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.

Two minutes thirty four

Brittany Taylor

Melbourne,Australia

GMT + 10

Local time Tuesday3:53pm

…except Mrs Fitzpatrick is always nicer to Penny than she is to me. It’s because Penny has perfect pigtails and is…does this pencil need sharpening? Legs crossed…uncrossed…

oh, it’s Tuesday…Mum said I could watch that new show after school if I get my homework finished on time, with that girl detective on it…that circle becomes a swirl becomes a flower with leaves that weave in through the margin…

When I’m eleven me and Penny are going to start our own detective agency, and then we’ll get so famous that Justin Bieber will come to us when his money gets stolen and the police can’t find it…legs crossed…

Except Justin will like me better than Penny because…

what is seven times nine, I can’t remember…colour in that flower …why will he like me better?

is that meant to be a six?…oh eleven is so ages away…wish I could just click my fingers and bam! It’s the future!…because then I’ll have much longer hair than her…

If Mum won’t let me be a detective I’ll be a ballerina…

Precious Mgabana

Dar Es Salaam,Tanzania

GMT + 3

Local time Tuesday7:53am

…yelling because I can see his mouth move in big, slow streaks across his face but there is so much noise…get that boy off my peppers… chicken squawks in my ear hope it sells soon, some tasty fried chicken is good for market day…yes that is my eggfruit, grows in my garden, very good, I give good price…

aaaiiiieee…these whitefolk they hold their noses and wrap their faces…come, taste my bungo fruit, it is good, yes?…

…the mouths are moving again…Mzumbe’s boy has his bongo today…wears his American cap the wrong way on his head thinks he looks so important…

Akili is smiling like her face is carved…what she hold?…where you get that money…aaaiii…they like the good chicken…my girl is clever at market…you go, go find Andwele…

that girl…she dream of going to university in Johannesburg when she is old enough…like I used to dream when I was her age…I don’t tell her yet that every day is the same in Africa…there is no tomorrow but for next market day…

Elaine Paterson

London,England

GMT (0)

Local time Tuesday4:53am

…why watches and me don’t go together. How many have I had in the last few years that stopped working…more hot water…where’s that new shampoo bottle?…

Jim says he simply can’t drive me in so early…is that enough… lather…rinse…oh God did I call and arrange the taxi last night or did I decide to do it this morning…why did I buy that conditioner it always makes my hair fluffy and today of all days I just don’t have time…lather…comb…I didn’t. I made a cup of chamomile and went to bed…oh HECK…rinse…quick…

if I miss that plane…water off…oh blast that sticking door slider, why hasn’t Jim fixed that yet…towel…quick…underpants…well I just can’t miss it, that’d be my job gone and then how would we live…hairdryer…lipstick on…shoes on…is that the taxi beeping…no…he doesn’t understand there are still bills to pay and we’ve still got that second mortgage…did I put those documents in my bag already?…

it’s not like I can simply step into another job at my age, and after all I’ve invested in the company…Jim’s just going to have to miss his morning coffee…

I mean it’s not as if I enjoy getting up before dawn really, just to go to a conference…but in this day and age we live…

Shirley Long

Boston,USA

GMT – 5

Local time Monday11:53pm

…but really it was too late to talk…breathe in…out…

Stephanie said she’s coming in the morning…baby girl, all grown up…

my first grandchild… breathe in…She married a man…

a mathematician. Eric, that’s his name.

He kept talking about the hours we spend, counting down my years in days…breathe out…and minutes

so many. Too many to count any more, I don’t want to know…

Funny…for the young that bank of hours seems so much less precious. Minutes and whole days consumed like saltine crackers, eaten up without thinking…breathe in…

Lord…teach them to number their days wisely…breathe out…

I see it all so much more clearly now that it’s nearly gone. No pain now…no movement…breathe in…

All I have left is these two things, and soon – soon please Lord – time will be gone…breathe out…breathe in…and prayer…oh to see you face to face at last…will be no longer needed…

This story by Robert Meyer was inspired by my story Not The End (which was also posted today from my archives). 

The End

Misty walked among the shelves of books. She was overwhelmed. So many different books. The store was huge.

“Can I help you?” asked the cute, skinny girl behind the customer service counter. Her lips smiled, but not her eyes.

“Um. Yes. I’m looking for a book,” Misty said.

“Right.”

“Well, I guess I don’t know which one, exactly.”

“Okay. Are you looking for fiction or non-fiction?”

“I guess non-fiction. Something about…well…weight loss.”

“Sure.” The girl typed something into a computer. “This way.”

She led her through the rows, more quickly than Misty could move. She eventually caught up, trying to catch her breath without gasping.

“Here’s the weight management books,” the girl said. “Do you need anything else?”

“Yeah. A cookie.”

The girl laughed, put her hand gently on Misty’s shoulder. “You’re too funny. Have a nice day.”

Misty was alone, trying to figure out which celebrity had the best diet plan. No flour. No sugar. No carbs. No meat. No coffee.

Maybe I’ll just have to stop eating all together, she thought.

Her cell phone rang.

“Hello, Heather.”

“Hey, Mom. What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing.” She took a book off the shelf. On the cover were the bronzed abs of a young woman. “Hey, what do you think of joining a gym with me?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of expensive.”

“You’re right.”

“So, did you and Dad get things figured out?”

“What do you mean?” The book was full of pictures. Women laying on their backs, elbows pointing at knees in a crunch, faces radiant with smiles.

“You guys were fighting all night.”

“Oh, honey, it was nothing. You know.”

Heather was so quiet on the phone that Misty thought it cut out. “Heather? You still there?”

“Yes.” She sniffled. “I’m here.”

“Are you crying?”

“Maybe.”

“Hon, we’ll get it all worked out. I promise.”

“I heard him talking about that woman.”

“Oh.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

The women in the book were perfect. Perfect legs, abs, boobs, smiles. Misty was not. Legs striped by purple veins. Stomach slack and full from three pregnancies and years of secret eating. Boobs…well…they needed a whole lot more support than they used to. Her smile. What smile?

“Is he going to lose his job?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good. I hope he does.”

“Heather.”

“What?”

“This is going to be harder on him than on me.”

“Whatever, Mom.”

“Listen, I have to go. I’ll bring home some burgers and we’ll talk some more.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Heather.”

“I know.”

Misty hung up the phone.

She realized that she’d lost her husband. To another woman. A woman who was 20 years younger. Who was thinner and prettier and sweeter. That woman dressed and put on make up and did her hair so much better than Misty.

“You’ve really let yourself go,” he’d said the night before. “I just can’t be attracted to you anymore. Lord knows I’ve tried, Misty.”

“Just tell me what I have to do,” she said to him. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Become just like her.”

The memory of his words stabbed her heart all over again.

“You know you can’t be a pastor anymore if you leave me.”

“Don’t threaten me. You’re always doing that.”

“No, I’m not.”

He raged at her. Screamed about her flaws, her mistakes in life, her occasional selfish moments. She hadn’t cried. She just sat there, in shock.

Then he left.

“Have you found what you needed?” the customer service girl asked. “I could recommend one if you’d like.”

“No. But thanks. I think I’m okay.”

“Okay.” The girl lingered. “Hey, I hope this isn’t weird or anything. But, you have the prettiest eyes.”

“Oh, thank you.” Misty lowered her glance.

“I’m serious. You really do. They’re kind eyes.”

Misty smiled. Her heart warmed a small bit.

“You have no idea how I needed to hear that.”

“Well, I hope you have a nice day.”

I won’t, Misty thought. But it’s not the end of the world.

I love photography. And I’ve saved the best of the best from Krow Photography (at least my favorite pieces). Enjoy!

Can you take a gander at why these are 3 of my favorites? Stay tuned…next week there will be three more of my favorites.

There’s nothing like being on stage. Bright lights. Loud music. Cheering fans. All eyes on me. And they love me. They really do. No matter what I do or say, they can’t get enough of me.

I started singing when I was about 10 years old. Just little church plays and school talent shows. You know the kind. Where all the kids sing off tune or dance like a decapitated chicken or do a magic trick that totally fails. And even then the parents fall all over themselves to get the moment of video. They all think their little darling is the best.

“I’ve gotta get her in singing lessons,” they tell the person next to them. “She’s a star in the making.”

But they’re always wrong. Their kid ends up thinking they’re great, a huge talent. Then the first person who tells them the truth, that they suck, well, that breaks their little tone deaf, two left-footed hearts.

I had real talent, though. When I’d sing the room had a hush about it. Not just because they were listening. No. It was because they were holding their breath. My voice was smooth, clear, ethereal. Even then I knew I was a phenomenon. Nobody had to tell me that. They did anyway.

“Oh, Fiona,” they’d say. “You just have the most natural talent. You’re gonna be a star.”

“I know that,” I’d say. I was a cheeky little brat. It didn’t matter. They still wanted to hear me sing.

My mom entered me into a bunch of talent contests. I only lost once. The winner had a blazing baton. There’s no competing with that. But my mom fought to have the rules changed. No more fire. I didn’t lose again.

My voice started bringing in some big prizes. Well, first, all I’d win were watermelons and year-long memberships to the YMCA. But after a little bit there were cash awards for the top three finishers.

When my mom started cashing those checks she really started to believe in me.

Talent scouts would show up to the contests. They offered me representation. Promised gigs. Swore they’d make me famous.

“You ain’t nothin’ but small time,” my mom said, cigarette hanging from her lips. “We’re holdin’ out for the big time. And you ain’t got it.”

She’d look at me. Right in front of them, she’d rip them apart.

“You see, Fiona, them ain’t gonna get nobody no where. Wanna know how I can tell?”

I’d smirk at them. “Yup. I want to know.”

“That jacket he got on. It don’t match the pants. Man that can’t buy a whole suit ain’t gonna get anybody anywhere. See that weddin’ ring? He ain’t got time for what you need to get big. And that wad of chewing tobacco in his lip. Well, that ain’t nothin’ but a dirty habit. Ain’t no production company gonna talk to a man spittin’ in a beer bottle during castings.”

We’d walk away. It was always important that we left them standing, feeling like fools.

“Honey, we’ll do better if we just stick with each other for now. Can’t never trust no man neither. That’s somethin’ you gotta remember every day of your life.”

We waited. Got a couple gigs singing at county fairs. She even arranged for me to sing the National Anthem before  minor league baseball games.

“Just keep plucking along, Fiona. It’s gonna happen one of these days.” My mom would make sure of that.

And one day we were approached. Not by some no count talent scout with a toupee and a polyester suit. This time it was a producer in a three piece suit and shiny shoes. He wanted me to audition for a show. On television. There would be a preteen audience, plenty of chances to sing and a few skits here and there. And, by the way, could I manage to act? Of course. I was never truly me. It was all an act.

My mom got me a new dress, painted my nails, curled my hair.

“The trick is to look like the part they have in mind. That way they’ll see you as the character before any words come out of your mouth.” She handed me a bubble gum pink dress. “Now, act perky.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” I said. My attitude was always a little sullen.

“Just act like you had too much sugar or soda or something. Pretend you’re a cheerleader.”

I did what she told me. The pink dress, bobbing curly hair and spunky behavior won me the role. We packed up everything we had, which wasn’t much. Just a double-wide full of clothes and shoes. The network paid for our flight to California. When we got there they’d bought a condo for us.

“Nothing but the best for our new little star,” the producer said, pinching my cheek.

I knew, right then, that this wasn’t going to be as much fun as I’d hoped.

But my mom cashed the checks and started spending the money. She wasn’t about to let me quit.

The first thing they did was to dye my hair. I went from chestnut brown to golden, caramel blonde.

“The kids love a blonde,” my mom said, schmoozing the producer.

Next, was my name.

“There’s already a singer named Fiona,” the producer told us. “And she doesn’t have the clean reputation that we need for our network.”

“I’m not changing my name,” I said. “Screw that.”

“Well. That’s some pretty adult language for a 12 year old, isn’t it?” The producer laughed nervously. “That’s not something that you’re going to say out in public. It’s in your contract to keep up a good image in your personal life.”

“Trust me, I’ll make sure she’s squeaky clean. You don’t need to worry about that. ” my mom said. “What should we change her name to?”

My professional name was changed to Birdie Leigh.

“Get it? Like a Song Bird.” The producer smiled. I could tell he had those teeth whitened. So white they were almost blue. “It’ll be great. The kids will love it.”

And so, I changed from Fiona Bern to Birdie Leigh. I went from sweatshirts and jeans to all pink, all the time. They even went so far as to get blue contacts to cover the green of my irises.

The show was an instant success. Think Saturday Night Live for the preteen crowd. Sketch comedy, guest performances, me singing and dancing and charming the socks off America. They loved me. And I, in turn, began hating them. It was for them, the fans, that I had to live this life. I couldn’t go anywhere without being mobbed by screaming kids or flashing cameras.

But my mom couldn’t get enough of the money. So I kept playing the blonde haired, blue eyed circus monkey.

It was too fast a life. Photo shoots, promotional engagements, filming of episodes, recording songs, mall appearances. Sleep in the hair and make-up chair. Sleep in the dressing room. Catch a nap on the bus or the plane. And there were no summers off. Summer was when movies were made. Birdie Leigh did a movie a year. Sometimes two.

Live performances, awards shows, talk shows.

“Flirt it up with them hosts on the late shows,” my mom said. “But not so much they think you’re loose. Naw. Just enough to flatter them. Make they think you got a school-girl crush on them. At least pretend to be innocent.”

I made it six years on “The Birdie Leigh Show”. Only 10 shows to film. Then I’d be free. The ad spots for the finale were ridiculous. “We watched her grow up. Now we have to let her fly into adulthood.”

I’m not kidding you. That was the producer’s idea. You should have seen the tears in his eyes when he told us about it. It made me want to kick him in the face.

“Isn’t that beautiful?” he asked.

“I can’t wait for this show to die,” I said. “Then I can just go on with my life. I want to be Fiona again.”

“But, Birdie,” my mom said. Even she couldn’t remember who I was before. “America don’t know you as Fiona. We gotta keep up this image or else you ain’t gonna get work around here.”

All I could think of was how to dye my hair back to dark brown, throw out the stupid contacts and return to being Fiona. Oh. And sleep. The thought of sleep depressed me. How long since I’d slept in my bed? I couldn’t remember.

We finished filming the show. The finale was huge. An hour of me pretending that I was heartbroken. They showed clips from the 6 years. I was supposed to tear up. It was actually written into the script. I seriously considered vomiting when the rest of the cast saying “Wind Beneath My Wings” to me.

“Fly, fly, fly, Birdie! We’ll watch you fly so high!” they sang. Awful.

The after party was packed with celebrities. And, of course, everything was pink. No alcohol, but there sure was a lot of pink lemonade. The CD I released a month before blasted through the sound system. It was one of the worst collections of music ever made. A mish mash of styles, none of which I liked to sing. Music mass produced just to sell, sell, sell. And it did.

Everyone at the party was falling over themselves to talk to me. Tell me how great I was. How much they’d miss my show.

A man approached me. He had a suit even nicer than the producer’s. His teeth, somehow whiter.

“We’d like to make you an offer,” he said into my ear, pushing his card into my hand. “We can take Birdie Leigh to new heights. Call me.”

Then a woman came to me. “You’re going to need some serious representation,” she said. “I’ll fight for more money, more fame for Birdie Leigh.”

The room got really hot, started spinning a little. Agents and producers and directors came to me, one by one. But, no, not to me. To Birdie Leigh. Nobody wanted Fiona Bern, that brooding girl with the pretty voice. They only wanted Birdie Leigh, that bubbly girl with the winning smile.

I realized talent had nothing to do with it. How did it take that long for me to realize it?

The last person to approach me was a girl, about a year or two older than me. I recognized her from somewhere. But couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Hey,” she said. “I know what you’re going through. Seriously.”

“Yeah?” I said. “What would you know about it?”

“Remember Ramona Rae?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure I do. The tap dancing show, right?”

“Yup. That was me.”

“Hey, nice to meet you, Ramona. I miss watching your show.”

She smiled. But it wasn’t a happy or kind smile. More of a sneering smile. “Yeah. It got cancelled. Something about my public image being ruined when I got a tattoo.”

“That’s too bad.” But was it bad? She was still around, going to parties.

“Listen, I know it’s hard to live out here. Why don’t you come with me and my friends after this party cools off. We’ll have some real fun.”

“I’ll have to ask…”

“You don’t have to ask anybody, Fiona.”

She used my real name. I would have followed her anywhere.

“Just meet us outside in half an hour. We’ve got a party bus.” She slipped a small bag into my hand. “Until then, this’ll help you get through the rest of this.”

“What is it?”

“Just a little hyper pill. Don’t worry, it’s totally safe. Take it with a little lemonade. It’ll make the rest of this party go faster.”

She was right. I giggled and tripped my way through the rest of the party. Half an hour later I walked out and into a bus full of people. All around my age. They passed around drinks. They passed around a joint. I didn’t refuse.

And someone flashed pictures all evening long.

I didn’t know what I was doing. Still couldn’t tell you what happened that night. There are fuzzy bits of memory.

But I woke up at home the next morning, still in my clothes, with a bloody knee and throbbing head.

The phone rang. It was the producer.

“Birdie, what did you do?” he asked. No, yelled.

“Chill out. Seriously.”

“All that we worked for, Birdie. It’s all gone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Get to my office. I’ll send a car.”

“I just woke up.”

“Oh, I’m sure. You didn’t happen to check the news yet, did you?”

“No. Why?”

“We have a problem.”

My mom and I rode in the car that the producer sent. She was quiet. I was hung over. The driver had to pull over twice so I could barf on the pavement.

“You just had to go and be stupid, didn’t you, Birdie?” my mom asked.

“My name’s Fiona.” I believe I followed that up with some unkind, out of contract words. It no longer mattered.

The producer sat behind a huge desk. It felt like I was walking into the principal’s office at school. He was full of disappointing glares and shaking of head.

“You’re finished,” he said. No flash of white teeth. His lips were drawn tight across them. “We won’t be airing the last season. Security will escort you out.”

They nearly had to carry my mom out. She kicked, screamed, spat. It was humiliating. And, of course, the cameras caught the whole thing.

“You’ve ruined everything!” she screamed at me. “You have destroyed my life. I’m done with you. Don’t come back to the condo.”

“Right. Fine with me,” I said. She didn’t realize that the condo still belonged to the network. They’d be kicking her out within hours.

She’d be fine, though. She had all my money. Every single penny. I had to get some work.

My mom went one way down the sidewalk and I the opposite direction.

My cell phone rang.  I didn’t know if I should answer it. But I was 18. I always had to answer the phone.

“Hey, Fiona. It’s Ramona.”

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, man. I am so sorry. Somebody stole my camera and put those pictures up.”

“Whatever.” I tried to act relaxed. “Listen, my show just got dropped and I’m kicked out of my house. You know of a place I can hang out for awhile?”

“Sure. Come over here. I’ve got lots of room.”

Ramona had her own loft. My mom had my things delivered there and agreed to pay my part of the rent.

I found an agent. She got me a few parts in movies and connected me with a recording studio. I made a few albums, but it still wasn’t my kind of music. Those songs required a lot of grinding in the videos, if you know what I mean. All day I’d work, building up my career again.

And all night I’d party. At first it was just alcohol and pot. Nothing serious. There were a few mornings when I wasn’t sure what happened the night before. It was okay. Ramona and I were watching out for each other.

As for being under-aged – well, that word doesn’t exist for young stars like myself. The velvet ropes opened to me wherever I went. But the paparazzi followed closely. My agent said it would be good exposure.

“Any press is good press, Birdie,” she’d said.  Yup. Still Birdie Leigh. Nobody would have hired me under a different name. They wouldn’t have known who I was. I hated it when my mom was right.

One night Ramona and I decided to have a quiet party. Just a few friends getting smashed at our house. There was a new guy there. One I’d never met before. He wouldn’t leave me alone. I kind of liked the attention. Late in the evening he pulled a kit out of his pocket.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You never seen this?” He laughed. “Guess Birdie Leigh’s a little sheltered, huh?”

“Seriously. What is that?”

“Aw, baby. It’s liquid gold. Can’t go a day without it.”

“What’s it like.” I was curious, but also scared. But I didn’t know how to use my brain yet. The smart girl would have run out right then. I, however, was very, very stupid.

“Hey, try this,” he said, offering me a needle. “You’ll never be the same.”

“I’m not sure. It’s not a good idea.”

“I swear, the needle’s clean.” He came closer. “Just try a little. I promise you’ll like it.”

Ramona called over from the other side of the room, “Fee, you should do it. It’ll be a good time.”

He put a rubber band around my arm, made my veins pop out. It wasn’t hard on my too-skinny arm. He drew out a little blood then pushed the liquid into me.

It felt like spinning, but dull, too. Then the world looked different. Everything seemed okay. And so very beautiful. It was as if I’d become part of the music. That I tripped along the notes. I sang. Who knows what I sang. But it felt good. Like honey from my lips.

I spent the next four years trying to get that high again. What you don’t know when you first shoot up is that that is the best high you’ll ever get. It won’t get better. But you still try and try and try to feel just like that. It keeps you up at night, makes you feel crazy. And then, after awhile, if you don’t use something, anything, you get horribly sick. I mean, frothing at the mouth, puke your guts out sick.

But when you’re young and you’ve got a couple platinum albums and a tour bus with your name on it, well, let’s just say certain things aren’t so hard to get. Most junkies have to scour the streets for money and to find their dealers. All I had to do was tell my assistant. She’d get it for me. How majorly messed up is that?

Rumors spread throughout the media pretty quickly that I was an addict. Not out of concern. Oh, no. The magazines only published the articles to make money. They got the worst pictures possible of me. And America just ate it up. They mocked me, condemned me, turned the eyes of their children away from the television when I was on the screen.

“She’s gonna die a early death,” my mom said in an interview, faking the tears. “All’s I gotta say is that it’s what’s comin’ to her.”

That was my mother. Keeping it classy.

I became the stumbling, tortured artist. The one who had incredible talent but pissed it away on drugs. Birdie Leigh couldn’t perform like the old days. But it sure was entertaining.  Although I hated to admit it, I knew that they were right. It occurred to me that I was far gone when I looked in the mirror.

Red, puffy track marks down my forearms. I didn’t even try to hide them anymore. Vacant look in my eyes. Skeleton for a body.

And yet I still sang to sold out crowds. My albums kept selling. But what they didn’t know was that I didn’t give two farts about the fame or the success. All I cared about was getting enough money to get my next fix.

But here’s the thing, I wasn’t a bad person. And even through the drugs I could feel heartache. Every time a tabloid slandered me, it was a cut. And I felt it.

The little secret that nobody wants to admit is this; addicts are people. Addicts struggle and fight their drugs. They despair because sometimes there is no family to help them. Some addicts don’t get an intervention. Because nobody cares enough about them to lend a hand.

It’s just easier to gossip about them. And so I kept using. Because nobody really had a vested interest in me living. The record company would make double album sales if I kicked off. My mother would get a book deal or even an after school special. Not to mention the talk show circuit. And the media wanted just one more fatality to prove their point. That drug abusers deserve death.

It just seemed easier to put more poison into my veins.

The first four years that I used heroin was all about feeling good, getting that high. The last three years were spent just trying to keep myself from coming down. It wasn’t a cheap habit. I still have no idea how much money I shot into my arm.

One morning I woke up. My bed felt like it was sideways, as if it was on the wall. As I became more and more aware I realized that I was sitting on the floor, my back against the wall. On the other side of the room from my bed. I must have passed out there. Why hadn’t anyone moved me back to my bed, I wondered.

“Hey!” I yelled. My memory was failing me. I couldn’t think of my assistant’s name. It must of been the drugs. I’d had the same assistant for years. “Hey! I need some help in here.”

She came in. There was no worry in her eyes, no alarm. She must have been used to me calling out to her. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah. Could you help me get to my bed? And get me my medicine?”

I’d called it that for the last few years. Medicine. I guess I was trying to fool her. Thought she didn’t really know what was in that syringe. She reached into the bedside table. Watching her hold the lighter under the bowl of the spoon, turning a solid into a liquid made my heart quicken. My body couldn’t wait to feel it go into my blood stream. She couldn’t have gotten it to me any faster.

“Where do you want it?” she asked, drawing the liquid into the syringe.

“My arm.” I slapped the skin on my forearm. “Get the band. I’m going to need some help with the veins.”

“Do you want to shoot it?”

“No. You can.”

She wrapped a leather belt around my bicep. No veins popped up.

“Try the other arm.” I held out my right hand. “You ever try a little of this?”

“No. This stuff’ll kill ya.” She looked up, shocked, realizing what she’d said.

“Don’t worry. I know it will. It’s okay.”

She tried different spots in my arms and legs. The veins were hard. They wouldn’t let the needle break through.

“Where else should I try?”

“Go for the vein in my neck. We haven’t done that one in awhile.”

We tried for hours. Nothing worked. I started getting sick. Sweat beaded on my skin. I felt like a crazy person. But, then again, that’s exactly what drugs will do. They turn a completely normal person insane.

“Can you drink it or something? Inject it under your tongue?”

“No. I don’t know. Just give me one of the rocks.”

I ate one. Anything to keep the edge off. It took almost an hour for it to do anything. And then it was just a buzz.

“Give me some more. I need something else.”

“Sorry. That was the last of it. I can go find some more.”

“No.” I stood up. My head felt empty and yet somehow heavy. I tripped and stumbled my way to the door. “I’ve got to get some air.”

Outside it was so cold. And bright. The sun beamed into my eyes. It felt like a nail being pounded into my brain.

“Birdie! Birdie Leigh!” The paparazzi were waiting for me. I should have known. “Birdie! Where’ve you been? You’ve been in there for a month.”

“Don’t take my picture!” I screamed. “No!”

The shutters of their cameras kept opening and closing. I could hear nothing but clicks and my fake name yelled over and over.

“I said no!” I pushed one of them down. “Don’t you dare!”

They kept taking pictures. Raping me with their intrusion into my life. I’d said ‘no’.

I fell. The concrete jarred my body. There was no more cushion on me. I was just lanky bones and flappy skin.

The photographers stood around me, capturing my bloody knees and my anguished face. Not one of them tried to help me. Not one asked if I was okay.

“She’s so high, she don’t know what’s goin’ on,” one of them said.

The others laughed. Mocked me. I felt like I was spinning. So fast. I barfed. They took more pictures.

“Hey, all you boys,” a voice called. “You stop. Leave that girl alone.”

A woman’s voice. Southern accent. Warm like fresh baked muffins.

“Now, just git away from her, hear? Let her be.”

“We’re just doing our job, ma’am,” one of the paparazzi said.

“No, you just tryin’ to make a couple thousand off a girl’s hardship. Not git. Or I’ll call the police.”

They walked away. Their cameras held plenty of marketable pictures. They’d done a good day’s worth of work. and all it cost was my dignity.

“Now, honey,” the woman said, kneeling down next to me. “Let’s go get us a cup of coffee, huh?”

How could I have refused? She lifted me to my feet. Wrapped her jacket around my waist. Apparently, I’d forgotten to dress before leaving the apartment. Fortunately my assistant always put me in a tank top.

“What’s your name, sugar?”

“Fiona.” I gulped. It felt like a lie. “What’s your name?”

“Miss Baker. Now, how about we have that cuppa in my apartment. Might be more comfortable. I promise, they are no cameras where I live.”

Her space was fresh. Like the country was brought right into the city. Yellows and creams and small touches of bright color comforted the eye.

“I love your apartment,” I said. “Who’s your designer?”

“Little old me. I can’t hardly abide the thought of hiring that out.” She poured me a cup of black coffee. “You coming down off’n something?”

She was direct. It made me respect her.

“Yeah. I ran out of my medicine.”

“Heroin?”

I nodded, sipping my coffee.

“What been so bad in your life that you aim to kill yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

My father killed himself when I was 3. My mom used me and threw me out. No one cared who I was. I hated myself. What else? Maybe that I ruined my life with one night of partying.

“How we gonna get you off that junk?”

“We? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Listen, sugar, you ain’t bad. You’re beautiful. And you’re talented. Don’t think I didn’t recognize you. But I knew that you weren’t no Birdie Leigh. You’re something far better than that.”

“I just don’t feel like I’m worth anything.” I started to cry. “All I’m good for is a morality lesson for kids. ‘Now, children, don’t do drugs or you’ll end up like that Birdie’.”

“Well, we can’t let you feel like that.”

She sat next to me on the couch. “You should have seen me 20 years ago.”

I turned toward her, folded my leg up under me.

“I went for crack back in those days.”

Could this sweet little lady have been telling me that she did cocaine? I couldn’t believe it.

“You’re surprise, I see you. I didn’t have no sense in those days. Just snorting and smoking and shooting up. It seemed like all there was in the whole world.”

“I feel that way,” I whispered. “All the time.”

“I know you do. But you can quit it. If you don’t you won’t live another year.”

“How? I don’t know what to do. I just love it too much.”

“I did, too. But I knew it had to be over. So, I quit.”

“How did you do it?”

“Jesus.”

At first I thought she was cussing. The only time I’d heard that name in my adult life was in a string of curse words. But she smiled. So warm, so gentle. I knew she was talking about the guy. That Jesus that I didn’t even know.

“I don’t know him.” It was embarrassing. A 27 year old not knowing who Jesus was. “I mean, I know he’s what they talk about at church.”

“Oh, sugar! It’s time to listen. First, I gotta pray that you can stay healthy enough to hear the Word.”

She told me all about Jesus. What He did for me. What He could do. She prayed over me, sang a song. Her voice was shaky, thick. But beautiful.

I still felt sick. My body ached and tugged  and screamed at me to get something to shoot into my blood. I shook, felt cold then hot then cold again. Mrs. Baker took me to the hospital. Then to a detox center. She stayed with me through it all.

It’s a year later. I’ve put on weight. Had to buy all new clothes. The paparazzi doesn’t care about me anymore. Now that I’m clean, I’m boring. I’ve been in the “worst body” section of the tabloids. It made me pretty proud.

A year of sobriety. A year of asking forgiveness. A year of mending bridges. Of changing my outlook. A whole year of Sundays and Wednesdays in church. Say what you will about Christians. They may have made some mistakes. But knowing about those errors made it a whole lot easier for me to know they’d accept me. But, careful, when you tear apart the Christians, you’re talking about me now.

That’s right. Born again Jesus Freak. It’s the only way I’ve made it this year. He’s the only way I’ll make it next year and the years after that.

There’s nothing like being on stage. My voice raising the praise for the mercy I found in Him.

There was a strong, almost-autumn wind. It upset the grand-kids’ play tent in the backyard, caused the crimson maple to wave furiously. There was a smell that was whipped up in the air. A warm, rich smell.

It made Lucille want to smoke on the deck.

She’d always thought that fall was the perfect season for smokers. Not too hot, not too cold. There was something comfortable about it. The smell of the leaves wilting on the ground, the slight chill in the air, the crisp sounds all around. Somewhere between her chest and her guts longed for just one cigarette. The urge was so strong.

But her only pack was over 6 years old. Hidden away in one of the decorative cookie jars atop the ledge in her kitchen. No one would care and no one would know if she had just one. The problem was, she didn’t know how terribly stale they might be after 6 years. And she’d have to climb on a chair to the counter-top and stand on her tippy toes to reach the cookie jar. It just didn’t seem worth it.

After she was dead and her kids were cleaning out the house, they’d find that old pack. Then, and only then, would they know her secret. She’d smoked for 40 some years without a single soul knowing. Well, except for the guy at the gas station outside of town. Not even Edgar knew. After 53 years of marriage and the man never knew.

Well, not 53 years of  ”wedding-in-a-church” marriage. More like “lived-together-so-long” it might as well be called a marriage. Everyone they knew just assumed they were married. Their parents had thought they’d eloped. Their kids never questioned it.

Somewhere around their 41st year together, they started going to church.

“Eddie, I think we need to be married,” she’d said to him after a Sunday evening service. The few kids that still lived at home were all in bed, yet she whispered anyway. “Don’t you think it’s the right thing to do?”

“Well, I guess so.” He’d looked at her like she had a second nose.

“But how? We can’t let the children know that we lived in sin.”

“Do they really have to know?”

“How else will we get married?”

Edgar had thought. Walked out of the room. Returned with something.

“Lu, I love you.” He got down on his knee. “Marry me.”

He slipped a key ring on her finger.

“Um, Edgar. How?”

“Right now.” He had bowed his head. “Lord, God. Uh. Can Lucille and me be married in Your Eyes? Can it work that way? Sorry for living with her out of wed-lock for so long. Amen.”

“Is that it?”

“I guess so.” His eyes had beamed into hers. “Hey, honey, could you help me up?”

“Goodness, you’re old!”

And that was it. Their long awaited wedding. In their bedroom among the unmade bed and overflowing hamper.

After all, where in the Holy Bible did it command a white dress and big, sugary cake? Lucille wouldn’t have felt right wearing white anyway. After giving birth to seven kids she was clearly no virgin. She could have gone for the cake, though.

“Sorry, wife. Can’t have a cake. No thanks to the diabetes for that,” Edgar had said. “How about some sugar free jello?”

“Sounds just fine, dear,” she’d said back.

“Just the two of us,” he had toasted, raising his dish of jello. “To many more years.”

Just the two of them. Lucille had felt a twinge of guilt at that. Even 12 years later, looking out the sliding door at the wind, she’d felt the guilt. It had been just the two of them. For so many years.

But not always. There was that one time. The time she’d failed him. But that was so long ago. In the late 1960′s. And that other man was dead. Killed in Viet Nam. And Edgar had never known.

She’d kept it from him to protect him. That way she bore the whole weight of the pain. But there were moments when she was sure he’d figure it all out. Justice, their oldest daughter, looked a whole lot like that other man. His green eyes, his strawberry colored hair. And not a lick like Edgar.

But Edgar had never said a word about it.

She couldn’t believe she’d let him go to his grave without telling him the truth. It upset her stomach. Brought her to tears. She had to put a hand on the glass of the door. Grief overcame her, putting her off balance.

A flash of lightning lit up the backyard. It was going to storm. It would be a big one.

Lucille hoped that it would all blow over before the morning. A soggy funeral would be miserable.

—

The night was dark. Full of rain and thunder and lightning. Electricity flickered on and off until a huge popping sound shut it off for the rest of the night. Lucille hadn’t collected candles or found a flashlight. She’d just sat in her dining room waiting for sunrise.

And it came.

In oranges and pinks and reds. Clouds split, fizzling into the sky. A rainbow spanned the atmosphere.

“Edgar would have loved this,” she said aloud. “How he loved the few moments after a storm.”

A key turned in the front door. Trudy walked in.

“Mom?” Trudy called.

“At the table,” Lucille answered. “Can you believe the storm?”

“Is your power out?”

“Yeah. Went out about 2:30 this morning.”

“How terrible.” Trudy looked at her mother. “You aren’t thinking about wearing your bathrobe to the funeral, are you?”

“The graveside is going to be a muddy mess.”

“Are you thinking you’ll wear black?”

“Hopefully, they’ll have all the mud covered.”

“Mother. We have to get you dressed. We’re supposed to be at the funeral home in less than half an hour.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” Lucille looked at her daughter. “I’m just not looking forward to it. You know, all my life I loved picking out what I’d wear.”

“I know, Mom.”

“But how am I going to pick out the right thing to wear today?”

“I’ll find something for you.”

“That would be perfect. Thank you.”

She stood, flipped on the coffee maker. Nothing happened. She remembered the storm knocking out the power.

“We’re going to have to stop on the way for coffee,” she yelled toward the ceiling, hoping Trudy heard her.

“No problem.”

She looked at the sink. White porcelain with chips that revealed some kind of black material. Edgar had installed that so many years ago. And the faucet. The back splash. Counter tops, flooring, windows, paint. Her Eddie had done all of it. He’d been so skilled and strong. There was nothing around the house he couldn’t fix or replace.

Except her. He never figured that out. But, then again, most of her damage he never knew about. But he’d tried. And she loved him for it. She only wished she’d been able to love him enough. She always knew he loved her more than she could have ever loved him.

“How about this one?” Trudy walked to Lucille, carrying a burgundy dress.

“Yes,” Lucille didn’t turn around. “That’s fine.”

“It’s the one you wore at your 50th anniversary party.”

Lucille couldn’t hold back a small chuckle. “Oh, yes.”

“What’s so funny?”

“If you only knew.”

Lucille went into the guest room to change.

—

The funeral home was old. About as old as Lucille. The founders were still the owners and operators. At one point or another, they’d buried most of their siblings, classmates and neighbors. Including the man who was Lucille’s one time infidelity. Herbert Lane.

Everyone had come to that funeral. Edgar had been a pall-bearer. Lucille sat in the back, round with child and guilt. But no grief sunk her heart. More of a relief.

As Lucille walked into the funeral home she wondered at the relief she’d felt so many years before. And she remembered thinking that this man, this father of her oldest, was not so heroic.

“Mom,” Trudy said, “do you want to look at Daddy?”

Her daughter’s voice snapped her back to the day. It was her husband’s funeral. That was today.

“Yes, I do,” she answered. “Alone.”

There’d been no visitation. No extras. Edgar didn’t want that.

“Just throw my body in the hole and call it a day,” he’d said. “And I don’t want anyone saying how good I look.”

Lucille walked into the small room. Chairs were lined up. Enough for 100 people. She expected far more. People would have to stand or pull up a chair.

The coffin was black. Silver handles ran down the sides. She saw his nose before anything else.

“You always had a big schnoz,” she said out loud.

As she got closer she realized that his make-up made him look three shades darker. Clown red cheeks, salmon colored lips, a little blue on his eyelids. His hair was slicked back.

“No one’s going to say you look natural, babe.” She took a tissue from her sleeve and wiped his face.

It was cold, clammy, hard. Not the warmth of living flesh. And yet she still felt a closeness with that body. She moved her fingers through his hair, parting it to the left. It made her feel better.

“Well, Eddie, we’ve had a good run,” she said. “You were always so good to me.”

A wail burst through her. Uncontrolled. Unstoppable. She groaned from her loss. Eventually, that wave of pain passed. A calm soothed her.

“Eddie, I have to tell you. This is something I never told a soul before. And I’m sorry I never told you when it mattered,” she leaned in close to his face. She told him about her affair.

In the telling, something occurred to her. She’d told Herbert no. She’d fought him. Clawed. Kicked. Bit. Begged. Cried. But he wouldn’t stop.

But why had her brain let her think it was her fault for so long?

“You’d better not tell no one,” Herbert had hissed in her ear. “Eddie’d never believe you.”

She remembered his voice, his smell, his weight pressing down on her.

She suddenly found it impossible to breathe.

—

Lucille struggled to regain her breath. “He forced me, Eddie. But I didn’t know what to do. I believed him that it was my fault. And then I was pregnant. You were so excited.” She gulped more air. “How could I have told you that Justice might not have been yours? And she came out with that same chin as Herbert. I was just so afraid. God help me, I was terrified of what Herbert was going to do to me.”

“Mom.” Justice stood in the back corner of the room. Her strawberry blonde hair didn’t even have a hint of gray. No wrinkles creased in her face. She looked more like a 30 year old than a 40-something.

“Oh, honey,” Lucille whispered. Her eyes grew wide, tears spilling from the corners. “Oh, no. I didn’t…”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Lucille looked at Edgar’s body. “There’s a lot to it, honey.” She shivered. “I never wanted you to think you were a curse.”

“Why did you keep me?”

“Because your Daddy was so excited. And that got me through the pregnancy.” Her eyes closed, cherishing a memory. “When I saw you, when they put you in my arms right after you were born. Oh, Justice. It was the happiest moment. It healed me. You made me whole.”

“But he wasn’t really my father,” Justice nodded toward Edgar. “Not really.”

“No, Justice, he was your daddy. You know how he loved you.”

The rest of Lucille’s children filed in. Chatting with one another is soft tones of reverence. Lucille and Justice held each other’s focus. There was a tension, a pull and push at the same time. Both women felt it. Both women felt vulnerable. Lucille was sure she’d lost her daughter.

Justice made her way to her mother, arms held out long before she reached her. She knelt on the floor, holding Lucille. The other six, not knowing what was going on, gathered around, circling their mom and older sister.

“She’s taking it so hard,” said Trudy.

—

That night, Lucille sat in her bed, drinking a cup of steaming tea. She looked at his pillow. It was still dented where his head would rest. There were a few short, silver hairs on the pillow case. The carpet bore the track of ambulance stretcher wheels. He had already been dead when they took him out. A black case closed up around him.

She smiled. Felt love blended with sadness seep from her heart to her throat.

I’ve had a great love in my life, she thought. Thank you, Eddie. 

Lucille sipped her tea and remembered her Edgar.

Today we’re looking at the beauty of circles. Special thanks, again, to Krow Photography for sharing these beautiful photos.

What is it about these pictures that catches your eye?