Congratulations to Amy Sue Williams! Her story idea for Killing Urges received the most votes. 

Don’t miss Monday’s story,  The Removed — Inspired by Megan Sayer. 

Today’s inspired by Mandy Rose. 

I attended Great Lakes Christian College with Mandy. The first time I saw her I noticed her pretty, chocolate brown eyes. Behind those eyes is a woman who is thoughtful, considerate, kind and very, very smart. I’m so honored that she shared this extremely challenging idea. Whew. I think I can, I think I can. Here’s her idea…

“Teen girl (name is a mystery until the very end). In a major metro city. Conflict: Girl runs away from home (abuse?), but is somehow injured along the way. Story starts when she comes to a place and has no idea where she is, who she is and all she has in her pocket is an address with no city and no name and $20.”

I woke up. The alley was dark and smelled like every bad odor mixed into one. My head was bleeding. And I had no idea who I was.

“Look at that. Runnin’ so fast you fell down and cracked your head.” That voice sent chills through my blood. When I looked at him, I was even more terrified. “Baby, why you gotta act like you don’t want it.”

“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I wished I could make my voice less pathetic. Less pleading. “Just leave me alone. I’m hurt. I need help.”

He started at me, hand on his belt buckle. He licked his lips in a way that made me want to throw up.

There was a crashing sound. He fell down. A woman stood behind him with a rolling pin.

“You okay, honey?” she asked.

It took me a minute to realize she was talking to me.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

She stepped over him to help me up. “Let’s get you inside and call the police on this scum bucket. I figure he’ll be down for a good half hour.”

“I have no idea who he is.”

“Well, you sure are lucky. Cause you was just about to get to know him pretty bad like.” She looked upwards. “Hey, Glen! Get yourself down here and make sure this dude don’t get back up. I’m callin’ the cops.”

She pulled me into a doorway. Had me sit at a dining room table. Gave me a glass of orange juice and a few crackers.

“Thank you,” I said. “Can you please tell me where I am.”

“You’re in Detroit. You from around here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Whatchu mean you don’t know? Don’t they be teaching that kinda stuff in school no more?”

“I don’t know. But something’s wrong. I can’t remember anything.”

“We should get you right to the hospital. You got insurance?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, you got yourself a wallet?”

I checked my pockets. Just an address and $20. “Do you think this is my address?”

“Ain’t no city or state written on there.”

“Is that weird?”

“Honey, this all be weird.” She drew her face near to mine. “Your eyes be lookin’ funny. We better get you a ambulance.”

—

The doctor examined my eyes. Used tweezers to pull dirt out of the gash on my head. Cleaned me, stitched me, bandaged me.

“You don’t remember anything, eh?” he asked.

I shook my head. The  movement sent shots of agony down my neck.

“Well, then you probably don’t know that you match a missing child profile.”

“Do you mean, like, I was kidnapped or something?”

“Runaway. We’ve contacted your parents. They’re on their way.” He stood. “Would you like a sucker?”

“Yeah. That’s cool.” I took the treat. “Hey, did you talk to my parents?”

“No. One of the nurses did.”

“Can you ask her if they sounded excited?”

“Of course. But what parents wouldn’t be enthused that their lost child was found?”

“I don’t know. I just had a feeling.”

“Interesting. I’m going to make a note of that in your chart.”

—

Two adults walked into my room. A man. A woman. They stood, awkwardly far apart. They were afraid to touch me or show emotion or say anything.

“Are you my parents?” I asked. “The doctor said that I might recognize you. But I don’t.”

“Yes, sweetie,” the man said. His voice cracked. “It’s daddy and mommy.”

“Oh, I’m so glad they found you.” The woman rushed to me, held my head close to her chest.

“Please let go. You’re hurting me.” I pulled at her arms, knowing that the bandage would have to be wrapped again.

“Do you feel okay?” The man walked to the other side of my bed.

The man and woman both held my hands. Trying to see who could get the most eye contact. Competitive over me. Their daughter.

“Why did you run away? Precious, we’ve been so worried.” The woman let a tear fall on my bed sheet.

“I called the police right away.”

“I made sure they did an Amber Alert.”

“The news stations came to me for a press conference.”

“Well, who got the prayer chain going?”

Were they fighting over me? A memory slipped back. They were fighting. All the time. Screaming. Throwing things against the wall. Cheating on one another.

“You’re getting a divorce, aren’t you?” I asked.

“The doctor said you wouldn’t remember anything.” My mother put her hand on my forehead. I wondered if it was instinct or a power-play.

“I remember the fighting.”

“Oh, honey, you weren’t supposed to hear all that.” My father placed the back of his hand on my cheek.

“It was so loud. How could I not hear it?”

And so, I ran away. I remembered. I ran because I couldn’t take it anymore. All the battles over custody. Money. The house. The cars.

My father’s voice reverberated in my memory, “If we’d never had her this divorce would have been over long ago!”

I remembered the pain of realizing that I was part of ruining their lives. They could have been happy. But I was there, forcing them to remain miserable. How many nights had I sobbed, trying to be quiet so they wouldn’t hear me? Countless. Far too many.

And so I left. So they could be happy without me and without each other.

“If you wouldn’t have fought so hard for the house, she would have never left,” my mother said, accusing my father.

“Oh, don’t you put this on me,” he answered. “She was fine. The divorce wasn’t bothering her.”

They yelled over my hospital bed. Cussing and spitting venom and not once listening to the other.

“Okay, listen up!” The voice was loud. Smooth. “The last dude that bothered my friend got a rolling pin to the skull. Anybody else wanna tango with me today?”

“Excuse me,” my father turned his tempter toward her. “This is a family affair here. It doesn’t concern you.”

“What’s her name?” she asked, smiling at me.

“Vivianna.” My mother looked at me. Scowling. “His mother insisted on that name. Otherwise we wouldn’t get an inheritance.”

“That’s not true. She just wouldn’t put money in Viv’s college fund.” My father pointed his finger into the air.

“Yeah. A lot of good that college fund did. She’s just a runaway now.”

“Vivianna,” the woman said, her dark eyes sparkling. “I know enough Spanish. That name means ‘life’.”

My parents backed away from my bed. It was like some kind of magic repelled them.

“Vivianna, your parents be some selfish peoples. You know that, right, sugar?”

I nodded.

“But that don’t mean you gotta be runnin’ around, gettin’ jumped by every scum in Detroit.” The woman put a hand on my foot. “It sure be hard to know which is better. The street or bein’ with these two. They be unhappy folk, ain’t they?”

I nodded again. It felt like a trance I was being pulled into.

“It ain’t your fault. You know that? It’s their fault. They be the ones messed up. They be the ones not workin’ it all out. But it ain’t your fault at all, baby girl.”

I felt a freedom. A new life. Fresh air. Brighter light. Weight left me.

“I know somewhere’s in their hearts they love you. I suspect they ain’t gonna be so hard on each other. Not no more.” She looked at my mother and father. “Right?”

They nodded at her, in awe.

“You be precious, Vivianna. You live. You stick around at that house of yours. Don’t come back to the streets. Ain’t no place for you.”

“But the address…” I said.

“That address ain’t no place you wanna go, doll. You be findin’ all kinds of trouble there. I had a friend check it out. Full a’ no good. More a’ what that thug wanted in the alley.” She waved the thought off. “Now you go on home with your mom and dad. They ain’t gonna put you in the middle no more.”

Then she was gone.

My parents sat in the chairs. Looked at me. Were quiet.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember my family as whole. Happy. Smiling. That memory never came.

Housekeeping: Make sure you vote for Last Week\’s Stories!

Megan Sayer is not only from Australia…she’s from Tasmania! We met through the Novel Matters blog (a whole bevy of novel writers discussing the writing life). Well, Megan and I became fast friends. Megan is curious. And she has a whole load of questions about USA culture and food (which is always a fun discussion). I love learning more about Tassie, too. I feel like I’ve found the Australian version of me. She’s a writer, a mum, a wife and friend. And it’s really great to have her for a good friend…even if she’s over 2,000 miles away! I wish you could all get to know Megan. So…how about in the comments of this post, you ask a question about Australia/Tasmania! I’m sure she would love that! And she just might ask a question back about peanut butter baking chips (seriously, Megan…you would love them).

Here’s Megan’s idea…

“As a child in a foster family, Gracie longed for the two-hours-per-fortnight (two weeks) she spent with her mother. Now as an adult she has a strong desire to provide the love and care she felt she missed to other kids who need it, always saying that when her little kids are a little older she’ll start fostering.
Then the phone call came.
Her young half-sister Ella, the baby who was allowed to stay with their mum while Gracie and her older brothers were removed, is sixteen, and is in need of care. Gracie welcomes her, but instead of the loving nurturing feelings she expects to feel, she’s overwhelmed by jealousy of the time Ella had with their mother, and an irrational desire to hurt her.”

The Removed

Gracie laid on her back in bed. The room was still dark. Sunrise was nearly half an hour away. And, yet, Gracie was awake, thinking. She hadn’t slept all night. Her doctor wanted to give her something for “that”. Something that would put her right to sleep, with a chaser of drug to make her feel happy. Or at least to help her stop the anxiety.

Your mother never loved you, her thoughts told her. She never wanted you. Her life was more important than you. You were worthless to her.

And, of course, the thoughts were right. They flipped her into memory. So many years backwards into recollection that she wished she could change. But all she could do was remember.

Being pulled out of her mother’s track marked arms. Her baby brothers, twins, put in one car. She was in another. Foster home. Dark bedroom. No affection. But slaps, kicks, angry shouts.

Every other week, Gracie would see her mother. She’d pick her up in an old, beat up truck. They’d get ice cream, watch a movie, play at the park. Gracie remembered the visits as great adventures.

As she let the pillow hold her head, so many years later, she knew that they’d been visits between a broken hearted little girl and a strung out, pregnant mother. A mother who probably only showed up to fulfill her parole.

But as soon as she had the baby, she stopped visiting Gracie. That was it. Gracie was replaced by little Ella.

Life didn’t get easier for Gracie with the absence of her mother. She never stayed in a family for long. It was hard to place a ten year old.

You just weren’t cute enough. You were too fat, the thoughts started back up. You just weren’t as good as a newborn.

Her husband, Jake, rolled over. Lines from the pillow case marked up his face. He smiled at her with his eyes still closed.

“Hey, Honey?” she asked. “Are you awake?”

“Yup. Kind of,” he answered. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not really.”

“You were up so much last night.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about that call we got yesterday.”

“About your sister?”

“Yeah. I mean, she isn’t really a sister to me. I’ve never met her.”

“Are you thinking about having her stay with us?”

“I don’t want to. That must make me sound evil. Right?”

“Not really. We kind of have our hands full with the munchkins.”

“They are pretty young still.” Gracie thought of her 3 year old and the year old. Both boys. “And I know we talked about waiting to do the foster thing until they were a little older.”

“But this is your sister. Biologically.”

“So, should we have her come?”

“It’s probably the right thing to do.”

A week later, and after a lot of cleaning, Ella arrived. She brought with her several boxes and totes and a whole lot of attitude. Gracie tried to hide her surprise that Ella was so overweight. She took over their guest room.

Your mother loves her more than she loves you. The thoughts haunted Gracie again. See all the things your mother lavished on Ella? And, remember how you mother forgot to feed you? How she made you steal from the grocery store for your lunches? Well, that obviously wasn’t a problem for Ella. 

Gracie shoved down the feelings of envy.

“Ella, how’s everything going?” Gracie asked, walking into the room. “Are you getting things set?”

“I guess.” Ella’s voice was flat and quiet. “So, you’re like my sister or something?”

“I am. We never met, though.”

“Why not? Mom said you left because you wanted to live with somebody else.”

“That’s not exactly what happened.”

“Right. So, I don’t get why I had to move out of Mom’s house.”

“Well, sweetie, she made some bad choices.”

“Like what?”

“She fell off the wagon. Started doing drugs again.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Ella looked at Gracie with indifference. “Hey, who’s gonna pay for my cell phone?”

As the weeks passed, Gracie tried to build a relationship with Ella. Took her to the mall. Asked her to go for walks. But the more time she spent with her, the more envy crept into her soul.

Your mother loved her. Gave her time. Went to her choir concerts. Watched her in the marching band. Bought her a trumpet. Your mother was her Mommy. You never had a mommy. 

Gracie watched Ella picking at her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Her face scrunched.

“Is something wrong with that?” Gracie asked, not hiding her annoyance. Ella hadn’t displayed gratitude for anything.

“You used crunchy peanut butter. I like smooth.”

“Then don’t eat it.”

“But I’m hungry.”

She could do without a few meals, couldn’t she? Maybe if your mother hadn’t overfed her so much she wouldn’t be such a spoiled brat. 

Ella refused to do her homework. She was failing all her classes. She skipped school.

“You’re going to get kicked out,” Gracie said. “Don’t you care?”

“Mom never made me do any of it. She said it didn’t really matter in real life.”

“It’s made a difference in my life.”

“Yeah. And you do what, stay at home all day?”

This girl has never had to work for anything. Every single thing she’s ever had was handed to her, shoved at her. She needs to be taught a lesson. She should have been spanked when she was small. Next time she’s sassy, you are going to smack her in the face. 

“No,” Gracie said. She didn’t realize that she said it out loud. “No, I’m not going to do that.”

“You aren’t going to stay home?” Ella was confused.

Gracie shook her head to regain herself. She’d never wanted to hurt anyone before. Never tempted to smack or slap or spank. But in that moment she wanted to cause harm to her sister.

“How about you go do your homework before dinner.”

That night Gracie wandered her home.  Everyone else was sleeping. She sat on the couch, pulling her bathrobe closer around her.

You’re sinking into that depression, Gracie. And there isn’t anything you can do about it. Just sink deep into it. It’s normal, considering your childhood. And how you’ve been cheated. And how she’d gotten everything that you deserved from your mother. Do you remember what  your mother would do when you’d make her angry? 

“She burned me with a cigarette once.” Gracie touched her upper leg where all the circular scars were. “She locked me in the bathroom.”

And you turned into a very good young lady. A caring mother. Ella needs to learn. It will help her. It will help you. You will feel better.

“No. I would feel horrible. She doesn’t need that.”

“Who are you talking to?” Ella asked, walking in.

“Why are you up? You have school in the morning.”

“No. We got an in-service day.”

“That’s good.”

“Sometimes I have a hard time falling asleep.”

“Me too.” Gracie patted the couch. “How about you have a seat.”

Ella lumbered over. Her pajamas were far too tight. “Do you like these slippers?” She showed her hot pink covered feet.

“They’re fun.”

“Mom bought them for me. She was mean to me sometimes. So, she’d get me stuff to say ‘sorry’.”

“How was she mean?”

“She’d tell me I was fat and dumb.” Ella sniffed. “I don’t think she really loved me at all.”

Gracie looked at her sister, surprised. “Why would you think that?”

“You know, she was always giving me stuff. But it was all because she felt bad. She’d hit me sometimes. One time she was really mad. I think I was five or six. And she did this.” Ella rolled up her sleeve. Shiny pink, raised circles on her arm. “It hurt so bad. But she didn’t want me to tell anybody. She was scared they’d take me away.”

Gracie looked into the eyes of her sister. They were a honey color with chocolate chip flecks. And they were so sad.

“I’m so sorry you were alone with her.”

She put her arm around Ella’s neck. For the very first time she hugged her sister. For the very first time, she loved her.

 

Whew. What a week full of stories! Please read through all of them and vote for the one that worked the best, or just the one you liked the most! Happy Reading!

Used Car Exile – Inspired by Shannon Caroland

Being Found — Inspired by Kristi West

Fierce Memory — Inspired by Lindsay Clem

Killing Urges — Inspired by Amy Sue Williams

Distance — Inspired by Beki Hodgman

Play Acting — Inspired by Betsy Carter

Bucket Kicker — Inspired by Kate Fineske

 

To vote: please comment on this post! And, please feel free to “share” this on Facebook and Twitter! The more votes the merrier!

 

Thanks for reading! You are all my favs!

~Susie

Today’s story idea comes from Kate Fineske. Now, I have to admit something…I’ve never met Kate. Not in person, that is. But the internet is a brave new world with such people in it as Kate. She is kind and encouraging. She is also a busy blogging lady! Check out her blog at Mothers Central and her personal blog (which is very funny) at On The Go Momma. 

Here’s Kate’s idea…

“99 year old woman the day before her 100^th birthday. Upper-middle class. Out lived her husband and kids by 20 years. The year is 2075. Conflict: she wonders if she lived all that she’d hoped to out of life.”

I hate living here in this nursing home. It smells like crap. No matter how many times that robot janitor cleans up the bathroom. Living here sucks. And I can’t even watch a decent soap opera. They went off the air over 60 years ago. All I have on this television/wall is Jersey Shore. Those orange skinned crazies dye their hair. I swear they do. No 87 year old has that ink black of hair.

This morning at breakfast, the robot cook brought me a plate of eggs and bacon. They were perfectly cooked, perfectly delicious, perfectly presented. So, basically, perfectly boring. Well, any way, I couldn’t figure out what year it was. Listen, when you get as old as I am you’re entitled to forget such insignificant things.

“Hey, what year is it?” I asked.

“2075, nine months, one day,” it answered. Or was that robot a girl? It was wearing a frilly apron.

“So that would make it what date?”

“October 1, 2075.”

“Well, how about that?” I dug into my eggs, letting them dribble down my chin. Heck, I’m so old I don’t really care if the billy goat hairs on my chin get a little caked with egg. “You know, tomorrow’s my 100th birthday.”

“My condolences,” the robot said as it zipped away.

Condolences? You know, as smart as machines think they are, they really have no social graces. Did I just say “social graces”. Dang. I really am getting old.

Getting old. And all alone. All my nearest relatives are dead now. It’s just as well. It’s not as nice here on earth as it was when I was younger. And you know that society is going to the crapper when Saturday Night Live just isn’t funny anymore. Oh, do I ever miss that Tina Fey.

100 years old. Well, not until tomorrow, I guess. But still, that’s crazy old. When I was in my thirties there was this big fad. The “bucket list”. People would make a list of all the things they wanted to do before they kicked off. Now, I’m not proud that I made one of those stupid lists. But everybody was doing it. So I felt like I had to.

And I accomplished almost all of them.

Skydiving was exhilarating. Well, until I peed my pants. Lesson learned: don’t go skydiving after giving birth to five babies in six years.

I performed stand-up comedy. The only funny thing was how fast the audience left. Lesson learned: I am not Tina Fey…did I mention that I miss her?

Australia was gorgeous. But I learned that they didn’t all find it “cute” when my husband suggested we “put another shrimp on the barbie” every five minutes. Lesson learned: Hollywood is not a good resource for researching different cultures.

That’s all I can remember from that lame list. I guess that was a pretty huge waste of my time. I can’t even recall most of what I did. But I do know that almost ever single one had something to do with fulfilling my own wants and desires.

Well, my whole family’s dead. I sure have nothing but time to do what I want now.

I really wish I would have thought about them more.

After I had my last baby. My Gabbie Pants. Well, my postpartum depression was so bad. I’d sit on the couch, holding her and cry. I’d blare “Sponge Bob” on the flatscreen so that the older kids wouldn’t hear me.

The psychologist told me that I needed to put the focus on me. Not the kids. And, being a stupid girl, I believed him. And obeyed.

That’s when I wrote that bucket list. And I stopped thinking about them. I feel like I missed out on them. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. Lesson learned: children aren’t a scheduling conflict. Everything else is.

And then there was Jason. Yes, I loved him. I really did. But I just couldn’t let things go.  Socks on the floor, toilet seat up, empty milk carton in the fridge. All of it made me challenge him to a duel. If I felt like he would win, I’d point back to another harsh word or lazy moment when he offended me. It got to the point that he was always trying to keep me happy. He stopped wanting to make me happy. Lesson learned: don’t destroy the love of your life with details. Just love them back.

I may have written a novel (or I might not have…I can’t remember). There were exotic trips and haircuts. Adventures and performances. But they all mean nothing now. Because I’m all alone.

Could life have been more for me? For my kids? For Jason?

The robot nurse rolled my chair into my room.

“Photo album,” I say into the air of the room.

“What year?” the computer says.

See, there are a few nice things these days. Like the big, wall sized computer screen and the voice activated photo albums. Well, voice activated everything. And to think, my grandma kept all her pictures taped in a big, heavy album.

“2011. Pictures of my family.”

I see image after image of my babies. They smile. They’re tan. Blonde. Smiling. Building sand castles and burying their daddy by Lake Erie.

Pictures of Christmas. The ugly sweater family parties. I can’t believe I let my girls have inverted bobs. They must have been so embarrassed. But I thought they were cute at the time. Wrapping paper strewn all over the room. Bikes and teddy bears and Barbie dolls. And huge, toothy grins.

“Pictures of me and my family.”

“What year?”

“All of them.”

Hundreds and thousands of images go past my eyes. Most of them with a child holding my hands, hugging me, planting big, sloppy kisses on my lips. Bringing me breakfast in bed. Runny eggs, burned toast (cliche, I know), grape Kool-Aid (less cliche, and much more sugar). Arms around my neck as they got older and taller. Weddings. Grandkids. Great Grandkids.

Then the last photo. The one I tell the computer to freeze on. The kids are all standing around Jason and me. And my husband is holding me steady. The tears in my eyes sparkle in the flash of the camera. All six of them are smiling at me.

This was mother’s day. The last year that we were all together. We had no idea that within seven years I would be the only one left. But on that day, we were happy.

They’d surprised me. Got me a brand new Mustang. Bright orange. They called it my “World’s Best Mom” trophy.

The love of my husband. The adoration of my children. Having been able to hold my grandbabies and great grandbabies. Well, that’s what has made my life so happy. Not the trips or the dives out of airplanes or whatever else it was that I did.

I look at this picture and let myself drift toward sleep.

The love of my family is all I want for my birthday.

I have to brag just a tiny bit…I have some pretty creative family members. And today’s post will demonstrate just how creative one of my family members can be. This story was inspired by Betsy Lee Carter, my beautiful big sister. I could tell you all about how lovely Betsy is, how great she’s always been to have as a sister…etc, etc. But all of that would just be to say that she is remarkable. Here’s her idea…

“Sally is tone deaf and has illusions of grandeur. Idaho, 2025. Auditioning for a Community Theater. Conflict: the leading man is her dream man, but he never noticed her before.”

Play Acting

Sally spun on the stage. Her skirts swooshed and flared. She stopped, center stage. She sang. In her ears her voice was lovely with it’s trills and crescendos. She felt every word in the song. She finished. Stood with arms spread, palms up, face tilted toward the sky.

“Hey, gettin’ better, Sally,” Alfred said. “Keep practicing. They might just let you in a show.”

“Thanks. I sure hope so. I will be the best actress they’ve ever seen! People will come from different states just to hear me sing and dance and act!” She held her hands, clasped to her chest. ”

“That’s real nice, real nice. But I gotta mop that stage. And you’d better get that costume off before somebody sees ya. Then you won’t have no cleanin’ job her no more.”

“Okay, Alfred. Thanks for the warning.” She walked off the stage.

“That girl wanna be a singer,” muttered Alfred. “But she sing like a hard a hearin’ cat with it’s tail tied in a knot.”

—

After Sally changed into her work uniform, she got to work cleaning out the dressing rooms. Organized make up. Hung up costumes. Cleaned up spilled coffee and dusted up cigarette ashes.

When I’m a famous actress, I’ll be more considerate, she thought.

She saved Thaddeus’ dressing room for last. His dressing room door had a gold star on it. And his name printed on a plastic plaque.

“Thaddeus Ribald,” she said, tracing the letters with her finger tips. “Sally Ribald. Thaddeus and Sally. Mr. and Mrs. Ribald.”

She turned the doorknob, entered slowly, with reverence. She cleaned. But it was different in his space. It was more like an act of love.

“Oh, Thaddeus, darling,” she said, sweeping up pieces of a smashed glass. “You really should be more careful. You could hurt yourself.”

Righting an upset chair, she giggled. “Well, I didn’t realize you could be so clumsy. Didn’t you see the chair before you tripped over it?”

Sally went all through the room, pretending to be cleaning up after her beloved. And that he sat, talking with her. She reasoned with herself that this play acting wasn’t crazy. It was rehearsal for when she would be on the stage, performing by his side. And for the time when she would become his wife.

She spotted a treasure under the mirror. A used make-up sponge. Her eyes grew wide. It was soft in her fingers. She stroked it gently, pretending to caress his face.

“I love you, Thaddeus. Wait for me.”

—

Sally walked into the theater the next day. The actors were on the stage, heads down. Muttering among themselves. They looked up, but didn’t acknowledge her. Hushed tones made Sally strain her ears.

“I can’t believe…”

“Terrible accident…”

“Thaddeus will be devastated…”

“He’s in that dressing room, just distraught…”

Alfred stood at the back of the theater. Back resting on the wall, arms crossed on his chest.

“Hey there, honey,” he whispered. “Monika’s dead.”

Monika. The female lead in all the plays.

“What happened?” Sally asked.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. She was a witch.”

“What will the do about her part?”

“Probably gonna have auditions.”

“When? Do you think I could make it?”

“Oh, Sally. You don’t wanna act with these people. They’re animals. All of ’em. Even that Thaddeus.”

“No. Don’t ever say that.” Her voice was harsh. “He’s good.”

“Whatever you say. But he ain’t gonna marry you.” Alfred walked away.

“He will. He loves me.”

—

Women from all over the town came to audition. They sang, danced, read lines. Thaddeus took the stage with them. The director wanted to see them together. Hear them speak and sing together. Chemistry. They were hoping for chemistry. Like he’d had with Monika. On and off stage.

“I’m so nervous,” Sally told the girl next to her. “I know that I can sing. I’m very aware of my talent. But I just feel so nervous about standing by Thaddeus.”

“He’s really not all that great,” the girl said. “He’s kind of a drunk. You know. Washed up.”

“You are mistaken. He is wonderful. And he’s in love with me.”

“He is, really? I doubt it.”

“Well, you don’t know him.”

“Sally,” the director called from in front of the stage. “Sally, it’s your turn.”

She walked to the center of the stage. Her janitor uniform dusty and stained from cleaning before the audition.

“Aren’t you the cleaning woman?” Thaddeus snorted. “You hear to mop up the floor?”

“No. I’m auditioning.”

“Can you sing?”

“Yes. I’m like a songbird, Thaddeus.” She had to remind herself that this wasn’t her time in his dressing room. This was real.

The pianist started to play. Sally mimicked every move that Monika had made while performing with Thaddeus. She poured her soul, her love into the song. It felt like a flowing ribbon coming from her throat and curling around the air by his head.

When the music stopped another sound erupted. From Thaddeus. He was laughing at her. Laughing with tears in his eyes. He bent at the waist, holding his stomach. And laughed at her.

She backed away from him. Confused. Broken hearted.

“Was that a joke?” he asked between screams of hilarity. “Good one.”

“No. I was singing. For you.”

“Who put you up to that? Denise? Roger?”

“I wanted you to hear my voice.”

“Oh, we all heard it. You really don’t have to do that ever again.”

“Did I make a mistake?”

“You sure did.”

“I promise, I’ll do better next time.”

“Next time? Oh, please, don’t let there be a next time! You might just kill us all.”

“But I never thought you’d be like this. I thought you were wonderful. And kind and loving.”

“Why would you ever think that?” He looked at her. “Wait. You thought that? So, are you in love with me? That would be rich. The cleaning girl and the lead actor.”

Sally ran off the stage. The backstage door was open. She stepped across the threshold. Alfred sat on the steps, smoking a cigar.

“He’s an animal, Sally. Just a dirty, stinkin’, ugly animal.” He puffed his cigar. “They all is.”

—

Sally walked into her apartment. Flipped on the light. The walls were covered with pictures of him. Play bills with his name on them. Old pieces of his costumes from various shows. Strands of his hair were in a plastic bag on the table. Used cigarette butts were in a dish.

“This is insane,” she said to herself. “What kind of crazy person does this?”

You are the kind of crazy person that does this, Thaddeus’ voice rang in her ears.

“You are a terrible, untalented, slimy person!” The words released her just a small bit.

She tore one picture down. Then another and another. All things Thaddeus were collecting into a pile on her floor. The walls beneath were cream colored. Clean. Fresh.

Sally collected everything, carrying it down to the dumpster. It was late in the night. As she threw them in, piece by piece, she lit them.

There was a glow in the dumpster.

Wow, what a week it’s been so far. And there are plenty of good stories coming! Be sure to check out the previous stories… Used Car Exile, Being Found, Fierce Memory and Killing Urges.

Today’s story is inspired by Beki Hodgman. Beki is a dear friend. She can do just about anything! She’s creative and crafty, organized and friendly, a great mom and wife…I really shouldn’t list all of her good qualities. It would make us all feel a little less capable. But, here’s the best thing; Beki is humble. I’ve never heard her toot her own horn. Not even once in the nearly 15 years I’ve known her. Beki has begun a life seeking justice. And I’m very proud of her for that. You can read about that in this blog post where she discusses a commitment to justice. 

And, now, here is Beki’s idea…

“Kady, 24. She has 2 small children, has little/no education.

Characteristics: Emotionally has extreme highs and lows, fiercely loves her children, low self-esteem and self-worth, always needing to prove herself.

Her husband serves in the Army and has been in the Middle East for most of their short marriage.

Conflict: Her rationalization of her adulterous relationship that transpires while her husband is deployed.”

Distance

Kady stood in front of the mirror. Her red dress dangerously tight. The make-up she applied was just a shade too dark. Her hair was a messy up-do. She stared herself down.

“Kady, you got every right to have fun,” she said to her reflection. “It’s been a hard couple years. You got a sitter and you’re lookin’ cute. There’s nothin’ wrong with goin’ out and blowin’ off some steam.”

She slipped her feet into the stilettos and grabbed her purse. The babysitter sat on the couch, clicking the remote.

“Hey, Bree, I’ll be back later on. Make sure the babies go to bed at nine.”

“Yup.” The girl didn’t look up.

“You have my number?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll be at dinner with a couple friends. But I’m gonna put the phone on vibrate.”

“You look a little too dressed up for dinner,” Bree said. “Are you going out with that guy?”

“There’s soda in the fridge.” Kady ignored the girl’s question. She hoped Bree wouldn’t notice.

Headlights flashed through the front window. The driver honked.

“See ya,” Bree said.

Kady walked out of the house. Not even kissing her kids. It always made this harder.

The truck in the driveway belonged to a man. Not her husband. Not her brother. Not her friend.

“You look good, babe,” he said when she opened the door and climbed in.

“Thanks, let’s go.” She closed the door. “Just to the motel.”

“I ain’t gonna argue with that.”

They used each other. There was no emotion expressed. No intimacy reached. She’d pretended there was, though. She closed her eyes and imagined that he loved her. That he treasured the time with her. For more than just sex. But for a relationship. And when it was over she knew that it had meant nothing.

She was just empty.

The phone buzzed from her purse. It was Daryl.

“Who’s that?” the man asked.

“My husband,” she answered.

“Okay. I’ll be quiet.”

“Daryl, you weren’t supposed to call until tomorrow.”

“I know. I just wanted to check in on you.” Daryl sounded so clear through the phone.

“Well, we’re doing good. Is everything okay?”

“It’s hot here. I know I been here a long time, but it seems it just keeps gettin’ hotter and hotter.”

“Are you in Baghdad again?”

“No. Islamabad. Or somethin’ like that. All the cities look the same. Same buildings and trucks and ugly dogs.”

“Did you find out when you can come home?”

“Nope. That’s not somethin’ I can tell you, Kady. Sorry. How’re the kids?”

“They’re good. Gettin’ big.”

“Can I say ‘hi’?”

“They’re sleepin’.” She lied. They wouldn’t be in bed for another hour. But he wouldn’t know that. He knew nothing about his children.

“Well, I only got a second more to talk. Love ya’.”

“Me too.” She said. But she didn’t feel it. And she didn’t believe it. They hung up, not sorry for ending the conversation.

She got dressed. “Take me home.”

“But we just started this party,” the man said. “I brought some goodies.”

“Just take me home.”

“I ain’t leavin’. You wanna leave, you better walk.”

She wanted to tell him that he meant nothing to her. Just a way for her to feel wanted, to pretend that she was loved. More than just an “I love you” on the phone from Iraq.

“Call me a cab.”

“Nope. Do that yourself.”

“I don’t know where we are.”

“Sure sounds like a problem.”

She slammed the door behind her. Started walking. The heels were killing her feet, but she didn’t want to risk taking them off and stepping on glass. She figured out which road would take her to the bus stop. She had over a mile to walk.

The phone buzzed again.

“Hello?”

“Kady.” It was Daryl again. “What is goin’ on over there. Somethin’ ain’t right and I wanna know what it is.”

“No. Nothin’s right, Daryl.”

“What happened?”

“You’re gone. I don’t know you no more. The babies don’t hardly know they got a daddy. I’m lonely. I need you to come home.”

Daryl was quiet on the other end.

“I’ve been doin’ something real bad, Daryl. I messed up. And you ain’t gonna want me no more.”

“What did you do?” His voice was quiet, scared.

“There’s a man…”

“No, Kady. How could you?”

“It don’t mean nothin’ to me. I’m just so lonely.”

“No. That ain’t right.”

“I needed somebody just to touch me.” She stopped walking. “Last time you was home you didn’t never, you know, try with me.”

“Who’s taking care of the kids?”

“Bree. She been watchin’ them a couple nights a week.”

“You meetin’ that guy a couple times a week? Kady. You’re killin’ me.”

“How can I fix it?”

“You can’t.”

“Let’s just talk about it when you come home.”

“How about we get that divorce I talked about? Last time I was home I put the papers in our lock box. Get ’em out and sign ’em. It’ll be cheap if you don’t fight it.”

“I thought we could make it work.”

“You was wrong. Sign the papers. Get it over with.”

“I love you.” This time she felt something. More akin to grief than love.

“I wish you did. But it ain’t in you to love no one.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be asking for custody as soon’s I get home.”

She hung up the phone. Just a push of a button disconnected her from her husband. How easily conversations and relationships could be severed.

A truck pulled up next to her. It was the man.

“Come on, baby. You know I was just kiddin’ ya! Get in. I’ll drive you home.”

“Go away,” her voice was edgy. “Leave me alone. I just want to be by myself.”

“Whatever you say. I can find somebody else that’ll party with me.”

He drove away, spraying her with dust and pebbles.

She walked for hours before she got home. Bree sat on the couch, watching television.

“You look terrible. What happened to you?” Bree stood.

“You don’t need to know.” Kady slumped on the couch and sobbed.

She let Bree hold her. Stroke her hair.

“It’s all going to be alright,” Bree whispered. “I promise. You’ll be okay.”

Kady didn’t believe it.

“Character – 47 year old man, quiet and unassuming, was sexually abused as a child.
Setting – present time, anyplace USA.
Conflict – he is attracted to young children sexually. He hates these urges, but he is having a difficult time overcoming temptation. Thus far, he has only fanatsized about it, and he always feels guilty about his fantasies afterward, but he wonders…”

Killing Urges

Jim sat in his car. He couldn’t believe the memories were flooding him in the middle of the day. Usually, they only came at night. While he slept. Waking him as he sobbed and retched and died a small bit more.

The dreams were horrid. Flashes of remembrance. A closed door. The ceiling fan spinning. Him, trying to go somewhere else in his mind. Anywhere. Even some place bad. Because it couldn’t be worse than where he was right at that moment. Then the voice.

“Don’t tell…Our secret…I’ll hurt you…It’s your fault…I love you.”

He didn’t tell. Kept their secret. Because he’d been afraid of being hurt. And he wanted to be loved.

But on that day, in his mid-life, he shivered in the driver’s seat. He was still silent and terrified and in pain. But not loved. Not even by one person.

“Get it together,” he said. He pounded his fists against the steering wheel. “Don’t be the victim! It’s done. He can’t hurt me anymore.”

After several minutes and many deep breaths, Jim calmed. He was able to drive back to work. Walk into the office. Sit at his desk. Act normal.

At least normal for him.

“Long lunch, Jim?” his boss asked.

“I’ll stay late,” Jim answered.

“What were you doing that made you 35 minutes late?”

“I just got lost in my thoughts.”

“You went to that movie theater on Center Street, didn’t you?”

The movie theater that showed the bad films. The ones that made Jim feel both fulfilled and filthy at the same time. It was where Jim went when the urges got to be too strong. It kept him from being with someone else. From hurting someone like he’d been hurt as a boy.

“No.”

“I’ve seen you there, Jim. Remember? I said ‘hi’.”

“Yes. I remember. But I wasn’t there today.”

Jim wanted to smack the man. His boss. A man who had everything. A wife. Children. A wonderful home. Friends. And still, he turned to the screen, the artificial, the lustful. Disgusting. But no better or worse than Jim himself.

“Right. Listen, Jim. I need that accounting report by the end of the day.”

Jim nodded.

He worked, not looking away from the computer screen, for hours. When he’d finished the report, he checked his email.

His sister invited him to a cook out. But he would not go. He never went to be with family. It was too much. Too hard to be around his mother. She had turned her head, believing that nothing bad was happening to him. He couldn’t be around the kids. Nieces and nephews. Too much temptation. Too many thoughts that could swarm his brain.

The family didn’t understand why he stayed away. He did it to protect them. So that the kids wouldn’t have memories of closing doors and circling fans. And his voice telling them to keep it their secret.

He refused to do that. Fought it. Lived his life killing urges.

Because the fantasies were there. The thoughts, the pictures in his head. He would scratch his arms and legs with sand paper to take his mind off the desires. His body was covered with bruises from his own fists.

“I will NOT let him win. I will NOT let him win…” was written on pages of paper. Over and over and over again.

Jim understood that touching a child would only allow that man, his abuser, to control him. Every time Jim said “no” he defeated that evil man.

He would win.

He won by throwing his home computer into the trash. By cancelling his cable. He won when he said “no” to leading a boys and girl’s club.

But still the urges came. Day after day. For all his victories, he kept coming under attack. The neighbor kids liked to play in his front yard. The receptionist at work showed him pictures of her baby in the bathtub. The minister at his church asked him to work in the elementary class. Alone.

Whenever he turned from one temptation, another was right there, waiting to splatter in his face.

Jim left work. Early. He didn’t stay later like he promise. He couldn’t. He felt crushed, compressed by the temptation. By the nagging doubt that he would ever be able to defeat the evil that tried to consume him.

He drove. For miles and miles. Avoiding public parks, school zones. Willing himself to only look at what was ahead of him on the road. Demanding that he make it to the station.

Jim parked his car. Waiting a minute, he prayed for strength. The prayer that got him through urges before must now get him the help he needed.

The air outside was full of water. It would rain soon. He opened his door, stepped out, walked to the station. He went in.

Cold, dry air smacked him in the face when the doors opened. Chills and goose bumps covered his arms. Still sweaty and so very cold.

A police officer walked by. He nodded a greeting to Jim.

“Sir,” Jim said. “I need to turn myself in.”

The officer stopped. “Excuse me?”

“I’m turning myself in.”

“For what crime?”

“No crime. Not yet, at least.”

“Then you can’t turn yourself in. Not until you’ve done something wrong.” The officer started to walk away.

“Wait. Something’s wrong with me. I need you to lock me up so I don’t end up hurting anyone.”

“Who are you going to hurt?”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“What would you do?” The officer readied himself, just in case Jim became violent.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. But I don’t know how long I can fight it anymore.”

“Just stand still.” The officer’s voice grew firmer. He put a hand on his gun.

“Here, let me show you something. I have it in my pocket.” Jim reached into his suit jacket. Inside was a journal. Of all the times he defeated the temptation. He wanted to show the officer how many times he felt the urge.

“No! Put your hands up!” The officer was nearly screaming.

“It will help you understand what I’m afraid of doing to someone.” Jim pulled the  journal.

Within a moment the officer had pulled and shot his firearm. Jim was on the floor. Shiny, clean linoleum. Now stained with blood. The life poured out of Jim.

He smiled. His struggle was over.

I’m happy to announce the winner of Week 2! Holly Becker’s story idea for Playing Debussy won by a narrow margin. Congratulations, Holly! You are in the finals!

Today’s story for the September Challenge Contest comes to us from Lindsay Clem. I first met Lindsay at the beginning of our freshman year at Great Lakes Christian College. It’s so funny to look back and think how young we were! One thing that you should know about Lindsay is that she is an incredible mother. She and her husband Regan are the parents of 4 absolutely gorgeous children with one more on the way! And she still found time to come up with a challenging story idea! And I mean it…I had to do a little research for this one!

Here’s her idea…

“Mario, 20, just arrived in America (NYC) in 1920. Strong, confident, hard worker, temper. Meets (and likes) Irish girl, Aideen. Her family doesn’t like him…”

The banner across the room read “Happy 100th Birthday, Mario!”

“How did I live to be so old,” Mario asked. No one around could answer him.

He’d been smoking since he was 13. Drank every day. Ate whatever he wanted. Never exercised. The man should have been dead years ago.

“Somebody please tell me how much longer I have to live. I’m tired.”

“You want some birthday cake, Pop?” his daughter asked.

“I want some rest. Is that too much to ask?”

“Why don’t you tell us a story. From when you were young?” one of his sons called from across the room. “Tell us about how you met Ma!”

“Eh, you don’t wanna hear that old history.” Mario swatted at his family with a purple veined hand. “I don’t wanna tell no story.”

“Come on, Pop. You never told us the story before.”

“Might there be a reason? Maybe I didn’t never wanna tell ya.”

The whole room clambered. The room was full of his children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. He couldn’t seem to remember all the people who were there. He was certain that they were some kind of off shoot of his family. The family that he and his wife built.

“If you wanna story, I’ll give you a story.” Mario looked at his hands.

His family hushed all the children, circled around Mario. He took a deep breath.

“I stepped off the boat in 1920. I was a young man. About 20 years old.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know nothing back then. And I was homesick for Italy and my mother’s cooking…”

—

I lived with my cousin in a dirty apartment in the city. We had to share a toilet with the rest of the people on our floor. There was no escape from the loud streets or the stench of the people.

Life wasn’t like this in Italy. It made me wonder why I’d come across the ocean at all. All I wanted was to save up enough money to go home. Until I saw her.

She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She sold flowers on the corner. I had to speak to her. I needed to hear the voice of the lovely lady. But every time I neared her corner, she would push me back with her fierce, blue eyes. I couldn’t come close.

Pain set into my heart. I was sure that it was love. Every scrap of paper I could find was covered in my poems to her. Ridiculous poem. So sentimental. Lines and lines about her creamy skin. Her blonde hair. But those eyes. They did more to terrify me than anything.

The first time she spoke to me gave me chills, both of excitement and terror. I’d been in New York for months. My English was getting better each day. I had determined that I would ask her name. All I wanted was to hear her voice.

It was raining. She stood on her corner. The flowers were getting drenched. Her eyes cut through me as I walked toward her. How strange the force of love and fear blended together.

“Go on back to where ya’ been,” she said. Her voice was thick, deep. I’d never heard anything like it. “I got no need for ya’ to keep comin’ round, botherin’ me so.”

Like the growl of an angry, rabid dog. Her voice warned me to stay away.

“Not until you tell me your name,” I said. My voice seemed to growl back. I was surprised by the strength of it. “My name is Mario.”

“Mario,” she said. “An Italian, I gather.”

I nodded my head. “And what is your name?”

“I’m Aideen. From Ireland. Do you know what that means?”

“I don’t understand.”

“It means that we hate each other. Now, leave me be.”

—

Mario’s family sat, looking at him with confusion. They wondered if his old age had made him forget.

“Pop,” his son said. “Ma’s name wasn’t Aideen.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” Mario’s face was flushed. “But it was her name. The Irish girl.”

“But we asked about Ma.”

“I’m 100 years old. If I want to take my sweet time telling a story I will. Now who has a glass of wine for me?”

—

The next day, Aideen was gone. I asked around. No one knew who she was. Had never seemed to notice her before. I began to think I was going mad.

“There was no flower seller on that corner,” the market owner told me. “The only girl on that corner was sellin’ other things.”

He made a rude gesture.

“I don’t understand.” I was too afraid to let myself think about what the man was saying.

“The oldest profession in the world. And she was good at it.”

I punched him in the jaw. “Where did she go?”

“Easy, fella’. Ain’t no need to get mean.” The owner rubbed his face. “She’s the next block over. But don’t bother, you don’t got enough to get what she’s sellin’.”

He was right. She was there.

“Now, get away,” she called as soon as she saw me.

I walked to her, this time, without fear. “I love you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“That’s true. But I love you anyway.”

“My father will kill you. You must get away now.”

“Your father?”

“Now, go on. Leave me to my business.”

“But why would your father kill me?”

“Because I make his money for him.”

“I can help you.”

“You can only make things worse.”

“That’s not true.”

“If you love me, you must leave me be.”

“I can’t.”

“Never come here again.”

She ran from me. Something inside held me back. Why didn’t I chase her? Could I have helped her? I will never know.

The next day, she was found hanging from the fire escape next to her apartment.

—

Mario dabbed his eye with an old, dingy hanky. He looked at his family. Not a one of them looked familiar.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“At your birthday party, Pop.” His son grabbed for his hand.

“How old am I?”

“100 years old.”

“That’s too old.”

“Was that a true story?” his daughter asked. “Aideen? Was she real?”

“No. I told you I don’t wanna tell no stories today.” Mario blew his nose into the hanky. “What kind of party don’t have a cake? Get me some cake.”

The family bustled around to cut the cake, pour the punch, celebrate Mario.

Within Mario remained an ache for Aideen. Her voice rumbled in his memory. Her eyes still pierced his soul.

Now for Post 2 of the day! (All this writing has caused my fingers to become as toned as Jillian Michael’s abs…) The first story was Used Car Exile – Inspired by Shannon Caroland. Oh! And while you’re clicking on links, make sure you VOTE for last week\’s stories. Voting is open until 11:59 pm tonight (Michigan Time)

This afternoon/evening’s story comes from Kristi West. Now, I’m going to be honest, when I first put the idea out for this contest I didn’t think I’d get 30 stories. So, I invited people to submit up to 3 ideas. And Kristi did just that! Her first idea nearly won in the first week. It was a moving idea that turned into an emotional story to tell. Please feel free to read it. Good-bye, George is a story that I’m planning on building and including in some kind of collection one of these days.

In the meantime, here is Kristi’s second story idea (which, by the way, has had me sweating…it was a toughie)…

“Character: Libby, 14-year-old girl
Setting: Midwest America
Conflict: Libby finds evidence that the woman she thought was her mother actually found her wandering around NYC on September 11, 2001, alone. She then decided (possibly after trying to find her family?) to raise her as her own.”

Being Found

2011

“It isn’t fair. And you’re just being mean!” Libby yelled from the top step. “All my other friends get to go!”

“I’ve already made up my mind,” Sherri said from the bottom of the stairs. “You aren’t going.”

“I can’t wait till I’m 16! I’m going to divorce you!”

“They don’t allow that anymore, Libby.”

“Yes they do! I ‘Googled’ it. It’s called ’emancipated minor’ and I’m so doing it!”

Libby thrust her hip out and crossed her arms over her chest. Sherri couldn’t stand that stance. The attitude that puberty brought made her crazy. The walls in the garage were pocked with fist holes from Sherri’s frustrations.

It’s better than hitting Libby, she thought. I won’t let my anger go that far again. The way she looked at me that day…It’s far better to bust open my knuckles on drywall. 

“Go to your room,” Sherri yelled, louder than she’d intended.

Libby sat on the step. “I’m not moving until you say I can go to Toronto.”

“Well, I’m not cooking until you stop being so bull-headed. There is no way I’m going to allow you to go to Canada with your Girl Scout friends.”

“But Vanity’s mom is going.”

“I don’t trust anyone who names their kid ‘Vanity’.” Sherri scrunched her face in frustration. “You aren’t going. That’s final.”

“I hate you,” Libby said, without emotion, as she got up and went to her room.

She has no idea what I’ve done for her, Sherri thought. And she can never know.

—

2001

The city was full of people, running in all directions. Trying to get away from the collapsing towers. It was impossible for Sherri to see beyond the dust cloud of soot and ash. She could hear screaming, sirens, other noises she couldn’t identify.

Standing still, watching others flee, she believed that the world was coming to an end. And, so, she sang. She sang at the top of her lungs until the thick, grainy air clogged her throat.

A small form bumped into her. Sherri looked down at the young child. It was alone and shaking.

“Are you lost?” Sherri asked. “Where’s your mama?”

The child raised arms scratched and bleeding. Sherri scooped her up.

“We should figure out where your parents are.”

Sherri saw the pigtails, loose and messy. A little girl. With the same brown eyes as her Libby. Her little girl. Libby who died. Libby who she lost. Libby who had come back to her.

“Libby?” she asked. “How did you come back?”

The child held tightly to Sherri. She quaked and sobbed. Sherri held her, knowing that she wanted to keep this child. Knowing that she would have to escape to do it.

A week later, Sherri and her new Libby were in Wisconsin. No one knew them. It was their chance to start over together.

—

2011

Libby slouched as she walked down the steps. “I need coffee.”

“You’re too young for coffee,” Sherri answered. “But, anyway. Happy Birthday, Libby!”

“I hate my birthday. Everybody’s so freaked out that my birthday is September 11. I just wish I could lie and tell them it’s the 12th or 13th or something.”

“But that isn’t your birthday,” Sherri snapped. “Your birthday is important. It’s when you joined this family.”

“Yeah. Great family. It’s just two of us.”

“So, what would you like to eat for your birthday breakfast?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.” She walked to the living room. “I just wanna watch TV.”

Sherri wondered how this child ever became so sullen. She’d been such a happy little girl.

If I’d known she would grow up to be like this, I never would have taken her, Sherri thought.

“Oh my word. This is so sad,” Libby said. “Mom, come see this.”

The mood swings of this girl will be the death of me, Sherri thought, rolling her eyes.

“Seriously, Mom.”

The television showed pictures of children, flashing across the screen.

“It’s all about the little kids that died on 9/11,” Libby said. “I didn’t know that kids died.”

They watched together. A woman was being interviewed.

“Our daughter’s body was never found. We had to bury an empty casket. It never should have been like this for Danielle.” The mother grieved. Held up a picture of her daughter.

The same brown eyes. Same slightly off-center lips. It was Libby.

“That little girl looks like me,” Libby said, leaning in nearer to the screen.

Sherri’s breath caught in her lungs. It was all she could do to switch off the television.

“We’re going out to eat,” Sherri said. “Get yourself ready!”

It took Libby a long time to shower and dress and do her hair. Eventually, they made it to the restaurant. Libby barely touched her food.

“Have you had a good birthday?” Sherri asked.

“Mom, that girl on TV. She looked like me.”

“She did. I’ve heard it said that everyone has a twin in this world.”

“But she looked more like me than my baby pictures do. It’s like you used someone else’s pictures in my album.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherri was growing nervous. The pictures in the album were of the first Libby, the one that had died.

“Mom, something’s really weird today.”

“Did you want dessert? You can get the chocolate cake you love. I bet the waitress would sing to you.”

“I found some stuff in your office.”

“They’d probably put ice cream on the side for you.”

“Why do I have a death certificate?”

Sherri felt very cold all of the sudden. She huddled herself in the booth.

“I was looking for my birth certificate and I found this.” Libby pulled a document from her purse. “It says that I’m dead. I died when I was 2 years old?”

“It was just an accident.”

“What was an accident?”

“We lived in the city. New York. There was an accident when we were crossing the street. The taxi never saw her run in front of him.” Sherri stared straight ahead. “I should have held her little hand harder.”

“What are  you talking about?”

“But then I found you. And you were little Libby come back.”

Libby sat, eyes full of tears. “I have no idea what you mean, Mom.”

“I didn’t know that there were people who loved you. I just thought you were alone and needed me. I needed you. I knew no one would understand, so we ran away. You and me.”

“This is crazy, Mom. Cut it out.”

“You should find that other lady. I think she misses you.”

“But you’re my mother.”

“I’m not. I just found you and started all over. You reset my life.”

“Who should I call?”

“You might want to start with the police.” She laughed nervously. “I never realized that I was a kidnapper before.”

Libby pulled a cell phone from her purse, dialed 9-1-1.

“Libby, I’m sorry that I took you. Will you please forgive me?” Sherri’s voice was too calm.

“Hello?” Libby said into the phone. “Yes. I have a really weird thing going on. I need help.”

Sherri smiled peacefully, joyful that another mother would have her daughter returned.