Liar, Liar

The flashing lights sprayed blue and red bruises around our living room. I huddled behind the couch in my nightgown. A man and woman in crisp blue uniforms hefted a black bag onto a stretcher, pushed levers, and lifted the bed like Mom did with her ironing board. Blood smeared the lady’s name tag, but I’d seen it when she came in. It said Glenda. The name of the good witch. The good witch come to clean up after the bad.

Two men in regular clothes stood in the kitchen doorway writing in little notebooks. One pointed to a dark stain on the recliner. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. The hoarse cackle still filled my head and drowned out everything.

A lady rushed in and scanned the room. She spotted me. Her jaw dropped before she caught herself and closed it. She started toward me, crouching down and holding out a hand while whispering hushing sounds—like when you’re trying to catch a scared animal. That’s how they always treated me. Like a scared, stupid animal.

She knelt and said some stuff I still couldn’t hear. Her hand took mine, and she tried to pull me up. My legs wouldn’t work. I tipped over. She wasn’t a big lady, but she scooped me up and carried me out to a car, still shushing.

I don’t remember much of the ride or being brought into the police station. They sat me in a gray little room with a table and a paper cup of apple juice. I felt a little better. Nothing could hide there.

One of the regular-clothes men came in and pulled a chair closer. He sat and bent down to catch my eye. The cackle had faded.

His voice was deep and soft. “Your name is Lizzie, right?”

I nodded.

“Can you tell me what happened, Lizzie?”

I swallowed. “The bad witch came again.”

His face turned mad, and he shook his head. “Lizzie, we don’t have time for games. You need to tell us what happened.”

“It’s not a game. She…she came again a-a-and killed my mom.”

The muscle in his jaw tensed. “Fine. I’ll play along. Who is the witch? How’d she kill her?”

“I-I don’t know who she is. She just comes…when I get mad. She has long talons on her hands. She,” I sniffled back a sob, “she stuck them in my mom’s neck.”

He sat back and sighed. “Lizzie, we know you did it. You’ll be in less trouble if you just tell the truth and explain what happened.”

Like it had before, my chest tightened as if someone gave me a big bear hug. I closed my eyes and tried to will it away, but my skin flushed hot. I told myself she wouldn’t come now—there was no way she could get in without everyone seeing. She only came when she couldn’t get caught.

Even the witch blames it all on me. After she killed Mom, I asked her why.

The witch cackled. “You wished she would die, didn’t you?”

I had…but I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t help being angry when Mom accused me of lying about what happened when Mrs. Jackson, my teacher, died. Mom said I had to quit making stuff up so they could catch the real killer. I told her I wasn’t making it up. Being mad just happens. I can’t help it.

The regular-clothes man slammed a hand on the table and made me jump.

“Listen, I have a lot of work to do. If you aren’t going to tell the truth, you’ll just go straight to jail.”

I wanted to yell but kept my voice quiet. “I’m not lying. Don’t call me a liar.”

“Don’t lie, and I won’t have to.”

My throat closed up. The anger went from calm to boiling. I shook my head and told it to go away…but it never listened anymore. Just like the witch.

The last thing I remember is her head rising behind the man, her hair covered in moss and green slime, wrinkled hands coming up, talons curling in toward his neck, slicing through the skin. The cackle had returned.

 

Now I sit in a cold room made of cushioned walls.

I shudder and scrunch my shoulders up over my ears as best I can with the jacket on, but the noise comes from inside me, and I can’t shut it out. How she makes me hear it when she’s not even around puzzles me—but then again, all of it does.

Dried blood covers my face and hair, and little pieces flake off when I move. I don’t know how so much blood got on me. I wasn’t close enough. Another puzzle.

More regular-clothes men had come into the little gray room. I huddled in the corner. The original regular-clothes man sprawled on the floor, a pool of red-black spreading under him. They had pointed guns at me and yelled and ran around acting crazy. A lady put a white jacket on me that wraps my arms around my back, and they led me down a bunch of hallways until we got to this room.

It’s not fair. They all keep calling me a liar.

The door opens, and a man in a white uniform starts in.

“Damn, I forgot the sedative.” He turns back, tells two men in white doctor coats he’ll return in a minute, and rushes off.

The white coats stand just outside the cushion room in a bare, gray hallway.

One of the white-coat men says to the other, “It’s a severe psychosis. She seems to really believe someone else is doing it. But all the evidence points to her.”

“Well,” the other says, “some kids are just great liars.”

The anger swells up faster every time. Now, it comes in an instant.

The thing with moss and green slime appears behind the white-coat men in the hallway. She slinks toward them.

I try to yell, to warn them, but only a hoarse cackle comes out.

.
Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I'm Goin' Away

*trigger warning--child sexual abuse
 

 

 

I reckoned Daddy would be mad.

I sat in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, lookin’ at the shiny door handle. The little ridge in the middle pointed sideways. That made me feel funny, weak-like and soggy. My fingers itched to turn it back upright. I just stared and kept my hands in my lap. The old house creaked while it settled, and I thought how thankful I’d be not to hear those sounds no more. I reckoned there was a heap of things I’d be thankful to miss.

***

We lived on Apple Lane, and our creaky house set down by the tracks. That was silly, ‘cause there weren’t no apple trees on our street, only peaches. I lay in bed at night, listenin’ to the trains. They’d scream afore they got to the crossin’. They’d chug and clang past the house, rattlin’ the wavy glass in the window frames. It took them forever to get by, car after car filled with black dusty coal. Teacher said coal turns into diamonds, but I didn’t believe her. I never found no diamonds.

I hated them trains. Their screams reminded me of the orange cat Daddy caught shittin’ under the porch.

“Cats is about as handy as a woman. All they’s good at is naggin’ and shittin’ and fuckin’,” he said. Daddy had lots of ideas ‘bout women.

He took its tail and swung it round and round, laughin’ at the way its hair puffed up. It screamed, the sound windin’ up and fadin’ out. Just like them trains. Acourse, they wasn’t that much alike, specially not when the cat stopped sudden-like against the tree. The bones are still out back, behind Daddy’s old Ford. They turned white and then gray, and I checked every week to make sure they was still there.

After that, I always pictured that cat wailin’ and swingin’ when the trains screamed. It gave me goose pimples, and I had to shut my hands over my ears.

***

As I sat in the bathroom, another creak killed the quiet, and I closed my eyes. Mayhap the wind was comin’ up. I held my breath, so’s I could hear the wind, but it wasn’t howlin’. I opened my eyes and checked the door handle again. It still pointed sideways. I reached out and tried to turn it, real gentle-like. Smooth, cold, slippery. It wouldn’t turn. Down on the floor, the strip of light under the door stayed solid, no shadows breakin’ it up.

Creak. I shut my hands over my ears, closed my eyes again.

***

We wasn’t allowed to lock doors. I don’t mean the front door—that one we locked, acourse. But unless you wanted Daddy to tell you to fetch a switch, and make your butt burn and throb and turn red, you sure didn’t lock no other doors.

Daddy said, “Locked doors mean you don’t trust folks. I reckon you ought trust your family.” He talked ‘bout family a lot.

So we left ‘em open. That’s how Sugarman got in.

At night, after the train screamed, the door swung open real slow. I lay in bed with my ears shut but my eyes open, tryin’ to see who it was. I couldn’t see nothin’ but dark, just like I had my eyes closed. Then a weight come down, makin’ the mattress sag so’s I’d start slidin’ to the edge. Sugarman’s hands caught me, holdin’ me round my belly. I tried to lock my legs together and stayed real still. Acourse, that didn’t help none. Sugarman was real strong.

“Gimme some sugar,” he said. He always wanted sugar.

His breath covered me, sour and sweet, like when the peaches fell off the tree in the backyard and rotted into the black dirt. I hated that smell almost as much as I hated them trains. When the wind was just right, it came in my window with the screamin’ of the trains, so thick I could almost see it.

Sugarman put his slick lips on my mouth. I tried my best to keep my lips shut, but he squeezed my cheeks hard. It made my teeth dig into ‘em, and I had to open. His fat tongue filled my mouth, and it tasted even worse than the peaches smelled. I wished my mind would go away. I wanted to shut my ears and my eyes and everything else. I didn’t want to taste that tongue, or feel the draft on my legs when he pushed my nightdress up. If my mind could’ve gone away, it wouldn’t have mattered what Sugarman did.

***

Mama died a year ago. She stayed in bed for months afore she went. She said she had the cancer. It made her get real skinny. I wanted to sit with her but hated lookin’ at her, so I scrunched my eyes into little slits so only a strip of light come through my eyelashes. She was just a pale blur against the blue flowered sheets. It reminded me of the time we went on a picnic, and she chased me through the field until we fell down and lay on the blossoms, laughin’ in the sun ‘til we couldn’t breathe. But she wasn’t laughin’ in her bed. She hadn’t laughed in a real long time.

“I’m gonna die, Punkin,” she said.

“What’s that like, Mama? What happens when you die?”

“Your mind just goes away, like sleepin’, but you don’t wake up. It makes the pain go away.” She smiled, a blurry, tired smile.

I wanted to know more but was scared to ask. I hoped the goin’ away was like when I turned the TV off and the light shrunk to a bright dot and winked out. Or maybe like water swirlin’ down a drain, without the creepy gurgle sound. I hoped it wasn’t a slow thing, like the peaches rottin’ in the yard, wrinkled and crawlin’ with bugs. Anything but that.

She went to sleep after that, and I reckon her mind went away.

***

I thought a heap about makin’ my mind go away once Sugarman started comin’ in. I knew how to make it go away, ‘cause I saw ‘em do the hogs and chickens. They screamed, too, but without the fadin’. Their screams turned to hissin’ gurgles. I wondered if they had pain and if it went away. They didn’t have much mind, but I reckoned it went away just the same.

I'd took the butcher knife out the shed and went to the bathroom with it.

I'd locked the door and sat lookin’ at the knife for a spell. My reflection stared back at me. I didn’t like that—it made a big lump in my throat—so I stopped lookin’ and left the blade in my lap. Instead, I watched the door handle, listenin’ and waitin’, with the cold porcelain sendin’ chills deep into my bones. I thought about Daddy and everything looked red of a sudden. It got me awful riled up. I reckoned it was Daddy’s fault that Sugarman got in. If Daddy woulda let me lock the door, Sugarman wouldn’t have come, and I wouldn’t need to make my mind go away.

***

The strip of light under the door grew brighter as the sun fell. It was gettin’ to be time. Time’s a funny thing, too. It goes faster just when a body wants it to slow down.

I breathed deep, tryin’ to make my heart quit thumpin’. It sounded funny with my ears shut, like the wind got in my head while a horse thundered in my chest. I took my hands off my ears and picked up the knife. It was heavier and more real, like it might come alive. My fingers held it real tight as I slid down to the floor and waited.

***

When the front door slammed, I took the knife to my neck, just like they did with the hogs.

Everything turned red for real.

Daddy called my name. Footsteps rumbled down the hall. The strip of light under the door broke up and disappeared like when the sun goes behind clouds. The door handle jiggled. I dropped the knife.

“Why’s this damn door locked? You in there, Punkin?”

The red squirted and dripped. Daddy banged on the wood, but it sounded far-off, a rumble in my bones more than my ears. In between the poundin’, a train screamed. I wished my mind would go away afore Daddy got in. He hit the door harder, and it flew open. His eyes opened big, as if he seen a ghost.

“No more Sugarman, Daddy.” My voice sounded funny and made me want to laugh.

But when Daddy leaned over me, I smelled Sugarman’s breath. My laugh came out a whistlin’ scream, like the trains, windin’ up and fadin’ away.

*This piece is not intended to endorse or condone suicide. It was written as a cathartic, therapeutic piece of fiction. If you need someone to listen, please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-Talk (8255) or visit www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org.


Image courtesy of Sura Nualpradid at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

In Pieces

With every word, he strips away another piece of me.

“I need to move on,” he says.

“Why? What did I do wrong?” I hate the pathetic desperation in my voice.

One more bit flutters to floor, lying among the scattered pieces of dignity and self-respect. Each speck will wither and die like the blackened rose petals around the vase on the coffee table. He bought those two weeks ago. Did he know then?

“I told you, it’s nothing you did. It’s me.”

“Christ, don’t use a line on me. At least be honest. You owe me that much.”

“I’m being honest.”

He edges toward the door, bag in hand. He’s been trying to leave for three hours. The five o’clock shadow at noon makes his face haggard, and those blue eyes that bring me to my knees shift from me to the door. He’s desperate, too—desperate to escape.

“Fuck you. Go ahead, leave.” I turn my back to him.

“Don’t act like that. You know it isn’t working.”

“No, I don’t. I gave you everything. You just want a new piece of ass.”

Not true, but I’ll say anything now. Anything to prolong the shallow last gasps.

“There’s no one else.” A tired sigh. The door knob squeaks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Another piece ripped off, baring the ugliest parts of me.

“The hell you didn’t. You never gave a shit about me.”

No response. I turn around, and he’s gone.

At least now I can cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Fire Inside

Forsaken at forty, I've lost my autonomy. I still have my mind, talents, skills. It's my body that betrays me. All those years I prided myself on strength and hard work, on doing what needed done whether it taxed my limits or not - now I pay for those years by living with a cruel master....

Fire rules my life. It decides when I rise and fall. It dictates whether I conquer the day or endure it. It determines how I behave and think and feel.

A mist dampens the blaze, a brief reprieve. But the relief demands a price to bankrupt my soul, stealing the only value I have left: words.

The inferno advances, fingers of pain streaking across the landscape with a pitiless roar. My escape cut off, I can only hide and whisper a plea for a little more time, a little more time before it strikes the inevitable crippling blow, a little more time to work and play and love.

How long can I hold the fire at bay?


Not long enough. Never long enough.

Image courtesy of twobee at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A Storm Coming

Insidious fingers reach inside, through the layers of flesh, seeking delicate filaments. Claws of heat and ice, tipped with needles, burrow and tunnel until they find their mark. They tease, light, gentle—oh so gentle—as they explore the innermost reaches of my soul. The fingers whisper of a storm coming, like a breeze that ruffles flower petals on a lazy, muggy afternoon while dark clouds swell on the horizon.

 

 

 

 

I brace myself for the storm. Cover the flowers, close the windows, and retreat to the deepest, darkest corner in search of shelter. I hide and wait for it to pass.
 
Will it spare me this time? Might the frenzy pass me by? When I emerge, will I find my world intact?
 
Not this time. The wind and whispers grow louder, into a howl of thunderous glee, a scream of fury. The tender exploration turns savage when the fingers find a rift in my defenses. Talons rip through tissue and slake their bloodlust. Like lightning striking a tree, the fingers seek the heart and set it afire, burning and charring until nothing remains but a blackened, wispy skeleton.
 
The storm rages, the beast ravages. Nothing could survive the tempest. Yet I must, I do. Until the fingers whisper again.





Image courtesy of prozac1 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A Battered Dove

Lily knelt on the floor, scrubbing muddy tracks from the rough boards with a stiff brush, and counted the different doves who'd shopped during the week. A knock on the window made her drop the brush and fumble in the folds of fabric at her hip. She found the smooth grip of the gun and lifted her gaze.

Jessie’s face peered in the window between cupped hands, looking toward the back of the store.

Lily let out a gust of air and released the small pistol. She pushed herself up, wincing at her  stiff back and aching knees.

She unlocked the door and smiled, but the girl’s face brought a grimace. “Good morning, Jessie.”

The battered dove gave a small smile. “Mornin’, Miss Wright.”

Dark yellows, browns, and a tinge of maroon tainted half of Jessie’s face. The swelling had abated, but puffy skin still distended the left side, and the eyelid sagged without muscle control.

Lily tried not to stare at the drooping eye and opened the door wider. “Come in, come in. I’m glad you came.”

Jessie limped in. Her body bent to one side in a swaying shuffle, like a wilted flower.

“Do you want to come in back and sit? I’ll make some coffee ….”

“No, ma’am. Don’t want to put you out. I just came by to thank you for helpin’ me the other night.”

She waved a hand. “It was nothing. I only put some salve on it. Please, sit down. Really, it’s no bother at all.” She walked toward the back.

Jessie followed after a moment. In the back room, she let out a soft grunt as she eased into the chair at the table.

“How is everything? You look better.” Lily set the kettle on the stove before pulling two tin cups from a shelf over the washbasin. She left them on the table and sat on a second chair she’d found discarded in the alley.

“I’m still kickin’. My side still hurts quite a lot, but I can get around.”

Lily pointed her chin at the place where Jessie held her hand against her ribs. “I expect they may be broken. Did you see a doctor?”

Jessie snorted. “That chiseler stole my stash. I ain’t got no money to pay a doc. Them parlor girls get their doc paid for, but I ain’t no parlor girl.”

“I see. Well, I imagine it will heal too, if you take it easy.”

She shrugged and tucked a strand of drab hair behind her ear. “Ain’t much work layin’ on my back.”

Heat crept into Lily’s cheeks, and she jumped up to check the kettle. “Have you looked around recently? For a parlor, I mean.” She focused on the coffee to hide her discomfort. “They’re opening a new one every other day, it seems. Maybe you could find a spot in one. They’re … safer. From what I hear, at least.”

“They don’t want a beat up girl like me. You think the fellas get it up lookin’ at this?” She swept her hand around her face. “Ain’t had but one job since I got worked over, and he took it from the backside.”

Lily’s eyes flew open, and her hands froze in the middle of pouring the coarse ground beans into the pot. No one had ever spoken of sex so openly or crudely to her. Her mouth worked to form a response, but embarrassment left her speechless. The silence grew heavy as she finished the coffee.

She turned to the table and caught Jessie smoothing a smirk from her face. Lily frowned and lowered her head, annoyed—and a touch hurt. The girl had nerve laughing at her after she’d taken her in and fixed her up, even if it was only a quick bit of salve. Lily poured the coffee and sat, still silent.

Jessie chuckled. “I’m sorry. Just wondered what you’d say. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” She tilted her head and caught Lily’s eye. “You don’t make much sense, you know. Only ladies I’ve ever heard bein’ nice to us girls for no reason are the nuns down mountain at the charity hospital. You ain’t a nun. So I can’t figure ….” She leaned forward to cradle the warm cup in her hands and watched Lily with a question in her eyes.

Lily chewed her lip, unsure how to respond without giving too much away. “I just don’t see any reason you girls should be treated so poorly. I’ve learned you girls are mostly just doing what you have to do to get along. It’s not my place to judge you or anyone else. I’ve … made my share of mistakes, I suppose. It hurt when I was judged for them.” She met Jessie’s gaze, and let one corner of her mouth pull back with mild amusement. “And honestly, it’s not entirely without reason. There are a lot of you, and I need the business. If I can help a little along the way, even better.”

Jessie lifted a brow. “I guess I could see that.” She took a sip of coffee from the side of her mouth, avoiding the scab on her cut lip. “I’d gamble there’s more to it, but I’ll take that.”

Lily averted her eyes and wiped the table. Was she that transparent? She gave Jessie a strained smile and shrugged. “That’s really all there is. I’m just trying to get the store going.”

An uneasy silence fell between them.

Lily took a drink and studied Jessie over the rim of the cup. She wanted to ask what she wondered about all of the doves. “What are your plans? For the future? What do you really want?”

Jessie licked the cracked skin of her lip and gazed at the floor. Her face held no spark of hope or joy. Her voice went flat. “Used to think I could find a fella and have a farm, a family, a place of our own. Don’t guess that’ll happen now. I guess I ain’t got no plan. I expect I’ll just keep on.”

Lily thought she knew what Jessie left unspoken; she didn’t expect to live long enough to need plans.

“Maybe that will still happen,” Lily said, giving Jessie’s hand a tentative squeeze.

Jessie offered a weary smile, but it seemed an automatic response, like a puppeteer pulling on strings. “I better get goin’. Thanks for the coffee.”


-- Excerpt from my manuscript, When Doves Fly.


*Dove, short for soiled dove, was a euphemism for prostitute.

 

Yesterday

Yesterday is my ghost. It follows me in every moment, trailing behind like the scent of sorrow, like the touch never felt, like a memory hidden in time. I close my senses and try to forget, but yesterday never fades.

Days past haunt me with accusations of What if? Whispers in the murky depths of my mind, soft, slithering, sinister, reopen the wounds and remind me of my faults. Bad timing, wrong places, poor choices. I’ll never know what might have been. Yesterday steals the answers and leaves only questions.

I yearn for escape, seeking the light of another sunrise and the changing of the guard to chase yesterday away. With my head on my pillow, I dream of a new beginning without the burdens of my ghost, my yesterday. The new day comes, yet my companion still resides within.

Yesterday is invisible, a spirit without form. Still, it is always with me; it never fades. Yesterday is my ghost.




 

 

 

Image courtesy of hyena reality at FreeDigitalPhotos.net


The Last Christmas

Early Christmas morning, Edward kissed Helen’s hand, just as he had on their honeymoon fifty-four years earlier, and laid it back on her chest. His thumb brushed the heart-shaped birthmark on the side of her throat. For a painful second, he believed his eyes when they told him her faint lashes had fluttered on her cheek. He knew it wasn’t so.

 

His Helen was gone and had been for an hour. He sat talking to her after her final soft exhalation of breath, holding her hand and ignoring the way her skin lost its warmth as the minutes passed.

With tears spilling from his rheumy eyes, he explained all those days he’d risen in the morning with dark circles betraying a sleepless night.

“You always believed my excuse of insomnia—didn’t you? I was too embarrassed to tell you why I didn’t sleep…. I would lie next to you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest on nights when the moon was full, watching your lashes flutter against your cheek while you dreamed. In the quiet, I watched you sleep, still unable to believe, after five years or ten or forty, that you had chosen me and loved me despite my bad habits and big nose and quiet ways. I never got over that disbelief, and I studied you at night to memorize the line of your jaw, the slight upturn of your nose, the precise color of your lips—afraid one day you might come to your senses and find a man without so many faults. You were too loyal for that, I know, but I watched you sleep just the same.”

Now he would have to face the nights with only the memory engraved by thousands of moonlit hours.

Edward grabbed his cane and pushed himself up from the bedside chair. The dull ache in his knees flared brighter, his hands seemed to tremble more, the color of the sunrise appeared muted and flat as he shuffled from the hospital room. Nurses offered condolences, but he hardly heard them. He made his way down to the lobby, aware that the sharp antiseptic smell had vanished from the hallways. Reaching the bus stop, he lit his pipe, but the tobacco had no flavor. Helen had taken the essence of everything with her.

 

He went through the motions of life: rising in the morning, eating at the proper times, and keeping the house neat. But the days held no meaning, and the moon illuminated nothing. More and more, Edward sat in his easy chair, staring at nothing, with no one to notice.

On a Sunday, as Edward walked home from the bus stop with his small bag of groceries in one hand and his cane in the other—going through the motions—he was woolgathering, wondering how long he would have to endure his faded imitation of life before death would finally embrace him. A weak whimper interrupted his thoughts. He paused on the sidewalk and tilted his head, thinking the noise might have come from his own lips. The cry came again, from a solitary lilac bush growing wild at the park’s edge.

He bent to see deeper into the thick shadows. Curled in the dirt, a patch of darkness whimpered again. Edward lowered himself, pushing away the pain and stiffness, until he kneeled beside the bush and parted the profusion of heart-shaped leaves. An Irish Setter puppy peered back at him. The animal trembled and whined, shrinking back.

“Here, pup,” Edward whispered. He tried to suppress the palsied tremor in his hand and held it out to the puppy.

The dog watched him with wary eyes for several minutes, gaze darting for an escape. It started to lean forward, pulled back, started toward him again. Edward kept his hand out and waited. Inching toward him, the setter stretched its neck out, and ventured a nervous lick at his hand. He let it sniff until it came out further. The puppy wagged its tail as it slinked into the gap between Edward’s legs and huddled there. The perfume of lilac came to him then, overwhelming in its dizzying sweetness.

The pup wore no collar. Edward carried it home, and made it a small bed, and cooked some food for it, grumbling that he didn’t want the burden. He told himself he had no business keeping a dog and would find her another home. He scanned the paper for days and checked the neighborhood for flyers. In case someone called, he left his name and number with the dog pound, but the phone stayed silent.

 

On the fourth day, as he sat in his easy chair and the dog lay at his feet, he felt her eyes on him. He resisted the urge to meet her gaze. Her head lay on her paws and she crept closer and closer. He wouldn’t give in. Soon she lifted her head, slow and sneaky, until it touched the hand resting on the chair’s arm. She nuzzled it and insinuated her head under it. Edward sighed and let his hand smooth the silky hair, then scratched her ear. As his hand drifted lower, she lifted her chin, asking for more. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat. For the first time, he noticed a tiny white patch there. Shaped like a heart. His resistance melted away, tears dampened her hair, and he named her Ellie.

He chastised her for getting on the bed and nosing through the trash. Ellie followed him around the house and sat patiently by the door when she needed to go out. They went on walks, neighborhood children begged to play with Ellie, and she obliged. Edward and Ellie watched old movies on Saturday nights, with her in the spot beside his chair and his hand resting on her head. She lay next to his bed every night. When he woke, he would find her soulful gaze on him, watching.

The color seeped back into the sunset. Food tasted better, and his pipe, left in its stand on the mantel for ages, found its way back into his shirt pocket. Smells returned, sounds became richer once more. Ellie brought the essence of everything back to him.

 
Early Christmas morning, Ellie snuck onto the bed with Edward. Her big dark eyes watched him sleep. And when the last soft breath left his lips, she licked his hand as it lay on his chest.

On Christmas Morning

He claps his hands, his face suffused with joy, and runs off to write a Christmas wish list. He's giddy at the idea of waking up there; he wonders what they'll have under the tree, and how they'll spend the day.

I sit alone, smothering the bitterness roiling at the one disrupting our lives after years of indifference and absence, and instead focus on the happiness it will bring the one I love.

I sit alone, avoiding thoughts of the deafening silence I'll hear when I wake at a reasonable hour, instead of at the crack of dawn with warm little hands nudging me and a squeal of delight, "Santa came!"

I sit alone, refusing to listen to that slithering whisper in the back of my mind. What if he likes it better there?

I sit alone, wondering if he'll come home and ask, innocent and unaware of the rending of my heart, "Mom, can I go live with him?"

I sit alone, anticipating silence.

Thanksgiving: Generations

I scurry about the house, jittery, focusing on the preparations. It’s always like this. In the hours before everyone arrives, the idea of the family dinner intimidates me. I try to conjure ideas for witty conversation while spreading table cloths and pulling dishes from cabinets, but when the time comes, all wit escapes me.

Seasons mark the passage of time, like generations retiring to make room for the young. Some people like spring. The new growth and cool showers rejuvenate them. Others like summer, basking in the sun and outdoor fun. Then there are those who baffle me with their affinity for the snow and teeth-chattering short days of winter. My favorite is autumn. I love the warm colors falling like rain drops from the trees. I love the metallic tang in the air when I step outside. I love Thanksgiving, and a large family dinner. Everyone leaves their far-flung corners to gather for sustenance, physical and emotional.

I set out silverware and plates, arrange napkins, and devise a centerpiece. As I move about the long, make-shift arrangement of tables lined end-to-end, I envision everyone, already in their chairs, chattering and laughing as they wait for the feast. As I notice a similarity of traits in my clan, the image focuses on three figures.

My grandfather sits at the head of the table. His balding head gleams in the soft light, his large frame cocked to the left, with his elbows planted on the table. His huge hands, seamed with wrinkles and age spots that belie my childhood memories of a man in his prime, link loosely together just below his square chin. Thin lips press together in the slightest of smiles. It’s difficult to tell if his smile is the outward expression of a sense of superiority, which lies just below the surface, or simply mild amusement. There's something fantastic in his shoulders, in the way he holds them, as if an invisible mantle hangs upon them that bestows a greater…everything. He pulls his shoulders back and holds them straight, steadfast. They embody the pride he carries with him, like a coat of armor, inspiring admiration for the soldier of years past. His shoulders have carried large burdens, too heavy for many men. They embody strength and security. But armor can shield too well, preventing true closeness and intimacy. I'm certain I'll never peel that armor back quite far enough to see what hides underneath.

Then I picture my brother. He sits much looser, without the obvious rigid control of the man beside  him; he projects less visible tension. But as he shifts in his chair, I spot the signs of restlessness. He’s never still for long. His hands, so similar to his grandfather’s, are gentler in some indefinable way. They rest upon the table, then cradle the back of his head as he leans back with a sigh. The arms are thinner, more sinuous. But his shoulders mimic his ancestor's. Not quite as broad, but they have the same lines. I see the deeper differences, though. These shoulders speak of more pain endured and truly felt; absorbed rather than deflected. They do not offer the same inviting impression of security. More vulnerable, less guarded. But I know they shelter something within. The armor isn’t as thick, but it’s made from the same resilient material and formed from the same mold.

Last, I see my son in my vision. The thought brings a tightening in my chest; an unbearable ache, a need to hold him and keep him always within my reach. He squirms in his chair, that dazzling, mischievous smile lighting upon anyone who looks his way. Overwhelmed by the larger-than-normal crowd and all of the attention, his eyes flicker to me for reassurance.

He reminds me of the leaves swirling in a blustery autumn breeze, free and loose. Yet his excitement prompts a virtual vibration of his entire body, invisible energy on the verge of explosion. He sits straight, then leans to grab the cup belonging to the person next to him, then shifts to look at the people at the far end of the table who erupted in laughter, his green eyes opening wide in surprise. Between his bursts of movement, I catch a glimpse of his hands and his smile; the hands of a small child, the smile of a cherub. But when I look closer, I notice his hands are large for a boy his size, with long, slender fingers--exactly like his grandfather’s and uncle’s hands. He reaches to rub his ear, brushing away the bronze-red hair that tickled it. He has a slim neck, with the spot under his ear that I can’t help nuzzling whenever he allows me to restrain him for the briefest moment. He has the shoulders, too. They aren't as big or as broad, of course. On a child, they look as fragile as the whisper-thin bones of a hummingbird. But potential inhabits his shoulders. I try to imagine the man he will become, but it's too soon, and the picture eludes me. I pray he won't encounter too much pain, but I know he will bear his share. I hope when he meets challenges, he learns to absorb what makes him grow and learn, and manages to deflect what can damage his soul. His shoulders will carry burdens, and his hands will bear scars. Just like his grandfather and uncle.

I finish the settings, making small adjustments, fidgeting until it's just right. The aroma of rich food--turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie--fills the air. I admonish my son to stop playing with the napkins I just folded and scoop him up as he giggles. I bury my face in that precious spot on his neck, inhale his little boy scent, and endure the painful swell of love he brings to my heart.

The others arrive, and I hug my grandfather and brother. As each embrace me, my cheek nestles against their shoulders. They comfort me and calm my nerves.

 

Image courtesy of Apolonia at FreeDigitalPhotos.net