Make sure you catch Part 1 and Part 2. And, by all means, share a link to my blog if you’d like! Thanks for reading!

Sharon

A letter came in the mail for me. From my brother, Jimmy. It’s sad when you don’t even know your brother well enough to recognize his handwriting. He wrote that he had news to tell me. That he couldn’t find my phone number or email address. All he had was my home address.

The letter said that my mother is dying.

And, apparently, I’m supposed to care.

He wrote that she didn’t even realize how far the cancer had spread. She didn’t realize that she had less than a few weeks left. He wrote that he was too afraid to tell her.

And, so, I’m supposed to do what?

She would want to die at home. But they would need help. Someone to get the estate in order, set up a hospital bed in her living room, sit with her in between Hospice nurse visits. He asked if I would come.

Why would I come? Wasn’t it too late? Had he not gotten the clue after I’d been gone for thirty years?

His phone number was printed in a careful hand at the bottom of the letter.

“Whatever you decide, give me a call,” he’d written.

I dialed his number. That turned out to be a mistake.

“Come on back, Sharon,” he’d said. “We need you.”

It took me a little over an hour to drive the seventy miles back to that house. Pulling into the drive way put a sick feeling in my stomach. The house looked the same. Just more worn down. Shingles were missing from the roof, the porch sloped, the eaves sagged. I dreaded what the inside looked like.

I was right. When I opened the door, I was smacked by a thick, dank odor. Rotten food mixed with mildew and some kind of animal smells. It hadn’t been like this when I was little. I couldn’t think would might have happened.

The first thing I did was go to the store for disinfectant. And lots of it. No one deserved to die in that kind of filth. Not even her.

Myra

            Never did wanna die in no hospital. Guess I never thought about me dying anyhow. Just ain’t  somethin’ you keep on your mind. But the doctor told me it won’t be long.

            The next week or two an’ I’ll be dead. Makes me feel all kinds of alone. All I wanna do is go home and sit in my chair. Don’t wanna be here no more. Jimmy said he’d get me home today. I never counted on nothin’ so much in all my life.

            What I ain’t happy about is who’ll be there.

            “Mama,” Jimmy said. “Sharon’s at the house gettin’ things ready for ya’.”

            “Now why would she do that?” I asked.

            “We got a hospital bed for ya’. And she wanted to help out.”

            “She ain’t gonna be there when I get home, is she?”

            “Well, course she is, Mama. We all gotta take turns sittin’ with ya’.”

            “You’ll take a extra turn, Jimmy. Don’t you think for a second I’m gonna sit with her alone.”

            “It ain’t gonna be your way right now, Mama. This is how it’s gotta be else you ain’t goin’ home.”

            “She movin’ all my stuff around? I won’t have her throwin’ my things out.”

            “I don’t know. But it don’t matter.” His eyes was tired. “Let’s get you home.”

            So he went to get his pick up. Makes me get to wonderin’ if me dyin’s gonna cause anybody grief. Or if they’ll be glad I’m gone. I ain’t the easiest woman to be ‘round. I knowed that my whole life.

            Not that I got nothin’ to leave behind for them. 

Make sure you catch Part 1 here. Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment and share my stories with your friends!

Myra

            I ain’t never been a soft person. There’s no use in this life for cryin’ and carryin’ on. I had some hard times. Ain’t a person on this earth who hasn’t. Life’s tough. If ya’ wanna survive you gotta be strong.

            My husband and me was married forty years and then he died. Had himself a heart attack and fell down dead. I had a son die a year after he was born. My daughter don’t want nothin’ to do with me. Yeah. Life’s hard. Get over it.

            I’m dyin’. God seen fit to let me get cancer. It’s all over my body now. Ain’t gonna be long before I go to meet my Maker. The pastor been over to the hospital to see me most weeks.

            “You feelin’ at peace?” he asked.

            “Yup. I believe I am, pastor.” I knowed it was a lie.

            I think he could feel that fib on account he asked me every time he seen me. The last time he come he pushed a little more. Got a bit of the truth outta me.

            “I ain’t gonna have no peace ‘til I see my daughter. She done a lot of harm to my family. She best make that right before I die. Else she gonna regret it all her days.”

            He looked at me funny. Kind of sideways. “Do you think it would be good to ask her forgiveness?”

            “Now, what do I need to do that for? You can just walk yourself right on outta here. Accusin’ me of wrongin’ my own daughter.”

            It sent me into a coughin’ fit so powerful bad the nurse come in and sent him away. I been coughin’ so bad they think I got the pneumonia. It made me glad they sent him packin’. Don’t need that kind of talk ‘round me no how. Tryin’ to make me feel like it’s all my fault, Sharon runnin’ off. She never did fit in our family in the first place. I questioned God many a time why He found fit to send her to us. Last thing I wanted in the world was a daughter.

            Bein’ a woman never served me too well. Didn’t want any child of mine to suffer so like I did. Ain’t no use thinkin’ about that now. What’s done is done.

            First time I held her I seen she was a pretty baby. Knowed she would be a beautiful woman. Bein’ beautiful in this day and age is a dangerous thing. I mighta been too hard on her. But it was all to keep her safe. Figured that if she looked like a boy and could fight like a boy nobody’d wanna mess with her.

            Her will was too strong, though. She wouldn’t have none of it. So, I let her go off. I couldn’t do nothin’ for her. She did okay. Got herself through college. She’d send pictures every now and again.

            She done good for herself. Ain’t no reason I should ‘pologize to her. Fact is, she should be thankin’ me for pushin’ her outta the nest a little. Made her the woman she is now.

            But I ain’t gonna see her again before I pass on. 

Sharon:

Purple was always my favorite color. I wanted everything to be that color. The walls of my bedroom, my stuffed animals, dresses. Everything. Because purple seemed to make my eyes happy somehow.

But the walls of my bedroom were beige. My stuffed animals were long ago given away to the Salvation Army. And I had to wear my brothers’ hand-me-down clothes. Overalls, flannel shirts, tennis shoes.

I had one church dress. It was denim. Pieced together from old jeans my father wore out. Lucky for me, my mother had patched up the holes.

The teasing from other kids was merciless. It didn’t help that she gave me the same haircut as my brothers.

“Ain’t gonna have no girlie girl in my house,” she’d say. “You just teach them kids a lesson. Knock their lights out or somethin’. They’ll leave you alone.”

“But, Mama, they call me a boy,” I’d say, trying my hardest not to cry. “The girls won’t play with me and the boys just push me around.”

“Nothin’ wrong with lookin’ like a boy. You should’a been a boy anyhow. Never wanted a girl. Too much trouble. Now quit your cryin’ and get your chores done.”

I hated her. There was nothing I could do when I was little. I never got to make a decision. She controlled everything. But when I got older, into my high school years, I knew that I needed to take over my life. All I could think to do was rebel. It was how I could fight against her.

Every time I got drunk it was to hurt her. Every time I slept with some guy I hardly knew it was to show her how much trouble I could be. All my friends were having fun. The only thing I wanted was to punish her.

She kicked me out on my sixteenth birthday. I came home from school and my things were packed in a duffle bag on the porch. The door was locked. She sat, looking out the dining room window. Stone-faced.

I left the bag when I walked away.

The next day I was waiting tables at the diner in town and living in the apartment upstairs. I got paid in greasy food and cockroach infested living quarters. Tips were mine. At the time it didn’t seem like such a bad deal. I had a lot to learn.

One thing that I did learn was how much money I could make by playing up my cleavage and tightening the apron around my waist. Red lipstick didn’t hurt either. Neither did the big hair. I made enough money in tips that I bought all the purple dresses I wanted.

My parents and brothers would eat dinner there every Thursday. I’d take their order, pretending they were just another customer. They’d ask for chicken fried steak and lots of gravy. We all pretended that we didn’t know each other.

But my dad would always leave a twenty for the tip. It must have been his way of making up for never defending me. Never telling my mother to back off and let me be a girl. The money was his offering to earn forgiveness for my ruined childhood.

It took me a few years to realize that I had to get away. I left. Moved to a bigger city. Finished high school and went to college. Found a good job and a good man. Every Christmas I’d send a card to my parents. Sent pictures with every child my husband and I had.

Eventually, I forgot that this wasn’t a normal way for a family to work. It just stopped hurting. They were a part of my past that only deserved a couple of letters a year. They never wrote back. Never tried to get a hold of me.

It was just as well.

I promise, dear Friends, that I will submit to you a story first thing Wednesday morning. I have one bubbling over the fire. It will be good (hopefully).

But, for today, will you please do me a wee little favor?

I wrote a book review of Across the Wide River by Stephanie Reed. I’m part of the Kregal Publications blog tour. You can find that review here at my Periwinkle Peacock blog. Would you please click over there and check it out? I’d certainly appreciate it!

And, until tomorrow, enjoy your day. I’m hoping to have some adventures of my own.

~Susie

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Without a hug, she was gone.

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

—

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

I hated her. Completely.

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

And yet I still hated her.

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t just eat all this.”

“It’s okay. We all do it.”

“Do what?”

“Eat like that.”

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

“Nah. You got anymore food?”

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

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

That’s when I learned about purging.

—

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

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

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

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

And I still had my food.

—

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

I snap out of my thoughts of the old days.

“Yup. Let me just get some powder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“Like, as in real mail?”

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

“Okay.”

“You gotta read them out loud.”

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

There were two envelopes. I tore open the first.

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

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

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

“It’s a girl.”

“Come on, let me see.”

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

“Alright.”

By myself, I unfold the paper.

“Dear Mrs. Penny;

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

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

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

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

Your very good friend,

Elenore Styne”

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

The mirror in this room has lights all around it.

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

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

Make sure you catch Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3. And feel free to share these stories with your friends on Facebook or Twitter!

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.

Read Part 1 and Part 2 first! Thank you!

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.

(to be continued)

Make sure to read Part One Here First. Thank you!

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.

(to be continued)

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.

(to be continued)

My Granddad planted a tree when my mom was born. He transplanted the sapling from his childhood home across the state. It was just a normal, average oak tree. But he loved that tree.

“When I get to feeling hopeless, I just take a look outside at that old tree,” Granddad would say. “And I think about the future. Robert Frost makes me remember that through my children I have a legacy.”

The tree was named Robert Frost.

Well, Granddad died five years ago. His wishes were that we make a coffin out of the trunk. But that old tree is still rooted in the front yard. Apparently people don’t just have their own coffins made anymore. We buried him in a silver casket. It wasn’t what he wanted. But, then again, the family was never too concerned about what he desired.

After the funeral the family started fighting. Right there at the lunch. Soil hadn’t even filled in the hole of his grave yet. They fought for five years without stopping. It was an all out battle about money and objects. Stupid, if you ask me. Every holiday it would reignite. One uncle was suing an aunt over the family china. A cousin no longer spoke to his mother because of $1,000. Harsh words spoken from mouths full of mashed potatoes. Angry gestures from hands holding a forkful of beans.

When I got weighed down by all of the fighting I would go outside, sit under Robert Frost’s branches. In the summer they were heavy with leaves and acorns. In the fall they held orange and red flags that waved in the wind. In the winter the bare limbs twisted and curled their way up toward the sky.

Sitting there, under the boughs of my grandfather’s hope, I’d drown out the jabbering from inside. I’d try to remember the lovely days, the time we all got along. When we were sure of the strength of family and the love we had for one another.

It was the fifth Easter after his death. We all sat around the large dining room table. The meal was catered in. No one could agree on who would make which dish. We filled our  plates then bowed our heads in blessing over the food.

“Lord God,” Uncle Edwin prayed loudly. “We thank Thee for this wonderful bounty. For Thy love and mercy, we give our praise. Father above, we beg that today, Thou wilt bring unity to this home. And that those who aim to cause dissensions among us would be thwarted.”

And on and on he went. He spoke in a slight British accent, but only when he prayed. As the first to graduate from college he felt the need to remind us of his superiority. The others in the family worked their hardest to remind him of his base and sinful human nature.

“Mighty Master of the universe, it is Thee we adore and it is Thee we serve. In all things, Thou will be done. Amen.” He sighed from the effort of his heightened reverence.

“Master of the universe?” my cousin Jack asked.

“Well, yes, Jack.” My uncle smiled piously. “The Lord, after all, was the one who made all things and sets all things in motion.”

“But, I thought the Master of the Universe was He-Man.”

“You think you’re so smart, do you?” Edwin was fuming. “You just wait and see the consequences of joking about such things.

Angry words were exchanged around the table. Most of which seemed ill fit to the celebration of the day.

The fury was followed by a silence, only broken by my Aunt Leigh, Edwin’s sister.

“Since we’re all here, I think we should talk about the estate.”

“What is there to talk about?” Edwin’s voice was still sharp with contempt. “You just have to bring up drama on this day of celebrating Christ’s resurrection. How selfish of you to try to start a fight today of all days.”

“I’m not trying to fight you on this, Edwin,” Aunt Leigh steamed. “But you must understand. Daddy wanted us to sell the estate.”

“Leigh, you’re sounding awfully money grubbing.” Uncle Edwin.

“But if you read the will, it clearly states what we’re to do with the house.”

“Exactly. He wanted us to make money off it. Do you know how much we could make by turning it into a Bed and Breakfast?”

“Now who sounds money grubbing?”

“Well,” my mother offered her voice. “I think it would be nice to let Elle live on the property. You know, keep it up and all that.”

“Mom,” I said. “I don’t know that I’d like that.”

“Besides,” Edwin, shoving ham into his mouth. “It wouldn’t be fair. Elle getting it and us…well…I’d feel a little cheated.”

“Oh, no.” My mother sipped her coffee. “We’d expect Elle to pay rent.”

“Well,” Leigh. “I just think that you’re all reading the will wrong.”

“Is it an interpretation issue?” I asked. “Why is it such a problem?”

“Oh, honey. You really don’t understand. You’re too young.”

“But, mom, I’m 35.”

“Uh huh. Just leave this to us to figure out.”

“You don’t seem to be doing that so well now, are you?” I walked out. I wanted to sit under Robert Frost.

It felt like nothing would ever make my family get things together. They would fight over the house until that was settled. Then they would find something else to argue over. And none of it really mattered at all.

How could I tell them that I carried the next generation in my womb? It might cause more problems. They didn’t approve of my husband and his family. The lima bean sized offspring didn’t need to enter this family. She or he didn’t deserve to watch aunts and uncles and grandparents clawing each other apart with hateful words and spite.

I walked outside. The air was sharp, just cold enough for a sweater. But the sun was shining. I tipped my face up to catch the warm glow.

The sun was behind Robert Frost’s branches. I had to squint as I walked toward my sitting spot. I lowered myself, letting my back rub against the coarse bark. I rested my body against the solid trunk. The smell of the tree and the earth triggered my mind to memories of childhood. Climbing into the limbs, reading books under the shade of leaves, running rings around the base, leaping over roots. I closed my eyes and absorbed the silence and calm.

After a few moments my heart stopped thudding, my anxious jitters subsided. I put the china and money and possessions aside. I didn’t want to think about them. I didn’t need to. I just wanted to sit with my family and share memories of my Granddad. To tell stories and recite his wise words. To let the next generation in on how great a man he was. All the rest was just a vapor. It was nothing.

I looked up and saw the gold dots of bloom on the tips of Robert Frost’s fingers. The hope of spring nestled in my heart.

Something new was coming.