The Accidental Heretic–Inspired by Betsy Carter

Today’s story idea comes from my beautiful older sister. You wanna see how pretty she was…right?

That's a nice feathered mullet
The Wavy Gravy Mullet
Hey, who's your friend with the matching mullet?

Ah…that felt good. Here’s Betsy’s story idea…I’m going to warn you: this is a very, very strange story.

Willman is the guy that rides on the back of the garbage truck. Based off the trash post-Christmas, he forms a revolutionary theology. Later he discovers that a cult has formed based on his new theology. He is labeled a heretic by a famous TV evangelist.

Willman tried to figure out how he got there. In that uncomfortable chair. Right next to the woman with canary yellow hair and behind the preacher. Not just any preacher. THE preacher. The one with a daily talk show. The one who had sermons syndicated on no less than five public access stations.

The preacher that was, at that exact moment, waving his Bible in the air, over his head. Speaking into the television camera. And saying horrible things about Willman.

Willman had zoned out for a moment. Until he heard the word.

“HERETIC!” mixed with his name “WILLMAN!”

Two Years Earlier…Three days after Christmas

“Will! The Man! The Willman!” Jake walked out to the garbage truck. “Ready for a long day on the old mobile cubicle?”

Willman kicked the tires. “Oh, man. I guess.” He looked at Jake. “Alright. who’s riding on the back?”

“I did it last time.”

“Seriously? Can’t we toss a coin?”

“Will, it’s your turn.”

“Do you know how much crap there’ll be on the corner today? All the wrapping paper and boxes and Christmas trees…”

“Yeah, today’s the worst day to be a garbage expert.” Jake climbed up into the cab of the truck. “Stop cryin’ like a girl and giddy-up.”

Willman hopped off the truck at every house, swinging large black garbage bags into the back. Over and over and over.

At the last house on their route, there was a mess.

“Oh man. Come on,” Willman said.

The trash was spread out all over the curb. Some kind of animal must have gotten into the bags, tearing them apart. Willman began picking up the pieces and tossing them into the truck.

“No way, Willie Man,” Jake yelled from the cab. “Ain’t our job.”

“We can’t just leave it all here,” Willman said.

He picked up a baby doll. Well, it was a doll without a head. And a few stuffed animals that were likewise decapitated.

“Come on,” Jake said.

“Man, Jake. There’s something weird going on here.”

“What? A bunch of chopped up toys. Who cares? Probably getting rid of the old stuff to make room for the new ones.”

“Nope.” Willman looked up at Jake. “These all still have the tags.”

“You need a drink.”

The two men left the mess. They returned the garbage truck to the landfill. Then they went to their favorite bar.

“It’s just weird, you know?” Willman said. “Why would anybody cut off the heads of brand new toys and then just throw them out?”

“Dude, you need to let it go.” Jake slammed back a shot. “You haven’t touched your beer.”

“It’s like they were sacrificing the toys or something.”

“Right.” Jake pushed the mug closer to Willman. “Drink up. You’ll forget all about that freaky cult.”

“I know.” He looked at Jake. “I bet it is some crazy cult. An anti-Capitalism cult.”

Willman chugged his beer.

“Another one for my friend,” Jake said to the bartender.

“I mean, Christmas has gotten so crazy commercialized. Maybe we should be sacrificing to the simple life. You know, like paying a tribute to a time when it wasn’t all about getting junk.”

“Uh huh.”

“Jake, man, are you getting all this down? Video tape me. I wanna hear all this tomorrow when I sober up.”

By the end of the night, Willman was completely convinced of his theory. The best way to celebrate Anti-Holiday was to destroy the new and embrace the old. The next morning, however, he’d forgotten it all. Just the ramblings of a drunken man.

Somehow, the video of Willman’s rantings made it onto the internet.

Then someone began blogging about the “new religion”. Some guy who called himself a Prophet of the great Will-Man. A group in California would meet daily, in a basement, destroying new items which they’d stolen from the store. They were sacrificing the new things to Simplicity. Simplicity had become their god. For the sake of that deity, they shaved their heads. Wore only taupe. Sat on the floor. Only drank beer. After all, by the end of the “Night of Revelation” (when the great Will-Man had received the calling) Will-Man had ended up on the floor, passed out from all the beer, wearing his taupe garbage man outfit, his head clean shaven.

This group was gaining in popularity. Simplicity apparently had no problem with social networking and blog posts.

And Willman, the first and greatest oracle of  Simplicity…well, he had no idea that this was all going on.

Present Time…THE preacher is still going…

“The great WILLMAN, oracle to the false god Simplicity, was brave enough to come on this show today.” The preacher drew nearer to the camera. “Let me warn you…if there are any easily influenced women or children in the room, please have them go elsewhere. This Willman is persuasive. He has single handedly convinced 1,000 people to sacrifice stuffed animals to an idol.”

“Wait, what?” Willman said aloud. “I’m sorry. I must have missed something.”

“And he denies it,” The preacher said, turning. “So, ready for the debate so soon, eh?”

“Soon? I believe I just sat through a 30 minute lecture.”

“A spirited one, are you?” The preacher sat at a desk.

“Go on now, honey,” the lady with canary colored hair said. “You just go on.”

“Me?” Willman asked. “You want me to go on?”

“Sure do, honey.”

“Where should I go on to?”

“Just go on.”

“I’ll try.”

“Now, you’ve been called the great Will-Man by your followers,” The preacher said. “How many followers do you have now?”

“Well, I guess that depends.”

“Oh, a relativist.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just tell us the truth.” The preacher snarled. “How many followers do you have?”

“Well, on Twitter I’ve got, like, 35. Not too many. But on Pinterest I’ve gotta have closer to 40.”

“You have Pinterest?” Canary hair asked.

“Yeah. I usually just put up easy desserts and organizing ideas.”

“What’s your user name? I’ll find you.”

“Willman,” the preacher said, clearing his throat to gain back attention. “How do you live with yourself, knowing that so many people are being lead astray by you?”

“Oh, I see. I know I lied about the calories on that brownie recipe I pinned. I didn’t want my wife telling me I couldn’t eat it. So, when I pinned it, I fudged the facts a little.”

“Ha ha,” Canary said. “Get it? Fudged the brownies!”

“Your cult, Willman, has taken the focus off of the true meaning of Christmas and put it on Simplicity. Has it not?”

“Right. Back to the heretic thing.” Willman leaned forward. “Listen, I really don’t know why you keep calling me that.”

“Because you’re a false teacher.” The preacher turned toward Willman. “And you can’t deny the evidence. Roll the film.”

Willman watched the screen in horror. On it was a film of him, drunk, speaking about the stuffed animals. Jake’s voice in the background, “Thus says the Great Will-Man.”

“No, no, no. You don’t understand,” Willman said, sputtering. “No. This is crazy.”

“I think it’s funny,” Canary hair said.

“This video went viral two years ago.” The preacher smiled with triumph. “Then came the cults.”

“Seriously, I was kidding. I didn’t mean it at all!” Willman stood. “Haven’t you ever told a stupid joke? That’s all this was.”

“I have never told a joke!” The preacher’s voice resonated. “Life isn’t a laughing matter!”

“He’s right,” Canary hair said. “He’s not a funny person.”

“I do, however, have the great Prophet. The one who recorded all your teachings through a blog.”

From off stage, Jake emerged. He walked out, sheepish.

“What the heck, Jake?” Willman said.

“Dude, I had no clue.” Jake stood as close to Willman as he could. “It was all just a joke.”

“Then, gentlemen. If it was just a joke, renounce it.” The preacher looked into their faces. “Do you renounce it?”

“Of course,” Willman said. “Yeah. We renounce it.”

“And it was never a true religion?” The preacher.

“Yeah. No. Never.”

“Then you heard it here, folks. Simplicity was just a big joke. As we all expected.”

That night, Willman and Jake went out for drinks. This time they went for coffee.

“Man, that preacher dude was intense,” Jake said.

“He has to be, I guess,” Willman said. “I’d be pretty ticked off if people were messing with my biggest holiday, too.”

“Whatever, dude.” Jake drank from his mug. “You’re going to church these days, right?”

“Yeah. We started for the kids. But I like it pretty well.”

“Hey, sorry about writing that blog. I never thought it would go anywhere.”

“No problem.” Willman finished off the last of his coffee. “Why’d you ask about church?”

“Oh, I’m just asking. You know. Just wondering if you believe the stuffed animal thing at all.”

“No. It’s nuts.”

“I guess you’re right.”

That night, when Willman got home, his porch was covered with decapitated stuffed animals.

We Matter–Inspired by Tanya Glanzman

Today’s story idea came from Tanya Glanzman. Tanya’s blog is My Father’s Daughter. You can “like” her Facebook Page here. She also blogs for Circle of Friends Ministries. And she’s a mom. And she’s a teacher. And she’s a student. Somehow she balances it all. Here’s Tanya’s idea…

Anna is driven. She lives where it never snows :). She just found out that she has a sister 16 years younger than she – by her deceased mother who abandoned her.

My mother dropped me off at daycare one day when I was four.  It was a Thursday just before Christmas. I played all day with my friends. Ate lunch and took a nap there. Waited in the evening for her to come pick me up. She always came to get me at 5:30.

But not that night.

And never again.

Off through the foster care system I went. I was lucky. Only four homes before I was adopted. And that family has been amazing. They made me who I am. They pushed me to do my best.

“Don’t let your mother ruin your life,” my adoptive mom would say. “She’s nothing. If anything, you should go for the big things in life just to show her how stupid she was to abandon you. You matter. You matter so much.”

And so, from that day on, I lived just to prove my mother wrong. Straight A’s. Valedictorian. Ivy league college. Hired into the corporate world right after graduation. Moved up to the executive level at 24.  All of it to let the world know that my mother had no idea what kind of quality person she was turning her back on.

I was someone.

Someone of value.

To be completely honest, I avoided relationships. Never allowed myself to grow attached to the family that adopted me. I wouldn’t let a guy have a second date. Friends were out of the question. Alone I could accomplish. People would just get in the way of my success.

I was lonely.

But I was doing great things. So, it didn’t matter.

Until I got that phone call. In the middle of the night.

“Ms. Sledge? This is Helman Rodgers,” the man on the other line said.

I wondered who he could be.  And I wondered why he called me by my birth mother’s last name.

“That is an outdated last name, Mr. Rodgers,” I said. “You need to fire your fact checker.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Do you mind telling me your current last name?”

“I do mind. I don’t know who you are or the nature of your call.”

“As I said, I’m Helman Rodgers. I’m the attorney in charge of your mother’s estate.” He cleared that throat again. “Excuse me, your birth mother’s estate.”

“She’s dead?” I asked, trying so hard to cover any emotion that might have come up with the little bit of bile in the back of my throat.

“She is.” He paused, I think he was expecting me to cry or ask what happened or something. “We have some matters to discuss, ma’am.”

“What is there to discuss? She’d dead. I moved on twenty years ago. End of story.”

“It isn’t that simple. There’s a more pressing and, uh, sensitive matter.” He waited for me to respond. I didn’t. “I’d like for you to come to my office tomorrow at your convenience.”

“Tomorrow isn’t good for me.”

“Then when would you be able to meet with me?”

“I’m a very busy woman.”

“You have some responsibilities that are being handed down to you. I know that you don’t want to deal with all of this, but it’s important that you at least know what you’re letting fall through some cracks.”

“And what would that be?”

“Your sister.”

“Oh, great. Then she can arrange the funeral and settle the estate.”

“She’s eight. She has no where to go. We didn’t want to put her in foster care.”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The room became far too hot.

“I’ll be there tomorrow first thing.”

“My office opens at 8 am.”

“I’ll be there.”

His office was in his home. The sweetest, warmest woman welcomed me in.

“I’m Mrs. Rodgers,” she said. “Helmie will be with you in just a second. Can I get you some coffee, dear?”

“Yes. Thank you,” I answered. “Black, please.”

“Oh.” She curled her upper lip. “Honey, you should try it with a little cream. It takes that hard edge off. Soften things up a bit.”

“I’m watching my weight.”

“What are you watching it do? Cause I just can’t see any fat on you.” She started toward the kitchen. “The coffee’s not the only thing that needs a softer edge.”

She returned with the cup of coffee and left me to wait for her husband. He stepped out of a small office. He wasn’t what I expected. A short, round, bald man.

“Hello, would you please come in?” he asked.

His office smelled of old books and cigar smoke. He pointed me toward a chair and I sat.

“I’m sorry that I had to call so late last night,” he said. “I’d hoped to find a place for Crystal to stay.”

“Crystal. Is that my sister?”

“Yes. And she’s quite the little sweetie. My wife would love to have her live with us. But we’re old. At most, this would be a temporary situation.”

“Are there any other family members that can take her?”

“Not without felonies.”

“And you want me to adopt her.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. We have a lead on a family in Montana that are hoping to adopt an older child.”

“Montana? But that’s so far. What, six states away?”

“Seven.” He rubbed his smooth head with one of his hands. “Your mother wasn’t a very good person. She didn’t do right by Crystal. Child Protective Services was constantly called to the house. They wouldn’t take the girl away because they didn’t want to ‘break up the family’. I represented your mother on several occasions. She always refused to plead guilty. She couldn’t accept responsibility. And the system didn’t ever seem to have enough to convict her.”

“Or they didn’t want to spend the money…”

“I’m not trying to criticize the system here. Just telling you what happened.”

“Go ahead.”

“Crystal has nightmares. And scars. Something horrible happened to her. She’s terrified of everything.”

I hadn’t thought about my early childhood in so long. The memory of fear surprised me. My mother’s angry screams. Frantic beatings. Days without dinner.

“How did my mother die?”

“She hung herself. Her note said she hated life. That she didn’t know how to take care of everything. She didn’t say anything about you or Crystal.”

Of course she didn’t. Because she didn’t care about us. Only herself. Only her selfish little, worthless existence. Worthless only because she made it that way.

“Can I meet her? My sister?”

Herman’s wife led the little girl into the living room. I walked out of the office. Crystal was so small. Far smaller than I expected. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a long, thick braid down her back. Blue eyes that looked so much like mine.

She didn’t smile.

“Crystal, this is your sister. Her name is Anne,” Mrs. Rodgers said. “Why don’t you say ‘hello’ to your sister?”

The girl looked at me. She shook her head. Whispered into the ear of the old lady.

“No, honey, she’s nice. She isn’t a thing like your mama.”

“Hey there,” I said. I took slow steps toward her. I put out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I knelt down next to her. Our eyes met. There was more in that look than I would have expected. She wasn’t like the little children I’d met before. There was a sameness in our gaze. A belonging.

She leaned into me. I put my arms around her. She was so thin.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I said. “I’m going to make sure that everything is okay for you.”

She shook. I felt her tears on my shoulder through my shirt.

“We’ll show her,” I said. “We’ll show her that we matter.”

The Farewell–Inspired by Annette Deaton

Today’s story idea comes from Annette Deaton. Annette was a guest blogger here in November. See her moving post here. This is Annette’s story idea…

Character: Anne is 20 years old and caring.

Setting: Catholic Church

Conflict: The love of her life, Seth, whom she cared for through the years (though recently they were apart) has died and now she must say good-bye

A family gathered around a coffin in a small room off the sanctuary of St. Peter’s Church. The other mourners, the ones who weren’t family or close friends, had been escorted out only moments ago. This was the time for the family to say their last good-byes to their dead. Son. Brother. Uncle. Cousin. Nephew. Seth. The family stood in a semi circle, facing the body.

“He never was a very healthy boy,” Grandma Eileen said. “Always so sick. I just wish he could have been with us longer.”

“He looks so peaceful,” Brenda, Seth’s mother sobbed. “He was so sick, I don’t think he ever looked so calm.”

“I just wish Anne would of come,” Lila, the sister, said. “He would have wanted her here.”

“Did you call her?” Brenda asked.

“Yes. She said she would come.”

The men of the family stood, mute. Their silence the only barrier between them and weeping.

“Well, I’m not really happy with the way that girl took off,” Grandma said. “Just left him with a nurse. Never told any of us what happened.”

“Seth wouldn’t talk about it either,” Brenda. “I’m sure there’s more to it than we think.”

“I’m just gonna say it. Seth wanted to marry that girl. Wanted to ever since they were kids.” Grandma pulled a tissue from her sleeve. “And I know that girl loved him, too. Or she wouldn’t have been there so much.”

“It would have been a lot to ask, Mother.”

“All I’m saying is they should have gotten married. Just so that Seth could pass away as a family man.”

“I think it would have been very hard, Grandma,” Lila said. “And I think Seth understood that.”

“I just would like to see her show up here. That would help my old soul.”

“She might come, Mother. There’s still time.”

“Do you want me to sneak out and see if she’s sitting in a pew?” Lila asked. “She might not have known she could come in here.”

Lila was back in the small room within moments. A red eyed Anne was behind her. Anne wore a brown dress with yellow flowers. It had been Seth’s favorite. Her shoes were bright blue. The color Seth loved the best. She looked at the ground, unable to take in the sight of Seth in the casket.

“Oh, Anne,” Brenda said, walking toward her and pulling her into a hug. “Honey, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Anne nodded her head against Brenda’s shoulder. She allowed herself to cry into the woman’s embrace.

“We were just about to say our last good-byes to him.” Grandma took Anne’s hand and tugged her away from Brenda. “You need to say good-bye, too.”

“I can’t,” Anne whispered.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Grandma coaxed her. “But you’ll hate yourself if you don’t at least look at him. You’ll hate yourself forever.”

“I don’t want this to be what I remember.”

“What. You want to remember the boy who needed you to empty his colostomy bag? Or the boy who couldn’t even talk to you in his last weeks because of the breathing tube? You’d rather remember our Seth like that instead of like this? He’s at peace now. And he deserves to be seen. Even by you.”

They all took turns. One by one, they peeked in. Touched the face. Whispered farewells. Anne was last in line.

“Now, let’s give the girl a little space,” Brenda said. “Go on, Anne. We’ll all turn our backs and plug our ears if you want us to.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be fine,” Anne said.

She looked at him. His auburn hair was smoothed, pushed back from his forehead. The last time she’d seen him, it was matted and greasy. That last day, the day she left, he’d had difficulty breathing. Even with the tube down his throat. She closed her eyes and remembered that last day.

“Do you want another pillow under your head?” Anne had asked him. “You look so uncomfortable.”

He shook his head.

“Seth, is there anything you need?” She sat in the straight backed chair next to his head. “That’s why I’m here, Babe.”

Hospice had been called in. Still Anne wanted to care for Seth. She held out hope that he would survive, that they would be able to get married, have kids, live a happy life.

Seth just shook his head again. He wrote on a dry erase board. The marker squeaked as he scribbled.

“You deserve more,” he’d written.

“No, Seth. Don’t start with that again.”

He erased. Wrote again. “You do. Go find another.”

“I’m not going to do that, Seth.” She put her hand on his arm. “I love you.”

“Give up. I’m dying.”

“No. You’ll get better.” She cleared her throat. “I want to marry you, Seth.”

“I won’t marry you.”

“But, Seth, we love each other.”

“That’s why I won’t marry.”

He wiped the board clean. The two were together, quiet. Both feeling the loss of his life.

“I’m okay with that, Seth.” Anne inched to the edge of her chair. “It’s just nice that I can be here.”

“It’s too hard for me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re taking care.”

“Taking care of you? But I don’t mind. I love you. This is what  you do when you love someone.”

“No more.” He paused. “Please.”

“Well, okay. I’ll just sit with you then. I promise, I won’t lift another finger. We’ll let the nurse do that. I’ll bring a bunch of movies.”

“No. Too much.”

“Then, I’ll read to you some more.”

“No. You need a break.”

“I don’t. I’m glad to be here.”

“Take some time. Be alone.”

“But I don’t want to leave you. What if…you get worse?”

“Find another.”

“I can’t. No. Seth. You’re the only one.”

“I’m not. I want you happy.”

“I can’t be happy without you.”

“You have to.”

The nurse came into the room. She checked Seth’s pulse, his blood pressure. She made a note in his chart and left the two alone again.

“Seth, I love you.” Anne put her head on his arm. She heard the marker squeak on the board. She sat up.

“I can’t die while you’re here.”

She looked at his face. Seth was crying. He rubbed the words away and wrote more.

“You can’t see me die. I won’t do that to you.”

Erase. Write again.

“But I’m tired, Anne. I want to go.”

Erase. Write.

“You need to leave so I can.”

Erase.

“But I love you,” Anne said.

“Then love me enough to go.” Erase. Write again. “Please, Anne.”

She took the board and put it on the side table. Ran her fingers across his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. She looked into his eyes. He was begging her. She could see that on his face. Anne wanted to kiss his lips, but the tube prevented her. She, instead, pressed her lips against his cheek. She felt his hand stroke her hair.

“I love you. So, good-bye,” she whispered into his ear.

After she left that day, she waited for the phone call to let her know he was gone. He made it another two weeks. She resented that time. Wishing that she could have had those fourteen days with him.

Anne opened her eyes and looked at Seth’s body. She kissed her fingers and touched them to his lips.

Brenda crossed the room and put her arm around Anne’s shoulders. “Come. Sit with us. You’ll always be family,” she said.

The family gathered around the coffin. This time, not as a semi-circle, but as a clump. All hugging one another as the funeral director lowered the lid.

Scourge–Inspired by Kristi West

I’m at it again! A challenge to write short stories based on the ideas and inspirations of my readers! We had 30 stories in September (find links to those stories here). Well, that was so popular (and insanely fun for me) that I decided to do it for December and January! Tune in on Monday, Wednesday and Friday to read the stories and vote on Saturday, Sunday and Mondays. Weekly winners will be announced on the Tuesday after the vote.

Today’s story idea comes from the lovely Kristi West. She was the first contributor in September with her story idea for Good-bye George. She also shared her creativity for Being Found and Broken and Empty. She is very creative. I admire her so much. (I really do, Kristi…). Here’s her idea…

Character: Jane. After having several miscarriages, is finally through the first trimester of a healthy pregnancy.

Setting: At home after a doctor’s appointment

Conflict: Jane was just diagnosed with cancer

Scourge

Jane was surprised how differently her living room looked. Only a few hours ago, everything had looked clean. Friendly. Welcoming. But, as she turned to close the front door, she felt cold. Not a chilly, need a sweater cold. Rather, a deep, ice in the blood cold. A disbelieving cold. A giving up kind of cold.

She touched the tiny bump of stomach that barely popped out under her blouse. The small avocado sized baby that grew in her stomach was fine. The ultrasound showed two arms, two legs, a strong heartbeat. Seventeen weeks she’d been pregnant. The longest pregnancy she’d ever had.

She and her husband, Rob, bounced with excitement for this baby.

So sure of joy. That this time all would be well. Before Halloween they would hold a baby. And that baby would be their own. They had hoped for this child. Prayed. Begged. This should have been what would heal her pain. Five miscarriages. Five deaths. She felt the injustice, the darkness in each loss.

But this time was different. The baby was healthy. But, Jane. Jane was not.

She hadn’t told Rob about the irregular PAP smear. She kept the doctor’s discovery to herself. Lesions on her cervix. The doctor had been concerned. Ordered a biopsy. That was ten days ago. Jane pushed the possibilities out of her mind. Didn’t allow the fear to sink into her gut.

Until her appointment that morning.

She sat on the other side of an oak desk from her doctor. Doctor Zachary. He was young. Wore trendy glasses. Shaggy hair.

“Jane, are you sure you don’t want Rob here for this?” Doctor Zachary asked.

“No. I’m fine.” She crossed her legs. “The baby’s okay, right?”

“Well, yes.” He cleared his throat, averted his eyes. “At this point.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have cancer,” he said. “Stage 2 cervical cancer.”

She heard him, but couldn’t understand his words. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Cervical cancer has spread. For now, the womb is unaffected. Which is good for the fetus…”

“Baby,” she interrupted. “It’s a baby. A small human. That word, fetus, is so harsh. Like it’s just a flap of skin.”

“Right. Baby.” He opened her file. “The baby is okay for now. I’m concerned about your health, though.”

“Can’t we treat the cancer later?”

“Well, that’s an option. But it isn’t the best option.”

She looked out the window. One dark cloud drifted among several puffy white ones.

“Jane, we don’t know how this cancer will progress in the next 23 weeks. My concern is that, by then, it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

Doctor Zachary stood. “I think it would be best if we called your husband. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“No. Just tell me. I need to know.”

“Jane, this cancer isn’t something to play with. It’s spreading. I don’t know how fast it will move. I don’t know what the prognosis is for you.”

“What do you think I should do?”

He walked to the window, leaned on the ledge. “This isn’t easy for me to say.”

“Tell me.”

“The best chance you have is a combination of chemotherapy and radiation.”

“Wouldn’t that hurt the baby?”

Doctor Zachary folded his arms across his chest. He slumped his shoulders. “We’d also need to perform a hysterectomy.”

“But how could you do that? I’m pregnant.”

“Yes. I know.” He used a skinny finger to push up his glasses. “We’d need to terminate the pregnancy.”

“No. I won’t. I can’t.”

“It might be the only chance we have to beat this cancer.”

“Will I die? If I don’t do that, will I die?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happens if I won’t let you kill my baby?”

“Jane. That’s harsh.”

“But this is my baby.”

“You’re right.” He moved back to his desk, sat in his chair. “Listen, Jane. You get to decide what happens. That’s your right.”

“If I let you take out my womb, I’ll never have another baby.”

“Correct.”

“So, you want to take this baby and every other baby I could ever have.”

“If you carry this baby to term, you might be risking your life.” He rubbed his forehead. “Or you could be fine for treatment later. I don’t know. It’s a gamble.”

“What should I do?”

“Talk to your husband. See what he wants.” He took off his glasses. “I’ll want to see both of you tomorrow.”

And so Jane had driven home. Completely aware of the sunshine and the beauty of the day. Beauty that seemed hard-edged to her. The day seemed to say “Look at this wonderful world that you will never fully enjoy”.

At home, curled up on the couch, Jane felt neither the budding life or the deadly scourge within her. But she was fully aware of both.

Thunder sounded. Lightening blasted. That one dark cloud had overtaken the fluffy ones.

“Jane?” Rob called as he walked in through the back door. “Honey? Where are you?”

She didn’t answer. Just opened her eyes, surprised by how dark her home was. She could hear the rain dropping on the roof.

“Janie?” He came into the living room, turned on a light. “Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Is it the baby?”

“This time it’s me.” She looked directly at her husband. “I’m the one who’s dying this time.”

Rob sat on the floor next to the couch. He held Jane’s hands. “So, what do we do?”

Jane closed her eyes, shook her head. “We go to bed. Then tomorrow we tell the doctor that we’re going to wait. This baby will be healthy.”

“But what about you?”

“I don’t know.”

Jane felt the smallest flutter inside. Like a bubble moving gently, tickling every so slightly. The feeling left. Then came again. She opened her eyes. So wide.

“Are you okay?” Rob asked.

All Jane could manage with a giggle. She caressed her stomach.

“Honey, what’s going on?” Rob got up, touched her face.

“I think I just felt the baby.” She smiled.

“Isn’t it too early?”

“The book said I would be able to feel the baby around this time.” Jane sat up. “This is incredible.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Give me your hand.”

Jane ran her knuckle softly across the palm of Rob’s hand. Just barely touching him.

“That must be so strange.”

“It’s the best thing.” She looked at him, still holding his hand. “The baby is real.”

Rob couldn’t help it. He let the tears come. He didn’t fight them. This emotion had nothing to do with masculinity or strength. The pain and the joy pulled and pushed and throttled him.

“I don’t know what the right choice is, Jane.”

“I do.”

“But I can’t lose you.”

“We can’t lose this baby.”

Jane put her hand on his cheek. He sobbed. Grief that was his gift to her, telling her how much she was loved. Treasured. Needed.

“Rob, I’m scared.”

“Me too, Babe.”

“Not for me. For this baby. God gave this child to us for a reason. I’m just so scared to push that blessing away.”

He looked at his wife. Regained his breathing. Tried to trust.

“Okay.” Rob pulled Jane to her feet. Kissed her forehead. Put his hand on her tummy. “Let’s go to bed.”

The next morning, as Rob drove Jane to Doctor Zachary’s office, they were in awe of how clear blue the sky was.

Guest Post by Jessie Heninger

Hey every one I’m back. Please stop crying I promise it won’t be that bad…

Last time I had the privilege of guest posting for Susie I ended up rambling on about the magic of antique and junk shopping and buying second hand. All true, I stand by almost every word. Today I want to talk to you about a semi-related topic; buying clothes second hand and even weirder, making your own clothes.


This was the first real success I had making a dress. Thank you Colette Patterns!

Several years ago when my marriage was still young my husband and I went to the local sears to buy our first washer and dryer. We were very excited about this mundane task because it was the most grown-up thing we’d ever done. We were using our own money that we’d saved so I could go to grad school (that didn’t really pan out) and were all hopped up on living in an actual house and working in a real job (by real I mean our first full time ministry which is about as far from real as you ca get). I happened upon a pale blue sewing machine and for some strange reason fell in love with it. We bought it, I’m still not sure why as no one in my family sews.


The pattern for this shirt was free on-line!

It’s just that after four grueling years of college I yearned to create something tangible. Make something with my hands that you didn’t eat. So when I saw that blue
Kenmore I felt some kind of whisper inside me. For several years I dabbled in making curtains, pajama pants for my siblings at Christmas, scarves for friends, that kind of thing. Then a couple years ago our friend Susie introduced me to the horrifying world of human trafficking and it’s role in the things we consume and buy including clothing (that sounded really dark didn’t it?) At the same time I was stumbling upon the youthful on-line sewing community. I had no idea so many people were making their own clothes and I had no idea that there were so many unique and chick patterns out there. Those two things along with masochistic tendencies sort of combined into a desire to make a significant part of my own wardrobe.


I love this dress but it was definitely a labor of love.

A couple of years later and I’m sewing more then ever. I am amazed at how my skills have advanced (I can now install an invisible zipper without swearing). I am addicted to making unique things. I like a slightly vintage look which costs a ton to buy but not if I’m making it myself! It’s not always easy, but I love it. I love wearing something to church and getting compliments knowing that I made it myself, that no one else is going to have this exact thing, and knowing that it’s constructed better then most things you buy off the rack (I was recently given a high end jacket as a gift and I’ve already had to repair it).


I think the fabric for this dress is so unique and cool.

I’ve also taken the plunge into buying my clothes second hand. You’d think this would be easy for me considering all I had to say about decorations and antiques and every thing, but clothing is an entirely different matter. I already make my own clothes and I’m a minister’s wife so throw in goodwill and a bun in my hair and you’ve crossed a line your not coming back from. However, I was feeling ever more convicted about slave labor and have not the skill nor time to make every thing I wear so some friends and I went to Kalamazoo and tried out all the second hand shops to see what we’d find.
Turns out there are A LOT of scary scary places to look in Kalamazoo. BUT, we also found some great places. So a few months ago I took a personal challenge not to buy any new clothes for six months (except underwear and socks). I am pleased to say that it’s going very well. I actually have nicer clothes in my wardrobe now because I am able to buy the brands that I could never afford new. I’d say about half of what I buy still has the original tags on it (who are these people that are buying brand new $100 Ann Taylor blouses and never wearing them?) And, I’m supporting a local business instead of a giant box store or company that’s using questionable labor practices.


This is a Couple hundred dollar dress I got at Double Exposure in Kzoo, along with a vintage hat.

Honestly, for the first time in years I feel almost fashionable. I am developing a style that’s very me but still cute (it took a while to get rid of the just-had-a-baby-don’t-have-time-for-hair-or-makeup-look) I’m not spending money I don’t have and am actually excited about fashion (well my fashion which is more fashion vintage instead of fashion forward). There’s something about the hunt of the second hand shop that excites me whereas the department store made me sad and frustrated with my body.  When I sew a garment for myself I can make it fit my odd and short frame just the way I want. Yes, I still have many flops, but I can say there are less of those.  I started dressing nicer and then, so did my husband (we’re regular madmen look-a-likes). Take some time and check out some second hand shops in your town you might be pleasantly surprised by what you find. Get out your sewing machine and try making something; you might find yourself addicted to the pleasure of making something yourself, something that will last and has more meaning.  You might find that changing the world one stitch-at-a-time is easier then you thought.


My newest addition. I wanted the skirt to have a Scandinavian look to it and the top is from 360 in Kzoo.

Stay or Leave — From My Archives

A tiny stream of light makes it’s way through my bedroom blinds. Sitting up in bed, I’m the only one awake. The kids are in their rooms, I’ve already peeked in on them. My husband is rolled on his side, eyes closed.

I want so badly to love him. But it’s gone. How do I reignite anything in my  heart for him? I can’t seem to remember a time when I loved him the way a wife should. He has always far more far more for me than I have for him. Does he see that?

Getting up, dressing, leaving the bedroom. Trying to be as quiet as possible. But the bathroom door creaks when I open it. It’s been like that for years. He just can’t seem to get to these things around the house.

I wish I didn’t have to live here. All I want is an apartment or small cottage somewhere, no blocks spread out all over the floor, no him with his expectations, no one else’s messes to clean up.

Looking in the bathroom mirror I know my regrets. I regret getting married, having kids, leaving my dreams out of my life. That I didn’t wait to get married. No 20 year old should be allowed to make that kind of commitment.

If only I was still single. Then I could be with Clint.

I’ve always been the kind of girl who likes getting attention from men. When they notice my new haircut or an outfit I put together. Clint always sees those things. He makes me feel so good about myself.

My husband only cares about how much the haircut cost or how much closet space my clothes take.

The car starts up with a quiet rumble.

“I have to go in to work for a bit tomorrow,” I told my husband last night.

“What? But tomorrow’s Saturday,” he said.

“I know. But I have to finish a few things before the weekend.”

“It’s the third time this month.”

“Well, you wanted me to have a job.”

“Maybe you should work harder during the week.”

So, I’m up early, out the door and on my way to have coffee with Clint. All my Saturday outings are to see him. It’s not an affair. We haven’t so much as held hands.

It’s not a complete lie. He’s my boss. We talk about work.

He’s waiting for me, sitting at “our” table. We had to arrange our meetings on the other side of town. Couldn’t have people gossiping.

“Hey, how’s it going?” He stands. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Thanks, that would be great,” I say. “A mocha would be nice. Thanks.”

“You already said ‘thanks’.”

“Well, it’s early.” But really, I’m nervous.

He brings a couple cups to our table.

“So, how’re the kids?”

“Fine,” I answer. “They were still sleeping when I left.”

“Good. Nice for them.”

We sit in silence. Then chat about weather, office gossip, politics.

“So, how does your husband feel about us getting together like this?” Clint asks.

I shift my eyes away from him. Sip my mocha. Clear my throat.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” His voice is a whisper.

“No,” I answer. “He wouldn’t understand. He’d just get mad.”

“Oh,” Clint looks concerned. “Does he hit you?”

“Of course not. No. He would never.”

“Because if he did, I’d steal you away real quick.”

“Steal me away?”

His smile is coy. “Listen, we need to talk.”

“Did you know that I’ve been married to him for 15 years?”

“That’s a long time.”

“We were 20. He was my first college boyfriend. You know how that goes.”

“I guess.” His voice is tinged with annoyance.

“Sorry. I don’t know why I told you that.”

“It’s okay. I want to know these things about you.” He reaches across the table, touches my hand. It feels both exciting and wrong. “I really like being with you.”

I just smile. That “wrong” feeling won’t go away.

“I want to be able to see you  more.” He wraps his fingers around mine.

“We see each other every day.”

“Not in the office. Not like that. And I don’t want to sneak around.”

I pull my hand back. “What do you mean?”

“Look, I have pretty strong feelings for you. And I think you feel the same for me. Right?”

“But I’m married.”

“It can be undone.”

Is he asking me to leave my husband? What about the kids? And all the regrets. The blocks and the mess and the expectations. Could I really pick up and leave it all? What would happen to my kids?

“You mean divorce?” I ask.

“You could start slow. Separation first.” He moves his chair to my side of the table, puts his hands on my knees. “It’s pretty obvious that you aren’t happy with him. I promise that I would make you happy.”

“But where would I live? I don’t have anywhere I could go. This is just crazy.”

“Live with me.”

“I don’t know. It’s too much.”

“Think about it. You have time. I’m not trying to push you into anything. But I want to be with you.”

“Let me think about it.” I stand, pull the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “I’ll let you know.”

I take the long way home. It’s pouring down rain. I can barely see through the windshield.

Stay with my family. Go with Clint. I go back and forth. What’s the right thing? Who can I talk to?

I pull onto my street. Puddles have gathered in the low spots of the sidewalk. Blurry figures up ahead are jumping, splashing, kicking in the water.

My husband has the kids out, jumping in mud. Another mess for me to clean up.

Getting out of the car, hoping to get inside before I become drenched.

“Mom! Mom!” My kids run to me.

“Hug mom,” my husband tells them.

Four soaked children cling to me, getting me wet.

“Why did you tell them to do that?” I ask my husband, near to crying. I’m so frustrated, so confused. “Look, they’re getting me all muddy.”

“You never looked more beautiful.” He smiles at me. It’s the smile he used to give me so long ago. “Come on kids, let’s see who can make the biggest splash!”

I watch him hold the hand of my daughter. He rustles the hair of one of my sons. He laughs and smiles and dances in the rain with my children. Our children.

My heart feels warm. There is nothing wrong in loving him. But so much could be lost if I go with Clint.

Clint, Clint. Even thinking his name causes my stomach to clench. Not with butterflies, but with anxiety.

“Mom! Come here! We found a giant worm!” My daughter, the only girl of the four, holds up a handful of slither and slime. “You’ve got to see this!”

I stay. The kids and the family and the home remain whole.

I leave. The kids split weeks between me and their dad. I tear our one flesh in two. Everything gets broken.

“Mom. Come on,” she calls to me.

My feet slosh through the puddle. My hands, open to hold the worm she found. My life, wanting to belong in my family.

Krow Photography Tuesday

I would really like to extend a special thanks to Kedron Rhodes for allowing me to post his photography. He really has an eye for eclectic beauty. Please visit and “like” his Facebook Page.

Now, these are my favorite, favorite, favorite on his page. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I do!

 

Learning

 

Sit Here

 

The Bird

 

Left Over

 

What has been your favorite Krow Photo? What made you like it so much?

Skinny — From My Archives

I was the fat kid. Not baby chub or pleasantly plump. This wasn’t the kind of extra weight I would “grow into”.

This was wrist roll, thighs rubbing, eye smashing, mortifying weight.

When my mom felt guilty about working so much, she’d bring home a pizza. The days when she’d had too much to drink and smacked me around, she would bake cookies.  If she had a date she’d leave a cupboard full of snack cakes and chips, and lots of soda in the fridge. And I’d eat everything until it was gone.

For me, food came after pain to give me a feeling like floating. Food never let me down. It helped me to pretend that I was loved.

Somehow I survived high school. But every year got worse and worse. And every year I gained more and more. My mom was mad that we had to pay extra for a special made graduation gown.

That whole summer was full of dread for the coming move to college. And so I gained more.

“Honey, take care of  yourself, okay?” my mom said after putting the last box of stuff in my dorm.

Without a hug, she was gone.

I instantly broke open the box of crackers I’d brought and shoved them into my mouth. The faster the better.

My roommate was on the cheerleading squad. She was blonde and beautiful. She was as skinny as I was fat.

I hated her. Completely.

She was such a nice girl. Never looked at me when I was getting dressed, understood my need for more space in the walkways, asked me to hang out with her and the rest of the cheerleaders.

And yet I still hated her.

Because she was everything I’d ever wanted to be.

The week after freshman orientation, she walked in on me during a binge. Food wrappers were spread out all over my bed. An empty bag of chips was on the floor.

“Oh, Amber,” I said. “I didn’t know you’d be back.”

“What are you doing, Penny?” she asked.

“I didn’t just eat all this.”

“It’s okay. We all do it.”

“Do what?”

“Eat like that.”

“Really? I thought I was the only one.”

“Nah. You got anymore food?”

She ate everything that I had left. It was more than I could have packed away.

“But how do you stay so skinny?” I asked, amazed.

That’s when I learned about purging.

I got skinny quick. Amber taught me all the tricks. Binge. Purge. Laxatives. Working out 4-5 hours a day. If not more.

“Penny, you look great!” my mom said when I went home for Christmas.

I ran into a guy from high school. He didn’t know who I was. He asked for my number.

Everything changed for me. The skinny me was no longer invisible or in the way or disgusting. I was suddenly eye catching, desired, lusted after.

And I still had my food.

“Penny,” my manager says. “You ready?”

I snap out of my thoughts of the old days.

“Yup. Let me just get some powder.”

The make up artist dabs my face with a brush. I’m on the set of my fourth workout video. Somehow I worked my way up to being a health guru.

“Look at those abs! Look at those buns! Arms, legs, chest…all perfect! Somebody make a statue out of this woman!” That’s what’s on the cover of my first video.

“Even you can get a firm bikini body.” My voice in the video plays over pictures of me in a skimpy bathing suit, flirting with guys on the beach. Then it moves to a picture of me from high school. “If I can turn things around, so can you!”

My manager says I’m building an empire. My name’s on books that I didn’t write, protein bars I didn’t cook up, special workouts I didn’t invent.

“Penny, on set,” the director calls through his mega phone.

I go through a routine, the camera filming every muscle flex and bead of sweat running down my face. My voice is steady through the whole exercise. Crunches, knee lifts, bicep curls, squats.

And the whole time, all I can think of is what I’m going to purge on when I get home. And how I’d throw it all up right away.

If the tabloids ever found out, they’d finish me. I’d get sued. My life would be over.

My dressing-room is chilly after such a workout. The sweat dries quickly on my skin.

“Hey, Pen.” My manager sticks his head in. “Got your fan mail.”

“Like, as in real mail?”

“Yeah. Crazy. Some people still use the old post office.”

“Okay.”

“You gotta read them out loud.”

“Great. So you can laugh at my creepy fans?”

There were two envelopes. I tore open the first.

“Dear Penny; I love you, blah, blah, blah. Marry me, have my children. We’d be perfect.” I threw it in the trash. “Seriously, weird.”

The second was in the handwriting of a younger person. A picture fell out of the envelope. The girl in the picture was overweight. Very overweight. She looked like I did when I was her age.

“What’s that picture?” my manager asked.

“It’s a girl.”

“Come on, let me see.”

“No.” I turned my back to him. “You need to let me read this one alone.”

“Alright.”

By myself, I unfold the paper.

“Dear Mrs. Penny;

I’m 12 years old. I sent you a picture so you could see what I look like. I’m sick of being fat like that.

I get made fun of every day. And they say it’s my fault ’cause I won’t stop eating. But when I try to stop, I feel like I’m going to die. Can you help me, please?

My mom says that you were big like me one time. How did you get so skinny? Can you teach me?  I just want to look like you, but I can’t figure it out. I’ll do anything.

Please write me back. Maybe, if you’re ever in Toledo, you could visit me.

Your very good friend,

Elenore Styne”

“Oh, Elenore,” I whisper. “You don’t even know how hard it is to keep all this up. It’s not worth it.”

The mirror in this room has lights all around it.

My reflection is the body of a fit, tanned, surgically altered woman.

I still can’t think of myself as anything but a fat kid.

Challenge Me

After the incredible popularity of the September Challenge (and the massive fun I had) I’ve decided to have another 2 months of challenge! December and January will be dedicated to short fiction…and all the ideas will come from you!

Here’s how it’s going to work this time:

1. You give me one character with a name and one characteristic

2. You give me one setting

3. You give me one (yes, only one very specific) conflict

I’m only accepting 26 story ideas. So, act fast to make sure you’re one of the first ones to submit an idea! I’ll post stories Monday, Wednesday and Friday of each week.

There will be a winner for each week. The finalists from each week will go on to the semi-finals at the end of each month. Both semi-finalists (one for January, one for December) will win a journal made by Love Calcutta Arts (I’ll purchase this from Better Way Imports)…

Pick between red and black (pen not included...sorry)

 

Then the semi-finalists will go head to head in a final vote that will be held the beginning of February. The Ultimate, Super Cool winner will be awarded with a bag from Freeset (also purchased from Better Way Imports)…

 

 

So…put your idea in the comment section. Remember, keep it simple and get ready for some fun in December!

 

Buried — From My Archives

MISTY

I found an old picture of my dad today. It was taken about four months after he married my mom and ten years before it all crashed down on him. He smiled, looking at someone. Who? I couldn’t tell you. But my dad smiled anyhow. It wasn’t  forced or dull. It was a deep, flowing from joy smile.

I never saw that smile on his face a day in my life. No, by the time I was born he was different. In my younger years, all I saw of the man was nervous pacing when he’d get home from work late at night. And gulping of coffee first thing in the morning before he rushed back to the office. Always moving, always going. Never smiling. Not a laugh from him.

“I do it all to take care of you,” he’d say. “Hard work for a man to raise five kids, you know.”

The man in the picture I found would never have said that. That man would have skipped out of work for a soccer game or a dance recital. He would have driven us to school in the morning.

“No telephone calls during dinner,” the man in the picture would have said. That man would always be at dinner, asking us how we were doing in math. What game we played during gym.

When I was eight years old, my dad, the real one, cracked. Something snapped in his brain. He woke up one day and couldn’t leave the house. Not at all. Then a few years after that he couldn’t move from his bedroom. Eventually, he got stuck in his bed. He only got up to use the commode that my mom placed in the corner.

“Don’t come in,” he said to me. “You can’t come in this room. It’s not clean in here. You’ll get sick. Just like me.”

“What will make me sick, daddy?” I asked.

“Everything. It’s all contaminated. If you come in here I’m going to die and you’re going to die, too. Just stay out.”

He would tap things, squint his eyes, mutter strange words. Always the same rhythm, the same phrases. It was like he tried to get everything right just in case.

“I’m just trying to keep you safe, Misty,” he’d said.

I was thirteen. I told everyone that my dad died. It was almost the truth.

The man in the picture would have frowned at me. He would have been sad about that. But my real dad was too lost in his fear to care.

“Hey, Misty,” my mom said one day. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“What do you want?” I asked, full of teenage attitude.

“Listen, honey, we need to talk about your daddy.”

“I don’t want to.”

She sat at the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

I obeyed her. I hated to obey her. But it was either that or have her follow me into my room, which I hated even more.

“Misty, your teacher asked how we were functioning after your father’s passing.”

I snorted, pretending to think it was funny. Nothing about it was comical, I knew that. But something inside me had to brush everything off. “Whatever, mom.”

“Honey, you know that your daddy’s not dead.” She turned toward her bedroom door. “He’s right in there.”

“He’s as good as dead, mom.”

Her head made a thick thudding sound as it hit the table. She sobbed, drool and snot puddling under her mouth and nose. Loud gasps for air and groans poured out of her. She pounded her fists on her thighs.

“I just can’t live like this anymore!” she screamed. “Why does he have to be like this?”

All I could think of was to put my arms around her. It was strange to play the role of nurturer to her. But something about it was nice, too.

A week later my dad was moved to the State mental hospital. He screamed when they put him on the stretcher. They jammed a needle in his arm to calm him down. But he still knew that he was being taken away. He looked right at me.

“Please, please, please,” he cried.

All I could do was watch him go away. They hefted him into the ambulance and slammed the doors shut. No siren. No lights. No emergency. Just getting rid of what we could no longer bare to look at.

It was the last time I saw him.

The man in the old picture wouldn’t have begged. Would never have cried. He’d never been in that situation because he was smiling. When I tell people about my dad, I’ll just show them that old picture. Tell them he was a good guy. He never hurt anyone.

He started calling me. Leaving messages on my voicemail. Writing letters that I’ve never opened. They’re all in a box under my bed. He passed away from my life so long ago. Buried in that institution. Why couldn’t the dead just stay dead?

His letters jarred me. Still, at my age. With a good, grown up lady job and an apartment.

He wanted to see me. Needed me to come visit him. There was no way I was going to do that.

LEON

I gotta tap the table three times with the knuckles of my right hand every time I walk past. Flip the light switch on and off, on and off until I get it just right. Check the locks on windows, doors, windows, doors. Check again. I’m sure I missed one. Tap, tap, tap on the table. Do it again. I did it wrong. Tap, tap, tap. Check the locks one more time. If it isn’t right then the world will end and it will all be my fault.

I’m just sure of that.

“Leon? Are you still messin’ around in there?” Stella asks. “It’s time for breakfast.”

“Yeah, I’m comin’,” I answer.

But it ain’t all that easy. I got a couple more of my rituals to do before anybody can see me. It’s exhaustin’. But I don’t want nothin’ bad to happen to nobody.

I been doin’ this all my life. When I was a little boy I seen somethin’ that scared me so bad. It wasn’t good and I hate to talk about it. But it done me in. Ain’t never stopped bein’ afraid ever since. My mother used to call me “The Cowardly Leon”.  It made me hate her so bad.

One thing I learned quick when I was a boy, though, was that I could stop my fear. I’d walk back and forth through the hallway, tapping the wall every time my right foot hit the ground. When I did it perfect, I was fine. But I had to do it over and over till I got it right.

“Leon, you gonna wear that carpet from all that pacin’. Quit it out!” my mother would holler at me. “You drivin’ me batty, boy.”

But it worked. Every month or so I’d add somethin’. Didn’t nobody notice a lot of them. Like when I’d touch my nose before taking a bite or blinkin’ my eyes three times. Blink, blink, blink. Every single one of them rituals kept me safe. If I did them, I felt okay. Skip one and the world was upside down.

It just kept gettin’ worse and worse, though. The older I got the more people seen what I was doin’. They’d ask me what the heck I was doin’. Stare at me. Talk about me when they thought I wasn’t listening.

Then that last day, the day I knew I couldn’t never go back to work. It was bad. Somethin’ in my head snapped. Or somethin’ like that. None of my tappin’ or blinkin’ would make the panic go away. All I remember was holdin’ up in the men’s room, waitin’ for everybody to go for the day. I got home late that night and never went back.

“Leon!” Stella’s yellin’ now. “I ain’t holdin’ breakfast for you one more minute.”

I’m livin’ in a group home. They’re nice to me. Everybody else who lives here got quirks of their own. So, nobody looks at me sideways or nothin’. I like it. Just wish my Misty would come see me.

The other three been over. Barbara, Les and Renee. They seen my room. Don’t think they understand me or why I act like I do. But at least they come once in awhile. Not Misty, though. I guess it been hardest on her. That’s what the other three say. She took care of them while their mother had to work.

It’s a terrible thing to feel like you ain’t been forgiven for somethin’ you didn’t control in the first place. But she don’t know that. All she knows is that I failed her.

I gotta check the locks one more time.

MISTY

My sister Barb sits across the table from me. She invited me out, let me pick the place, said she’d buy. I should have known something was up. She’s giving me that look. The “I’m going to talk to you about dad and you have to listen or I’ll storm out and you’ll have to pay the bill” look.

“Dad said he’s been trying to get a hold of you,” she said, shoving a huge forkful of lettuce into her mouth.

“You know, Barb, you can cut up the lettuce a little before you take a bite.” I sip my tea.

“Don’t try to assert your role as the elder sister, Misty.”

“Don’t use your psycho-babble against me.”

“You’re changing the subject anyway.” She wipes her mouth. “Dad would like to see you.”

“I know that.”

“So, you’ve read his letters?”

“No. I’m just guessing that’s what he wants. But I’m not going.”

“He can’t help it, you know. He has OCD. He was born that way.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” I put the napkin on my plate. There’s no way I can eat through this conversation.

“Huh,” her voice is sarcasm thick. “I guess I’m just dumb and have no idea how mental illness works. Too bad I wasted 8 years in school getting my psychology degree. Thanks for the lesson.”

The waiter comes by, refills our water. We’re quiet for another minute after he leaves.

“Misty, I’m sorry. This isn’t the best way to persuade you, I suppose.”

“Barb, I just don’t want to see him. I don’t. It’s not going to change.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“It’s not that I hate him.” I have to get a breath of air. “I’m not up to starting a relationship with him. You know, going to visit, phone calls. It’s just all so exhausting.”

“Did you know that when he was a little boy he watched his friend die?” Her tone is sharp, accusing.

“No. I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t. You didn’t bother to read the letters.”

“What happened to his friend?”

“Well, Misty, you really need to go read those letters.” Picking up the bill, she says, “I love you. Go see dad.”

“I read them,” I say into the phone. “All 25 of them.”

“And,” Barb says back. “What did you think?”

“What did I think? I think he’s really messed up. That’s what I think.”

“Did you read the thing about his best friend?”

“Yeah. He hid in a closet and watched his best friend get beaten to death or something.”

“You are so calloused.”

“Well, how do we even know that actually happened? What if he’s making it up.”

She’s quiet. Then a sigh. And another sigh.

“What? Barb, do you seriously believe him?” Silence. “Okay, in your professional opinion, could something like that cause a person to be crazy?”

“We don’t use the word crazy.”

“Okay, okay. Could it make them struggle with mental things?”

“Yes. It could contribute to his obsessions. Listen, I have to go. I have an early appointment.”

I don’t say anything. She fills in the silence.

“Just forgive him, Misty. You’re the one it’s tearing up. Stop being a bitter mess and go see him.”

She hangs up.

She’s right. I’m a mess. Have been as long as I remember. I’m an adult now. It’s time for me to stop blaming him for everything bad that has ever happened. I’m a mess because I won’t let it go. For some reason it feels right to be angry with him.

But he saw his best friend killed. He was just a little boy, hiding. He couldn’t scream or fight back against that man who murdered his friend. All he could do was watch. How unbelievably awful.

And I’ve blamed him.

It’s time to make things right.

CONCLUSION

Leon sat in his room. The sun landed, warm, on his bed. He held his hands together, so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. He was holding back from compulsing.

Ain’t gonna tap, he thought. Gonna stop doin’ that. All’s I got is some nervousness. It’ll go away if I wait a minute.

His therapist had been working with him, teaching Leon that anxiety wouldn’t kill him. It was just uncomfortable. His body shook, sweat collected on his forehead and upper lip. He even concentrated on holding his eyes still. The blinking could become a ritual, too.

After ten minutes his anxiety lessened until it dropped off completely. Now his body shook from joy, from victory. He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Well, what do ya’ know. I done it.

For a short moment he entertained the thought that if he could only beat his disorder, then maybe Misty would accept him as her father. He swiped that idea away, trying to keep himself from hoping.

He walked past the table, the light switch, the door lock. The urge to tap, flip on and off and check overtook him. His brain told him that bad things would happen if he didn’t submit to his compulsion.

Alls it is is uncomfortable. It’ll pass. It can’t hurt me. He reminded himself of the therapist’s words and walked out of his room, feeling strong.

The kitchen was full of the rich smell of coffee. He poured himself a mug-full and drank it, black.

“Hey, Leon!” yelled Stella. “Where is ya?”

“I’m in the kitchen,” he answered.

“Somebody’s here to see ya’.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

He couldn’t think of who it would be. His kids, the three that visited, would have called first. The therapist only came on certain days. There would have been no one else.

The collar of his flannel shirt was tucked into itself. His jeans were far too baggy. Bristly whiskers dotted his chin. These were the things that never occurred to him unless someone came to visit. There was no time to fix them.

I’m such a pig, he thought. Ain’t no thing. It’ll be fine.

He walked into the living room. A woman sat in a chair, looking out the window. Her hair was blonde. Not white blonde or golden blonde. More of an ash blonde. It reminded Leon of his ex-wife’s hair. She turned and looked at him.

“Hello. I’m Leon,” he said. “Do you want to shake hands with me?”

“Sure,” she said, taking his hand. “How are you?”

“I’m pretty darn good. How about you?”

“I’m well.”

A silence thickened between them. She looked right at him, into his eyes. He couldn’t bare to connect.

“Can I get you a cold glass of water?” he asked.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“We keep the water in the fridge all the time. Keeps it nice and chilly.” Anxiety spread from his sternum to his arms, legs, head. It was getting harder for him to breathe. “I can get some. It’ll just take a second.”

“No, thanks.” She stood. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just a little nervous.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Misty, dad.”

“Misty? My little girl?” His nerves released a little, relieving him a small bit.

“Well, I’m not a little girl anymore.” She smiled.

“I thought you weren’t never gonna come. You never wrote me back.”

“That wasn’t very nice, was it?”

“Sit down. You wanna talk for a few minutes?”

She sat. They talked. Leon, about his therapy and the others who lived in the home. Misty, about her job. Every few minutes he tapped on his knee, but it wasn’t extreme. Just a small tap. Perhaps more out of a force of habit than anxiety.

“Goll, Misty, I ain’t see you in so long. You’re all growed up now.”

“I know. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to come see you.”

“That’s okay. Ain’t such a fun place to visit.” He sniffed. “Sure is better’n the mental hospital, though.”

“It was wrong of us to put you there.”

“Naw. It was all your mother could do. I never made things easy on her, you know.”

She sighed. Looked at the floor.

“Listen, I need to apologize…”

“Nope,” he interrupted. “Don’t think you gotta do that.”

“I do, dad.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have ignored you.”

“Well, I wasn’t the kind of dad you kids needed anyhow.”

“Anyway, I need you to know that I do love you.”

Leon’s eyes turned red. He had no control over the tears. A quiet sniffle turned into a gasping cry.

“I’m sorry, you ain’t gotta look at a old man doin’ this,” he said, embarrassed by his emotion.

“It’s okay, dad.”

“You done made me too happy. Ain’t used to such a happy feeling.” Leon looked at his daughter, a long, wide, deep smile across his face. His eyes crinkled at the corners, forehead wrinkled.

“That’s the smile, dad.”

“What?”

“That’s really you, isn’t it? That’s really your smile.”

He laughed, not expecting the goodness of her hug.

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