never touch me.”
I looked over at the nurses. They gathered in a corner, whispering. One of them mimicked the symbols that Cindy made and laughed. One of them told the nurse aide something. She shook her head no. They gave her a stern look. She walked over to Cindy.
“I need you to sit on your bed,” the aide said. “Please.”
Cindy ignored her, continuing her ceremony. She glared down at her mother.
“Cindy, you need to sit on your bed.” The aide put a hand on her back. “We don’t want to have to call security.”
Cindy looked at her. She laughed. Her whole face was full of laughter.
“Okay now. Let’s get you back into your bed.” The aide tried to push Cindy, just slightly, at the bottom of her back.
The laughter turned into a scream. Her face changed to rage. So quickly. The aide stepped back. Cindy lunged at her. Laughing as the other woman flinched. A security guard grabbed her from behind. Cindy spit, the wet hitting the nurse aide in the face.
Cindy was carried away. She kicked and laughed.
When she was gone, the hall was quiet. The mother stood, adjusting her clothes, grabbing her purse.
“She lies a lot, you know,” she said to me. “Her daddy wouldn’t never touch her.”
Her eyes were seeking. Looking for my sympathy. I nodded my head, not knowing what else to do. She walked away, toward the waiting room. I wondered if she was just going to leave her daughter there.
The nurses went back to their work. The aide stood in the middle of the hallway, wiping at her face with a tissue. She was crying.
“Sue, can we just get outta here?” Jane asked.
“No. We have to wait,” I answered.
“I need a cigarette.”
“I know.” I put my hand back on her foot. “I’ll buy you a pack on the way home.”
Alright, Everybody.
We’ve got a tie that needs breaking. I’ll have the vote open until Thursday night…11:23 pm.
Here are the stories…
Luke’s Journal–Inspired by Julie Weber
What If–Inspired by Steven DeVries
I’m glad that my vote doesn’t count…I wouldn’t be able to choose!
Ready? Set! VOTE!
For many, many reasons, I’ve struggled with writing the last few weeks. I finally had a story finished…then lost it all. All of it. Every single word. Tragic. You must always “save”. That’s the lesson for today.
Pity Party Over.
Okay! Here’s a story and a chance to vote! You get to vote for this story inspired by Steven DeVries , Without Jane inspired by Cheryl Meyer or Luke’s Journal inspired by Julie Weber. Voting will be open until Tuesday night at 11:57 pm. You can vote by commenting on this post!
Here’s Steven’s story idea…
Character: Harold, Middle Aged
Setting: A Christian Couples’ Retreat
Conflict: Harold is happily married, except that his wife is not longer interested in intimacy. Harold meets a nice woman who actually seems interested in his life and he begins to wonder “what if”
Harold and Charlotte sat at a round table. Alone. The other four seats still empty. He reached over and touched her knee. She flinched slightly before letting his touch linger.
Harold tried to ignore it. He tried to pretend that it didn’t make him feel repulsive to her. But as this happened whenever he touched her, regardless of his intent. It was difficult to overlook.
“They really did a good job on the decorations this year,” Charlotte said. “I think they upped the budget.”
“The roses are a nice touch,” Harold said. He withdrew his hand. “I hope the food is just as nice.”
“You’d never know this was a campground.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Other couples began to walk into the mess hall turned banquet room. Harold noticed that they all held hands or linked arms. He reached for Charlotte’s hand. She pulled away from him.
“My hands are real dry, Harry,” she said. “Holding hands makes it worse.”
Every year, for ten years, Harold brought her to that camp. For the couple’s retreat. In hopes that she would love him again. Or at least that she would want him to hug her. Kiss her. Have those secret moments with her.
But it never got better.
It had been twelve years. She insisted that he sleep in the guest room.
“Oh, look, Harry. We’re having Chicken Kiev tonight,” Charlotte said. “Your favorite.”
“Great.” He smiled at her. “Can’t wait.”
More and more happy couples came in. They filled up the tables. Harold checked his watch. 6:57. The dinner would start at 7:00. Still no one sat in the four extra chairs at their table.
“Looks like we might have a dinner just the two of us,” he said.
Charlotte sighed. It wasn’t a happy sigh. Not even content. Harold thought it was an annoyed sigh.
“Would you like me to get you some punch?” he asked. “They might even have coffee.”
“Yeah.” She looked at him sideways. “Thanks.”
Harold walked to the punch bowl. Several other men stood around the beverage table, pouring the red, sugary water into tiny plastic cups. All those other men were balding or soft around the middle. Harold touched his midsection. His long runs kept him lean. And his hair wasn’t falling out.
And, still, Charlotte didn’t want him.
At least not in that way. They enjoyed playing cards together. Or going for walks. They’d laugh over old stories and pictures for hours. There’s was a friendship, cemented by a marriage license. And that was all.
As Harold poured himself a cup of coffee he noticed a couple walking in. They were late and were looking for a table. Harold and Charlotte’s was the only one with empty seats. Leaving the cups on the table, he walked toward them.
“Are you looking for a place to sit?” he asked them. “We’ve got some empty seats.”
“Great,” the husband said. “Thanks so much.”
“It’s our first time at this,” the wife said. “We were a little nervous we wouldn’t make any friends.”
“Well come on, I’ll introduce you to my wife.” Harold picked up the cups on his way. “We’ve been coming to this for years. It’s a lot of fun. I’m Harold.”
“John,” the husband said. “And this is Linda.”
“I’m so glad to meet you both.” Harold looked at them both.
He’d have been lying if he said he didn’t think Linda was gorgeous.
—
By the end of dinner, the two couples were laughing. One story flowed into another and another. Even after all the other couples had retired to their cabins for the evening, Harold and Charlotte, John and Linda were still in their seats. After they were shooed away by the clean up crew, they each went to their lodgings.
“They seem nice,” Harold said. He was setting up a bed on the floor only feet from a queen sized bed.
“Yeah. Real fun.” Charlotte washed her face in the bathroom. “Harry, are you going to be okay on the floor?”
A rush of hope filled his body.
“Well, it’s not a bed.” He reached down for his pillow. “Do you think I could snuggle up next to you tonight?”
Silence from the bathroom. Charlotte turned off the water. Then the light. She came into the sleeping area. She wore baggy pajamas. Her hair was rumpled. The skin on her face was pink from being scrubbed.
She was beautiful to him. He wanted so badly to hold her. Kiss her forehead. He didn’t even need to have sex with her. He just longed for closeness. Of any kind.
“You want to sleep in the bed?” she asked.
“Yes.” He moved toward her. “But really, I just want to be with you.”
He looked into her eyes. He knew her answer.
“Harry, I was just going to say that you should get the air mattress out of the trunk.” She turned toward the bed. “I packed it for you.”
He stood in the middle of the floor. Still holding his pillow.
He heard Charlotte climb into the bed. The box spring creaked as she shifted down under the sheets.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Good night, Harry.”
—
The night air was neither soothing nor crisp. It felt heavy. Wet. Dull. Dense.
Harold pulled his car keys out of his pants pocket. Instead of popping the trunk, he unlocked the front door and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He usually abstained during Christian functions. Smoking was typically not allowed. But he didn’t care. He decided that if anyone confronted him about it he would tell them why he needed a smoke.
His wife wouldn’t let him sleep with her.
She wanted nothing to do with him.
He sat on the trunk. Puffing away. The inhalation easing a bit of the tension in his body.
“Oh, caught ya.”
Harold jumped at hearing the female voice. He turned. Linda stood a few feet away.
“Geez. You scared me to death,” he said.
“Sorry. I was just out having a smoke myself.” Linda held up the lit cigarette between her fingers. “You mind if I sit with you? I hate smoking alone.”
“No. Come on over.” He slid over a bit.
Linda climbed onto the trunk.
“John hates that I smoke. I just can’t seem to quit.”
“Charlotte doesn’t care too much. She just calls it her life insurance policy expediter.”
“You know she’s just kidding.”
He dragged on his cigarette. “I’m not sure.”
“I mean. If I had a man like you, I’d be doing all I could to make him live as long as possible.”
Harold looked at her. The way she was looking at him made him both uncomfortable and warm. “Well, that’s kind. I bet you say that to all the guys.”
“Only the really cute ones.” She giggled. “But seriously. What are you doing out here? I thought this retreat thing was supposed to be romantic.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. Her touch sent a charge through him. He knew this was dangerous.
“Well, Charlotte was tired.”
“I see.” Linda tossed her cigarette butt into the grass. “John brought his laptop. We agreed no computers of cell phones this weekend. Just each other. You know?”
Harold nodded his head.
“He just can’t get away from work.” Linda lit another cigarette. “He’d even check his email in bed if I let him.”
“I’m sorry,” Harold said.
“Please tell me I’m not the only one with a screwed up marriage.” She twisted a little piece of hair around her finger. She looked at Harold, her head tilted. “Like you and Charlotte. Are you happy?”
“Well, yes.” Harold hopped down from the trunk. “She’s my best friend.”
“That must be so nice.” She inched closer. Just a bit. “I’m sure you’re a really amazing husband.”
“I try.”
“You know, Harold, I’m really glad I met you.”
“Yeah. It’s always nice to meet other couples.”
“It sure is.”
“Things with my wife aren’t good,” Harold blurted out. “I shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“No. It’s okay.”
“We haven’t been together in a long time.” Harold felt ashamed. Guilty. Like he was overstepping some sacred line.
“You mean together, like, making love?”
“Right.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.” He felt his soul. It seemed to be tearing.
“Twelve years? How long have you been married?”
“Fifteen.” Harold breathed slowly. He held down the sorrow. “We had a still born baby. After that, she pushed me away.”
Linda slid down off the car and pulled Harold into an embrace.
It was the first time he’d been hugged in years. He convulsed with the sobs. She calmed him with gentle words. He felt that he would melt right into her.
He needed a woman who wasn’t afraid to touch him. Hold him. Want him.
What would it be like. What if Charlotte died. And John left Linda. They could be together.
But that was crazy. He’d just met Linda, what, four hours before. He pulled away from her arms.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have.”
“No. Don’t be. I’m glad you opened up to me.” She smiled. Put her hand on his. “I want to be your friend.”
“Thanks.” He smiled. “Listen, I need to get to bed.”
“Me too.”
“They get us up early for breakfast around here.” He took a few steps toward his cabin. “But at least they’ve got waffles. And bacon. I’ll always get up for bacon.”
“Smoking and bacon?”
“I know. I run a couple miles everyday to make up for it.” He smiled. “Well, sleep well.”
“You too.”
—
The cabin was dark. Charlotte was sleeping, no doubt. He tip toed into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He was as quiet as possible.
He realized that he never got the blow up mattress. He lowered himself to the floor anyway and covered up with his blanket.
“Harry,” Charlotte said, quietly. “You okay?”
“No, Babe. I’m not.”
“What’s wrong?” The box spring creaked as she sat up. “You sick? Was it the Kiev?”
“I miss you.”
Charlotte was silent. And still.
“Charlotte, we need to work some things out.” He doubled up his pillow and shoved it under his head. “I know you’re hurting. Let me help you.”
Harold flinched as Charlotte flipped on the light.
“You don’t even know,” she said. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“She was my baby, too.”
“But you didn’t feel her moving around inside. You didn’t have to deliver her just to…” She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Harold got up. Walked to the bed. Climbed in next to her. He pulled her close. She tried to push him away.
“Charlotte, I love you.” He kissed her cheek. “Please love me back. I really need you to.”
“I’m too scared.”
She leaned into his chest. He touched her hair. Smoothed it. “Just let me help you.”
Harold closed his eyes. He felt her put one arm around him.
My apologies for the long absence! I was gone for a while with no internet. It was glorious to be away from everything for a few days. But now I’m back. Cheryl Meyer’s story Without Jane will be included with the next 3 stories. Thanks for being patient with me!
Today’s story idea comes from Julie Weber. In the last contest, Julie came up with the idea for the VERY popular story Starting Over. Here’s her idea (and this one is making me sweat a little)…
Character: Luke and handsome 16 year old
Setting: North Dakota, November, 2011
Conflict: Although he’s been raised a boy, he identifies himself as transgender. He plans on announcing his true struggle and identity to his family on Christmas
Luke’s Journal–November 30, 2011
Nobody knows what it’s like being me. Well, at least nobody I ever met. Not out here in the boonies. Maybe if I could get myself to California or New York I’d find somebody who thinks like I do. Somebody who sees the world like I do.
I was born a boy. And my parents made sure I knew it. Blue walls in my bedroom. Always getting trucks and baseball mitts for presents. My dad taking me out hunting all the time.
“Man Time” he calls it. “Time for boys to be boys.”
He’s always taking me to the barber shop. Getting my hair buzzed down to nothing. Talking sports with the other men in our small town, drinking beer while I have a soda.
“Luke’s a shy kid,” he tells his friends. “He likes sports fine. He just don’t talk much.”
The men all laugh and smack me hard on my back.
“I bet he ain’t too shy with the girls,” they say. “Good lookin’ boy like that must have the girls fallin’ all over themselves.”
When they say those things, when they joke about the girls, all I want to do is scream. Because something’s wrong with me. I should like the girls. I should want to touch them, smell them, be near them, look at them. But all I want is to be one of them. And it confuses me. It scares me. Because there’s nobody that I can tell.
I wish I was born a girl. I said it. It’s true. And I can’t undo the thought. No matter how hard I pray or how many football games I watch I can’t seem to get that thought out of my head.
When my parents are gone I peek into my mom’s closet. I don’t put any of her dresses on. I don’t even try on the shoes. I seen some guy doing that on T.V. and it was weird. I just look at the colors and touch the silky material. And I wish so bad that I could have been born to wear those clothes.
At school I act tough and get in fights. I check out the girls just so my friends don’t ask questions. Sometimes I tell dirty jokes so I’ll fit in. But, really, I’m not like those guys. Not even a little.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t like any of the guys at school. Not like that. I don’t even know who I like. Sometimes it feels like that part of me’s turned down. Like the volume is off. I’m just all confused. So I don’t have time to think about who’s cute or hot or anything.
So, sometimes, I just wish I’d be done living. Not that I’d hurt myself. But that I’d just disappear, I guess. It’s a weird thing to think. And I’m sure if my parents knew I thought that they’d put me in the crazy house or something.
Sometimes I think I need to tell my mom. Christmas is coming. It isn’t the right time. I know that. But I have to tell her soon.
What’ll I tell her? That I wish I was a girl? That I want to go shopping with her? That I don’t want to be called Luke? That I feel like God messed up big time on me?
She’s gonna cry. My dad’s gonna get mad. And then what? Are they going to let me get the surgery? Right.
Luke’s Journal–December 4, 2011
I hate my life. No really. I do.
Sometimes I’m so stupid and just not careful. I made a huge mistake. I looked up some stuff on my computer. Well, not my computer. The family computer. My dad saw it.
“What the hell’s this?” he yelled from the dining room. “Luke!”
I walked in and there he was, staring at a blog about transgender stuff.
“It wasn’t me,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I lied.
“The hell it wasn’t,” he said. “Who could it have been? Your mother? Me? The only other person living in this house is you.”
“I was just curious.”
“You know where fags go, right? They don’t make it into heaven, that’s for damn sure.”
He stood up and looked at me. A year ago he would have been looking down at me. Now he had to look up.
“I hate who I am,” I said. “I don’t want to be a man.”
“Then what?” He looked so confused. “You want to be a girl?”
I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t even think.
“This doesn’t happen in our family,” he said. “Didn’t I do enough for you?”
“It’s not about you.”
“Then what is this about?”
“I don’t know.”
And then I walked out of the room. He didn’t follow me. I guess he knew I needed to be alone.
Lord. He knows my secret. I don’t want him to know. I never wanted that.
All I can think of to do is make myself disappear. My hunting rifle’s in my closet. There’s a box of ammo in my top drawer. It would be so easy.
So easy.
So easy.
Luke’s Journal–December 20, 2011
My parents have me put up in this place. It’s kind of like rehab, kind of like boarding school. I don’t know what you’d call it.
I have to talk to a counselor a couple times a day. It’s okay. We just talk about the identity thing. Like what I could do when I feel confused. How I can relieve my stress without putting a rifle in my mouth.
It’s a good thing my dad broke my door down that day.
I was ready to be done. The gun was loaded and cocked and ready to fire. The only problem was I couldn’t figure out how to pull the trigger. My arms weren’t long enough.
But he shoved the door in with his shoulder. Who would have known he was so strong? It surprised me so much that I let the rifle fall on the floor.
“What? Luke? No. What were you…” he said.
He took two steps toward me.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” It was all I could think of. “You must hate me so bad.”
“Never, son. No. Never.”
He grabbed me and held me. I never saw him cry before. It really surprised me. I didn’t think men could cry. But he did.
“Son, I love you,” he said over and over. “Everything’s gonna be okay. We’ll work this out.”
Part of working “it” out was this place. It isn’t all that bad.
I still don’t understand who I am. I don’t know if I ever will. But I do know one thing. And this is the thing that matters most.
My dad loves me.
And he will fight for me.
Even if I don’t end up being the son he planned on.
Congratulations to Darcie Apple for her idea for the story Nothing To Hide!
Today’s story idea comes from Cheryl Meyer. This one has been a very difficult one for me to even contemplate. Get the tissue out. Here’s her idea…
Character: Middle-aged twins
Setting: Last minute flight across country
Conflict: One of the twins has terminal cancer and the other is racing to the hospital bed (racing death)
“I can’t tell ya how much I really hate flying,” the old woman said, nudging Valerie. “Don’t ya hate it too?”
“I suppose so,” Valerie said.
“Used to be you could fly cheaper than you could drive. You know. And they’d give you all kinds of snacks. Peanuts, pretzels. They’d even serve a meal every once in awhile. They always forgot my Kosher meal. But I wasn’t one to complain. Gave me a good excuse to eat a little bacon. You know what I’m saying? And they’d let you use one of them warmed up blankets. So nice on a long flight.” The old woman nudged Valerie again. “You got a long ways to go?”
“Seattle.” Valerie shifted her body so the woman couldn’t thrust her fleshy elbow into her again.
“Oh, that’s so far. So very far.” The woman looked at Valerie. She touched the tip of her nose with a crooked finger. “Remind me, dear, where is Seattle? Is that in Idaho?”
“Washington,” Valerie answered. “The state.”
The woman still looked confused.
“Between Canada and California. Right by Oregon.”
“You know how I always remember the capital of Oregon?” The woman smiled. “Salem. Because smoking Salem cigarettes will ruin your organs. Get it Or-e-gon?”
Valerie attempted a polite smile. It turned out more like a sneer.
“So, business or pleasure?” the woman asked. “Or both. Sometimes business can be a pleasure. Other times pleasure can be business.”
“Neither,” Valerie said.
“Do you live out there?”
“No. I live in Manhattan.”
“Then what are you going all the way to Seattle for?” The old woman was getting flustered. “I never was any good at guess games.”
“To see my sister.”
“How nice. Is she older or younger?”
“We’re the same.” Valerie looked at her raggedly chewed nails. “She’s my twin.”
“Oh, how fun. I’ll bet you loved being a twin. Did your mother dress you the same?”
“No. My mother wanted us to be our own people.”
“Well,” the woman frowned. “I don’t know what that’s all about.”
The flight attendant spoke across the loud speaker. Instructed the passengers on the emergency exits, how to put the oxygen masks on, that it was a federal offense to smoke in the bathroom.
“Oh, how they go on,” the old woman whined. “As if any of us will remember a single word of it if this plane goes down.”
The “buckle your belt” light clicked on with a chime.
“Prepare for takeoff,” the pilot said dully over the intercom.
“Now, if you’re going to visit your twin sister, how would it not be considered pleasure. That’s what I want to know.”
“It just isn’t one of those trips.” Valerie braced herself for the jostling of takeoff.
“Then what kind of trip is it? I mean, unless the two of you are estranged or fighting.” The woman looked at Valerie. “So, what kind of trip is it? It’s a simple question.”
“I’m going to be with her through something pretty hard.”
“For goodness sake. Why won’t you just come out and tell me why you’re going? It is some kind of secret?”
“I don’t know you. Why would I tell you anything?”
“Because sometimes it’s relieving to tell a perfect stranger intimate details of your life.”
“You’re just nosy.”
The airplane gained speed as it raced down the pavement.
“Well, I’m just trying to make polite conversation.”
“If you must know,” Valerie said, feeling the upward thrust of the plane. “My sister is dying.”
Their ears popped as they were carried higher and higher into the sky. The old woman looked at Valerie with pity tears in her eyes. She reached her hand to touch the young woman’s arm.
“I’m sorry.”
Valerie nodded. Closed her eyes. “Just pray to whatever god you have that there are no delays.”
The woman blinked quickly. “Yes. Of course.”
“She’s just trying to hold on until I get there.” Valerie grabbed the woman’s hand. “Can you pray right now? I don’t even know who to address it to. Just go ahead.”
The old woman clenched her eyes closed. “Jesus…”
“Wait,” Valerie interrupted. “I thought you were Jewish. The whole Kosher thing.”
The woman looked at her. “Messianic. Some of us like to keep the old Jewish traditions. We just happen to believe that Jesus was the right guy.”
“Okay.”
“Jesus,” the woman continued. “No delays. Get this young woman there on time. Amen.”
Valerie opened one eye. “Is that it?”
“That’s all it needs to be.”
“Thank you.”
The two women held hands for a long while in silence until the old woman nodded off and started snoring.
—
The landing had been smooth. So smooth it didn’t wake up the old woman.
“Right this way,” the flight attendant said, motioning for Valerie to go with her.
“Thanks for understanding,” Valerie said, standing. She pulled her bag from the overhead compartment.
“No delays,” the old woman whispered, her eyes opened just a bit. “Jesus, go with her.”
Valerie passed through the aisles as fast as she could, trying to avoid hitting the seated passengers with her bag. The door had just been opened. The flight attendant put her hand on Valerie’s shoulder.
“I hope you make it on time,” she said.
“Thanks. Me too,” Valerie said, walking out the door.
—
“How’s she doing?” Valerie asked in her phone as she walked briskly through the terminal.
“Holding on,” her mother answered. “The Hospice nurse said it would be today.”
“How can they even know that?”
“I don’t know, honey. Just get here.”
“I’m working on it, Mom.” Valerie picked up her pace. “Tell her to wait for me. Okay?”
“We keep telling her. She’s trying, Val.”
“Okay. Love you.”
She made it to the gate and boarded her second plane. Her heart kept a steady beat and each throb pushed anxiety further into her body.
—
“Over here,” Valerie’s father called to her as she walked out of the airport. “Did you check any bags?”
“No. I didn’t have time to pack. Just a few shirts.” Valerie hugged him. “Where’s the car?”
He took her carry-on in and slung it over one arm. He grabbed her around her shoulders with the other. It was the first time she felt safe enough to let go. He squeezed her tighter as she cried.
—
The home where Valerie and her twin sister grew up had been transformed into a hospital. The bedroom they’d once shared was filled up with a mechanical bed, oxygen tank, a commode. Prescription bottles lined the counters in the kitchen. The Hospice nurse had made the dining room into an office. The living room had become the place for family to sit and wait to spend time with Jane as she lay in her bed.
Valerie and her father walked into the living room. It was silent. Too quiet.
“Should I go right up to the room?” Valerie asked. Her voice sounded thin and weak. “Or should I…”
“No, go on,” her father said. “To your old room.”
She took the steps quickly.
“Is that you, Val?” her mother called from the bedroom.
“Yes, Mom,” Valerie answered. “Am I too late?”
She reached the doorway. Her sister was in the bed. A blanket was tucked all around her. She was thin and pale. Jane’s eyes were closed.
“Hi, honey,” her mother said. “How was the flight?”
“Too long.” Valerie walked in and sat on a chair next to the bed. “I wanted to get here way sooner.”
“I know.” Her mother stood a little, felt Jane’s forehead. “The nurse said it won’t be long. Jane hasn’t opened her eyes since yesterday.”
“Do you think it’s the meds? They might be making her sleep.”
“No, honey.” Her mother looked up. “She isn’t just sleeping.”
Valerie touched her sister’s hand. It was cold and had a bluish tint. She lowered her head onto the hand. The grief burned through her entire body.
—
The Hospice nurse knocked on the door. “You mind if I come and check on Jane for a minute?”
Valerie sat up. She hadn’t meant to sleep bent over like that, with her head on Jane’s hand. Her neck was sore. Her mother wasn’t in the chair across the bed from her.
“You must be Valerie,” the nurse said. “You and Jane look so much alike.”
“Yeah.” Valerie rubbed her neck. “We played tricks on just about everyone.”
“I bet.” The nurse lifted up the blanket and felt Jane’s feet. “I just want you to know what I’m doing. I’m checking her feet and hands to see how far she’s progressed.”
“Progressed?” Valerie took her sister’s hand. “That’s a strange word choice.”
“It won’t be long, Valerie.” She pulled the sheet back over Jane’s feet. “You need to know that so you’re ready.”
“I’m not going to be ready. There’s no way.”
“I know. I know it. How about you talk to her for a bit. The sense of hearing remains active until death. Talk to her. It’s good for both of you.”
The nurse checked Jane’s pulse, listened to her breathing, smoothed her hair.
“Thank you.” Valerie stood. She felt lost. For the first time in her life she didn’t know what to say to her sister. When they were young she would sneak into bed with Jane so they could talk about boys. In college they’d break curfew to drink coffee and gab all night long. After Valerie moved to New York, they’d call each other several times a day.
“Just make sure you tell her that you love her,” the nurse said. “And that you’re going to be okay.”
“But I don’t know that I will be okay.”
“You’ll have to be.” The nurse smiled before she turned and walked down the steps.
Valerie sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hey, Janie, it’s me.” She swallowed hard. “Do you even know how awkward this is? Well, probably not. But it’s really weird and I have no idea what to say.”
Jane’s eyelids fluttered just slightly.
“Well, I’m here. It was a really long flight. And there was this crazy lady sitting next to me.” She rubbed her thumb on Jane’s hand. “Anyway, I’m not ready for you to…you know…go. That’s just not going to happen. We’re too young for this.”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “And I don’t know if I’m going to be okay. Like ever.”
Valerie allowed herself to cry a bit more. “But I know that you need me to let you go. And I don’t want this cancer to keep eating you up.” She closed her eyes. “I’ll never understand why this happened to you and not me. I mean, we’ve got the same everything. DNA, eyes, hair, voice. Why would your cells do this and not mine? I wish it was me and not you.”
She sat, quietly holding Jane’s hand. “I love you.” She lowered herself closer and kissed Jane’s cheek. “And so I’ll find a way to be okay. You can go.”
Valerie waited. She watched. She soothed. And she lost her twin. For the first time in her whole life, she was alive without Jane.
Okey Doke, Reader Friends. Here’s the last story for the voting ballot. You have until Wednesday night at 11:45 pm to get your vote in (just comment on this post). Here are your choices.
Nothing to Hide–Inspired by Darcie Apple
Stroke–Inspired by Cindy Mikowski
And this story Alone–Inspired by Trevor O’Brien
Ready? GO!
Today’s story is inspired by Trevor O’Brien. He submitted a great idea from the last contest Shunned. Here’s his latest idea…
Character: Elizaveta is a 74 year old, impoverished Russian immigrant. She has live in the United States for the past 35 years.
Conflict: Her husband on 50 years has just passed away. She is returning home after the funeral, feeling very alone.
They’d never had children. Elizaveta and Lev. Lev had always said it was better. When they moved away from Russia, he said it was better to travel without children. When they opened the bakery, he said it was easier to run a business without children. When they sold the bakery after 30 years in business, he said they avoided battles over the money that they would have had with children.
“Life is easier without children,” he said so many times.
But as she unlocked their small apartment and pushed open the door, she wondered if he’d been right. She was alone. No one to comfort her. No one to help her. She’d felt alone for most of her life. No family in America. Friends had been near impossible to come by. But at least she’d had Lev.
Elizaveta put her purse on the old rocking chair. Lev had found it so many years ago in a dumpster.
“It’s perfectly fine,” he’d said. “It just needs a little wood glue. Good as new.”
He’d never been able to fix the creaking as it rocked.
She went into the kitchen. The dishes from three days ago were still in the sink. Lev’s plate with toast crumbs and his tea cup with a bag still sticking to the side. She couldn’t bring herself to wash them. Or to throw out the tea bag.
He’d sat at the table that morning. Three days before. Biting into his dry toast, sipping his tea he’d laughed loudly while reading the comics from the newspaper.
“Veta,” he’d said. “Come look at this. Come look. So funny.”
“No, Lev,” she’d answered. “You know I don’t like those fool papers. They are never funny to me.”
“Oh, but this cat is so funny.” He’d laughed. “He loves his lasagna.”
The newspaper was still on the table. The comics section folded and crinkled from his hands.
The telephone rang. Elizaveta jumped. The apartment had been so quiet since Lev…
It had been so quiet for the past few days. She went to the telephone that sat on the kitchen counter.
“Hello?” she answered. “This is Elizaveta…no…I am not interested.”
She hung up. Sales calls. Always a sales call. Never a family member wishing condolences. Never a former customer asking to bring a meal.
All alone. The apartment had been cold without Lev. Quiet. He’d fallen down right there. By the door to the bedroom. His heart had given out.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor at the hospital had said. “We couldn’t bring him back.”
“He’s?” she’d said, voice quivering.
“I’m sorry.” The doctor had put his hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?” she’d repeated.
“Is there anyone I can call for you? Anyone to come give you a ride?”
“No.” She gathered her purse. “I’ll take a taxi.”
“Please. Let me find someone to drive you.”
“I can manage.”
The next day she made arrangements at the funeral home. Lev had wanted to be cremated. She’d asked the funeral director to find someone who could say a short prayer. Only a few people would come to the memorial. Perhaps no one but her. She didn’t know. But she hadn’t wanted a luncheon afterward.
It had been a quiet funeral. And brief. A man’s whole life memorialized in less than ten minutes.
“When I die,” Lev had said. “I want you to take my ashes home.”
“I couldn’t have your ashes sitting on the kitchen table,” she’d said to him. “It isn’t clean.”
“No. I want you to take them back to Russia. Go to the grave yard and put me in a whole next to my brother’s headstone.”
“That’s insane, Lev.”
“Yes. It is.”
Elizaveta sat, rocking in the chair, letting it creak and thinking of how she would get Lev home.
—
“How does one sell everything?” Elizaveta asked her land lord the day after the funeral.
“You want to sell everything?” he’d asked.
“I do. Except for my clothing.”
“Why do you want to sell it?” The land lord looked at her sideways. “Are you and Lev having a hard time making the rent.”
“Lev is dead,” she said. “I have to go to Russia.”
“So, does that mean you’re moving out?”
“Possibly. But I need to have some money first.” She looked at the man. “Would you like to purchase my furniture? Rent the apartment as a furnished room?”
“I don’t know.”
“You could charge more in rent.” She smoothed her blouse. “You could make more on other tenants. We haven’t had our rent increased in over twenty years.”
“How much do you want for the furniture?”
—
After selling her furniture to the land lord and her jewelry and silverware to a pawn shop, Elizaveta had enough money for a plane ticket to Russia. She packed one suitcase full of her clothing and her purse with a small bit of Lev’s remains in a package.
A shuttle had just arrived to take her to the airport. She turned and looked at the apartment one last time.
“Lev and I loved living here,” she whispered. “Be a good home for another family.”
She closed the door lightly and gently walked down the steps to the shuttle.
—
The flight had been long. Elizaveta’s body was stiff. She stood in the St. Petersburg airport and drank in her homeland. She hadn’t realized how she’d missed the language, the smells, the way in which her people carried themselves. It had been too long. Thirty-five years.
She knew that she would need to rest before going to the cemetery in the morning. She took a taxi to a motel. She slept for hours.
—
She dreamed of Lev. When they were young. The way he looked deeply into her eyes. Their life together.
“I’ve brought you home,” she woke herself up saying.
—
The morning was cold. The taxi ride took ten minutes.
“Wait here,” she told the driver. “I’ll only be but a few minutes.”
The driver shrugged.
She remembered the grave of Lev’s brother. It wasn’t difficult to find. They’d visited it every Saturday for ten years before they moved to America.
By the weeds that overtook the headstone, Elizaveta wondered if anyone had visited since then. She bent down, trying to tear a few of the leaves away.
“I’m too old for all this,” she muttered.
She slowly lowered herself to kneel by the grave. She took a spoon from her purse and dug a whole in the ground. She pulled the small package of Lev’s remains from her purse. Holding it in her hand, she smiled.
She didn’t say a word. She wondered if she should pray. But knew that her actions were a sort of prayer in themselves. She kissed her fingers and touched the packet. Little pieces of him were in her hand.
Lowering Lev into the small hole, she let out a bit of a whimper.
Getting up after filling in the hole proved to be quite a bit more difficult than she’d expected.
Walking away from the last trace of Lev was quite a bit easier.
Alone, she walked back to the taxi.
Congratulations to Carrie Leazenby! Her story idea for Sick won by one vote! Sorry I’ve been so behind! But this week I have a good reason. Be watching for a link to the brand new magazine “unbound”! It’s coming out next week. I have 2 stories in the magazine (one under a pen name). So, I’ve been working on that.
Today’s story idea comes from a dear friend of mine. Her name is Cindy Mikowski. This is a very personal story for her. Cindy, at 43, suffered a stroke. I am going to fictionalize her story. However, and I think that Cindy would agree, it is important to note that stroke can hit us at any age. So, know the symptoms. Click here to visit the Mayo Clinic website to learn more about the symptoms of stroke. Having a friend go through this ordeal has really opened my eyes to this serious medical condition. Here’s her idea…
A perfectly healthy, independent, self reliant 43 year old woman suffers a stroke.
Janna had been home less than two hours. Already, she feared what the night would be like. If she had to get up to go to the bathroom, her husband would have to help her. If she wanted to roll over, he’d need to give her a push. If the headache pain came back she’d need to be rushed back to the emergency room.
The telephone rang.
“Hey, can one of you guys get that?” Janna called.
Her son, Cody, came tumbling in the room. He grabbed the cell phone off the table.
“Do you want it?” he asked her. “Or I can answer it.”
“Who is it?”
He looked at the screen. “Grandma.”
“Give it here,” Janna said. She took it. “I need you to push the button for me.”
He used one of his agile fingers to push the “answer” button on her phone.
“Hi, Mom,” Janna said, using her good hand to hold the phone to her ear. “Yeah. Come on over. I’ll see you in a couple minutes.”
“Is Grandma coming?” Cody asked.
“Yes. So, I need you to check and make sure you don’t have any underwear on the bathroom floor.”
He rushed out of the living room.
“He’s being such a good kid,” she thought.
Les walked in. Brought her a glass of water and a few pills.
“How’s your head feel?” he asked. “Better?”
“It is. Now if I could just get my hand to work.”
“The doctor said it would take a little time.”
“It stinks.”
“You’re right.”
They heard the kitchen door swing open. “Yoohoo!” her mother called, announcing her entrance.
“We’re in the living room,” Les said. He whispered to Janna, “I can’t believe she moved across the street.”
“Well, I think we’ll find it pretty convenient as I’m recovering.”
“Lookie at you, Janna! Sitting in the recliner like the Queen come home,” her mother said, mincing into the room. “Lester, how are you doing? Glad to have your lady home, yes? Good, good. It’s such a relief.”
“Hello, Olivia,” Les said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“That would be fabulous. You want one, too, Janna? Janna wants one. Do you still have the espresso machine I got your for Christmas? Because that would be absolutely dreamy. I would like one with the slightest hint of cinnamon and heavy on the chocolate syrup. I think Janna needs one like that, too. And don’t forget the whipped cream. That’s the best part. Thanks, Lester. You are a dear little lamb.”
“Would you like a scone with that?” Les asked, sarcastically.
“No. Oh, Lester. You’d think that I had completely given up on my girlish figure. But, no. Darling. The coffee will do. Whole milk, mind you.”
Les shook his head as he headed to the kitchen.
“Now, Janna, let’s talk about you. Are you glad to be home? I’m certain you are. But did the doctor give you instructions? Ideas of how to regain strength? Prescriptions? Spill the beans, child.”
“It’s all written on a notepad. I’m having a hard time remembering things right now.”
“Did he say that was normal? I mean, did you even tell him that you were having a hard time with memory? Because he surely would have addressed that.”
“He talked to Les.”
Olivia became quiet. Janna couldn’t tell if this was going to turn into a serious moment or one that Olivia would use to get some attention.
“You scared us. You know that?” Olivia was calm. “I thought we were going to lose you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry, honey. It’s not like you actually planned to have a stroke.”
Janna laughed. “It makes me feel like an old woman.”
“Well, if you’re an old woman, what does that make me? But, I suppose if I’m a really old and crusty woman then I look pretty good for my age.”
The mother and daughter smiled at each other.
“Janna, I don’t know that I’ve always been a very good mother to you.” Olivia swiped her bangs to one side.
“Oh, Mom. You’ve always been great.”
“As compared with whom? A spider monkey? Actually, I have no idea what kind of mothers spider monkeys are. But, you know what I’m saying, yes?” She looked at her finger nails. “I was a very selfish mother. Truth is, after your father left, I check out. I just put you in daycare and drank all day long.”
“I was in fourth grade when Dad moved out, Mom.”
“Right. Daycare, school. Same thing. Anyway. I would just sit at the kitchen table and drink coffee all day long. And by the time you got home I just didn’t want to deal with you. And I feel really awful about that.”
“Okay. I forgive you.”
“I guess I’ve always been a little jealous of you. You just have such a great family here. And Lester loves you.”
“Thank you.”
“And so when I saw you in that hospital bed with all the needles in your arms and they were saying tumor and stroke and bleeding in the brain…well. Well, I just didn’t want you to go so soon. You’re my little girl.”
“I’m 43 years old.”
“And you are all I have. I just want you to know that you are the best thing I’ve ever done in this whole life of mine. And I was so afraid that I would have to watch you die.”
“But I’m going to be okay, Mom. I just need to get my body moving. Lots of physical therapy. But I’ll be fine.”
“You have no idea how much I love you.” Olivia reached out and held Janna’s hand. “When you were in that bed, I just couldn’t stop thinking that I wanted to take your place. I wished I could have taken all that pain for you.”
Janna smiled. “Mom, that’s really nice.”
“I know that I’m an attention hog. And that I have been very selfish in my life. But one thing you need to know; I would take all that pain from you if I could.”
“Okay, Olivia,” Les said, walking in with two cups of coffee. “I don’t know if I did it right.”
Olivia quickly wiped her eyes. Les looked at Janna. She smiled at him.
“You are a prince, Lester.” Olivia stood quickly. “I think it should cool just a tinch-bit. I need to use the powder room.”
She walked out of the room. Not with flare. Not with drama. Just a woman walking to the bathroom.
“She okay?” Les asked.
Janna nodded her head. “She’s just having a hard time.”
“She is? SHE is? Oh, brother.”
“I know. But she loves me.” Janna smiled. “I’m still her little girl.”
Here are the stories to vote for this week! Please share this with your friends. The more votes, the more fun!
Primal Carnage–Inspired by Kelly Haven
The Smiley Clock–Inspired by Mary Anderson
Sick–Inspired by Carrie Leazenby
You have until Monday night at 11:30 pm. Just go ahead and leave a comment on this post!
Thanks so much!
It must have been Great Lakes Christian College week here at the blog. In fact, it’s been girl’s dorm, 3rd floor week! All three stories are inspired by my Nunnery Sisters from the old college days (why called the Nunnery? Cause boys weren’t allowed up there.). Kelly Haven lived on the other side of the 3rd floor…and I think I may have bummed pizza off her a few times. Mary Anderson lived next door to me my freshman year (and roomed with me that summer). And now, Carrie Leazenby. Ah. My sophomore roommate. I am proud to say that I was her last roommate before she got hitched. Well, here’s Carrie’s story idea…
Character: Amelia
Setting: Normal, IL; Modern Times
Conflict: Mentally ill, no one knows. She tells everyone that she’s dying of cancer, but that is a lie.
Amelia practiced her cough. It wasn’t raspy enough. Not full of enough rattle and weeze. She walked to the mirror. Watched the face she made when she coughed. It wasn’t strained enough.
The sunken in cheeks would help her case. After months of eating only celery and drinking water, she was finally down to a “sickly” weight. That’s what her mother would have called it, at least.
She rubbed her hand across the smooth skin of her scalp. A few rough spots would need to be shaved. She would be able to let the hair grow back in a few weeks. That’s when her chemotherapy was done. At least that’s what she told her family.
Cancer. All throughout her body. Almost to the bones. Dangerously close to taking over her brain. She wasn’t well. She would die.
That’s what she told them.
Her family gathered around her. They cooked meals for her, paid her bills, held her when she cried. They had fundraisers to pay for her treatment. A 5k run. Coffee cans by gas station registers with her sad, sad story on it.
Amelia is 27 years old. She has lived with a rare form of cancer that the doctors still don’t know how to treat. They’re doing their best with chemo and radiation. But it doesn’t seem to be knocking out this cancer. Please, put a penny or two in this can. It will help us keep fighting to save our daughter’s life. God Bless you.
And a picture of her. Bald head. Missing eyebrows. Smiling weakly. Hugging her niece.
Hundreds of dollars were collected from those cans each month.
Amelia stood, looking in the mirror. She tied a bandanna around her head. Pulled her jacket on.
“Amy,” her mother called from downstairs. “Amy, it’s time to leave for your appointment.”
She walked toward the staircase. Sighed. Slumped her shoulders. Took each step slowly. Deliberately. Let her face droop.
“I’m coming, Mom,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Just gotta catch my breath.”
“Oh, honey.” Her mom walked to the bottom of the steps. “Do you need your inhaler?”
“No. It just makes my stomach upset.”
“Okay. Well, make sure you talk to the doctor about that at your appointment.”
“I will. I have my question list.”
“Do you want me to come in this time. You know. Just sit in the waiting room?”
“No, Mom. You know that makes me nervous.”
“But I have questions for the doctor, too.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her back pocket. “I just want to know how to take care of you when…well…when you can’t do things for yourself.”
“Oh, Mom. I know. And that time might be soon. But I need to talk to the doctor alone.”
“So, you just want me to drop you off again?”
“Yes. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
“Right. I’m sorry.”
Thirty minutes later, Amelia was walking into the office building. She rode the elevator to the third floor. The placard outside the doctor’s office read “Dr. Patti Mackson”.
“Amelia,” the receptionist greeter her. A new receptionist. Amelia had never seen her before. “Have a seat. Dr. Mackson will be right with you.”
Silently, Amelia found a chair and sat. She thumbed through a magazine. Shifted in her seat. Let out a few coughs. Noticed the concerned look on the receptionist’s face.
“Are you okay, dear?” the receptionist asked.
“Cancer,” Amelia answered.
“Oh dear.”
“I don’t have long.” She paused. Coughed again. “I’m sorry.”
“Honey, you’re too young to be so sick.”
Amelia nodded.
“Amelia?” Dr. Patti asked. “Are you ready?”
“Sure.”
“God bless you, honey,” the receptionist smiled at her, with pity. “I hope there’s a miracle around the bend just for you.”
Dr. Patti’s office had a few comfortable chairs. One long couch. Amelia figured it was for patients who wanted to lay down. She preferred to sit and clutch a pillow to her stomach.
“How are you doing today, Amelia?” Dr. Patti asked, shutting the door behind her.
“Not so good.” Amelia looked at the floor. “I don’t think I have much longer.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It’s just what I’m feeling.”
“Have you talked to a doctor about that?”
“You’re the only doctor I go to.”
“But I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a psychiatrist. That’s very different.”
Amelia was quiet. She chewed on her bottom lip. Let out a few coughs. “I guess I’m just getting kind of tired.”
“Tired of what?”
“Of living this way.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I need to tell you something.” Amelia sniffed. “I’ve been lying to you.”
“About what?”
“I don’t have cancer.”
Dr. Patti put her hands on her knees. “I suspected that.”
“I don’t know why I lied about it.”
“When did you start telling people you were sick?”
“I don’t know.”
But she did know. Amelia remembered the exact moment. It was when her little brother started coughing. It was raspy, rattly, weezing. Her mother spent hours with him in the bathroom, running the shower as hot as she could, letting the steam fill the house. The little baby was at the doctor’s office a few times each week. The whole world was all about him. All about how sick he was. All about how they needed to keep him alive.
Amelia realized that they loved him so much that they couldn’t bear the thought of him dying.
“Dear God,” she prayed. “Please give me a cough like his. So that I can be loved, too.”
Then that night, that night he coughed so hard. It was so bad. Amelia was only eight. But she knew what was going to happen. She knew that it was over. He was going to die. Her father called for an ambulance. Her mother held the baby so close to herself. Screaming at God. Screaming that it wasn’t right that He was taking her baby.
The ambulance arrived. But it was too late. His cough was gone. His life was done. There was nothing to be done.
When they zipped up the tiny black bag, Amelia tried a cough. It was weak. Thin. Wispy.
It turned no heads. It gained her no attention.
In that moment she knew she had to figure out a way to die. It was the only way to be loved.
And so, she willed herself sick.
For nineteen years she did this. Tried to be loved. Tried to die.
And then it became too much. Doctors wouldn’t see her anymore. They knew what she was doing. Family members were doubting her.
“No one’s that sick all the time,” they would say.
But her mother would stand up for her. Her mother tried to keep her healthy. Happy. Alive.
“I could tell them that I’ve been healed,” Amelia said, looking at Dr. Patti.
“Don’t you think the truth would be better?” Dr. Patti crossed her legs. “They deserve the truth.”
“But they’ll hate me.”
“They might be angry. But I doubt that they’ll hate you.”
“I took all kinds of money from people.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I put it in a box under my bed.”
“You’ll need to pay it back.”
“I know.”
Amelia scrunched up her face. Put her hands on her face. She wept. “What is wrong with me? Why did I do this?”
Dr. Patti grabbed tissues from a box next to her chair and handed them to Amelia.
“What kind of idiot does this to people?” Amelia felt her face, her head. “And shaves off her hair so people believe that she’s dying? God, why did You make me like this?”
Dr. Patti put her hand on Amelia’s shoulder.
“Why did I do this?” Amelia looked up at the doctor. “Why? Can you tell me that?”
“I think all you’ve ever wanted is to be loved.” Patti crouched down next to Amelia. “Right? You wanted people to see you. To know that you’re important.”
“And they never saw me until I pretended to be sick.”
“That’s very sad. It’s very, very sad. I’m so sorry about that.”
Amelia gathered herself. “I need to go.”
She rushed out of the office. Past the receptionist. Down the stairs. Fast. Fast. Into the parking lot. To her mother’s car.
Her mother was inside. Reading a paperback romance novel.
Amelia opened the passenger side door and slipped in.
“That was fast,” her mother said. “Did he answer all your questions?”
“No.” Amelia shut the door and turned sideways in her seat, facing her mother. “I need to tell you something.”
“Oh no.” Her mother sunk into her seat, a look of dread on her face. “Has it spread again?”
“No. No. Listen, Mom,” Amelia said. “I don’t know how to tell you something. But you might be really angry with me.”
“Amy, you can tell me anything.” Her mother reached out a hand, cupped Amelia’s thin cheek. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. Nothing you can say is going to make me love you less.”
Amelia sighed. Breathed in deep, warm air. “Mom, I don’t have cancer.”
“What?” Her voice was shaky.
“I never had it.” Amelia felt a tear roll from her cheek to her mother’s hand. “I lied.”
“For all these years?”
Amelia nodded.
“But why? Why would you lie about that?”
“Because I wanted you to love me.”
“You went through all of that just so that I would love you?” Her mother’s face turned down. “Oh, Honey. You didn’t have to do that so that I would love you.”
“But I didn’t know how else to get your attention. When he died…”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. When he died, I just wanted you to hold me like that. To be so important to you that you would do anything to keep me alive.”
Amelia found herself being held. Cradled, really. In her mother’s arms.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so so sorry.”
“Shh. It’s going to be okay.” Her mother kissed her head. “I am so glad that you aren’t dying.”
Amelia closed her eyes.
For the first time, she was glad, too.
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