This will be where I share short stories and other things I have written, or am working on, for those of you who would enjoy reading them.  I think it will jumpstart that side of my creativity, which can be as slow-moving as my over-50 metabolism,  to share them; and will lead me to writing more.  So I hope you enjoy.  Happy reading, and welcome to the Corners of my Mind!

 

 

I have always hated falling backwards.  Not that falling in any other direction is my preferred form of exercise.  But it might as well be, if the regularity with which I find myself doing it is any indication of preference.  But there is something about not being able to see where I am going, about falling blindly into darkness, that has always terrified me.  I still jerk upright, gasping, hands reaching, certain that I've fallen from an airplane or off a cliff, genuinely surprised to find myself in bed, to have only broken my sleep.  Because most of the time, I know when I'm dreaming.  But not when I'm dreaming of flying, somehow.  Or falling.  All of which is probably symptomatic of deep, hidden disturbance.  Apparently, badly hidden, only by daylight.  Ahem!

 

I think falling in love is a lot like falling backwards.  The same gasping fear, reaching out in the dark for something that might not be there to break the fall.  That's why both of them, falling and falling in love, evoke the same instinctive response from me: I wonder, in those long seconds before impact, "Oh my God, how did I let this happen?!"  I guess it's possible that I have simply chosen badly when I've fallen in love.  They haven't, upon reflection, all been nice guys.  Some were just good at pretending to be.  And I was not always quick to see the false shine of their pretense. There was something in each of them, genuine or contrived, which compelled me over the sea wall of my natural caution into Deep Water. 

 

So now, I tell myself that I have cleared my lungs of salt water for the last time.  From now on, all guys will stay on the far side of the sea wall.  Friendship can be very satisfying.  Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.  I have stuck to my decision so far, and I haven't been unhappy.  A friend took me to a farm one weekend, and now, I spend the most peaceful hour of the week riding a horse.  We love each other, and take care of each other, and touch each other with kindness and respect.   I am so often betrayed by balance and gravity, but here, on Little Vic's back, I have finally learned to run.  I have fallen into this little victory, and he has shared his speed with me. Except for occasionally posting on the wrong diagonal, I'm doing very well.  And I'm really not afraid of falling anymore.  Perhaps I've used up all of my fear, and I just don't have the capacity to worry about breaking my neck, or a leg, or my heart.  Anyway, Winston Churchill said it's a very good death to die, taken at a gallop.  So I guess I'll live a little longer:  I'm still working on the Canter.

Words are, because they fly, like birds,

Freely, between you and me,

Just a ladder,

Breeding Trust, and what lasts beyond

Pain or Change or Time or Rust,

Leading to Higher Ground

And it is in this Higher Space

That you have found your place in me.

And you lend me the Strength to 

Stand the Sting of the Rain

When it finds the Chinks in my Armor  

No more will I sit watching Gnarled Sins

Dance In the Desert of my Soul

I refuse to use my life like this,

and so Grow old inside, and

waste the Music that I Hear

I intend that the Desert will one day meet the Sea,

And Disappear,

Because Nothing Dances Like Me,

and I don't remember Fear

 

That's from a poem I wrote. I texted it to my little brother and my sister in law (Hi, Kids!) so they can recite it for me from the top of Machu Picchu, and it will sort of be like I am there with them. I did attend their wedding in Peru, but that was quite a while ago. I was younger then, and even so I had just hurt my back, and walking was really difficult and painful. I told Keven that it would be easier for me to give him a kidney, but he wanted me to be at his wedding. I wouldn't disappoint my little brother, so I started walking several hours a day to get myself stronger. I walked so much that I gave myself plantars fasciitis. I started meeting a group of friends after work on the patio down the street from the office. I remember telling them, "I've started burning my hand on the stove every day to prepare myself for what this trip is going to feel like." (Don't try this at home.) But I did attend his wedding, and I am very glad, even though in some ways, it was even harder than I expected. Nothing can replace the memory of being at his wedding and seeing him so happy.

 

And because I was walking so much, I happened to be outside in the parking lot of my office, walking up and down the sidewalk by the back door, which had a handrail, when Damon Gensel drove by.  He was playing geo caching with his son.  I hadn't seen him in years.  But he stopped his truck and jumped out and ran to hug me.  We reconnected.  So I got to be with him, in a small way, during his fight with leukemia.  My dad and Heather both went with me to visit him in the hospital.  Nothing can replace that, either.  And I got to have that memory because I was walking, in the morning, at lunch, and at night, for a few minutes before I went home. We all still miss you, Damon.  So all kinds of blessings flow from hard work and discipline. 

 

So I have to more agile with my mind and more resilient in my spirit, since my body doesn't like to cooperate so easily. I beat it into something like submission daily. I do believe in Astral Projection. But it's cool to live your life from Higher Ground. The view is panoramic :) I see things that most people probably miss. Here's hoping that, "If you Build It, They will Come", doesn't only work for baseball diamonds in the middle of your Corn :) Lots and lots of corn here....

 

The Game of Life

 

Really What Matters to Pitcher or Batter

Isn't the State of his Stance

It's the choice that he makes

as he Stands at the Plate,

In the Face of Folly and Chance

To embrace All of his Fate,

Whatever its Weight:

The Music, the Storm, and the Dance

It is too real

This can't be true--

(I don't feel the same as you)

Because it is not just

(I am nothing without Justice)

Without it, welcome the Nemesis, I must.

Appearances are made of glass, easily broken,

Though not so easily broken through.

(Look, blink, and they pass.)

If you please--even if you don't--

This is my Heartblood.

In its flood I stand and cry out

when it is Hot,

sometimes when it's not.

I am based in those that last

and fill me with Talkative voices

(Those that make my Choices--by them I live with Consequence.)

It is too much to ask for perfection

(Though some are nearly there)

You won't find it where you dropped it.

The less-than-perfect easily seen is slight

And superficial.

(It has no Tangible Dark.)

Surprise: Perfection is an inside-out sort of thing.

It stands inside and lets out a Tarzan yell

That you might hear and want to see--

Come closer and find the Tarzan in me!

It is there and I want to share

(that I might have more.)

I hope that Allusion adds no Confusion here.

(Meaning should be clear and full of light.)

The animal in me is all Grace and Beauty,

(Which soothes the savage Man.)

Her music calms as only the Perfect can.

(Please listen and believe.

It is the Philosopher in me who introduced My bit of Tarzan.

And it is he who gives true and plenty as Only Aristotle can.)

SMA 1985

They say that there are certain chemicals in Chocolate

that make you feel like you're in love and thus proceed

to heal a Limping Heart

I am eating chocolate now, and thinking of you just the same

When I should be learning to walk again

and forgetting your name, not yearning for the sound of your voice

and the look of your face 

My heart yet sustains its sprain

I see you and I hesitate and I almost wait for you

I sit down to tie my shoe and decide that we are through:

Though we were never two, I am through with you,

Who never started to be with me

I dig out my Hershey's and gather my books, and though I still want to stay

Perhaps you watch me walk away

WHEN WISHES WERE HORSES

 

by Suzanne M. Adams

 

 

I saw a man who looked like Matt today in the grocery store. And when I saw him, I couldn't help thinking that he still looked like the little boy in the Oscar Mayer commercial, singing about his b-o-l-o-g-n-a. I touched him on the sleeve, and I surprised us both when I looked up into the face of a stranger. I spoke my apology, "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else", allowed him a small social smile when he said, "I wish I were", and walked away pushing a cart suddenly full of memories, disappointment, and relief.

 

In the beginning, I was nothing. I wonder if it would have been different if, instead of playing Beethoven and Mozart and Bach and reading Shakespeare and Milton and Dr. Suess to me while I was in her womb, I had heard my mother's voice saying, "You will grow up happy and beautiful. You will be everything. Everything you need to be." I know my mother. And I know it just didn't occur to her that I would ever grow up anything other than happy and beautiful. I just don't know if it would have made any difference if it had occurred to her. That was when happiness became complicated, and life was shaded by its presence or absence. Chasing happiness was like chasing a wild horse: it made me tired, sore, and anything but happy. My mother called it the Year I Didn't Smile, making it something awesome and bloody, like the Seven Years' War. It was gently suggested that I "talk to someone". So I spent my time in the day rooms of some immaculate, expensive places, waiting for someone to poke me in just the right place and say, "There! There it is!" and pull away all the bloody thorns to send me home, healed and happy and beautiful, to my mother. But it didn't happen that way, of course. I found out that my life was not a fairy tale. Pumpkins were pumpkins, mice were mice, and happy endings required more than a collection of actors and props.

 

If I close my eyes, I can see that familiar scene: "Okay, Megan, the parents and the establishment are gone, so let's just be straight with each other. I'm not one of those white-coated jerks who just waltzed out of here. I come in with a fistful of their diagnoses and their clinical observations, and I usually throw them in the nearest trash can. I really want to know what you think."

"What I think? About what?"

"About all this."

"Why do you want to know what I think? You're the doctor. You came here to doctor me, so do it."

"That's not going to help any."

"What's not going to help?"

"We won't get anywhere until you get rid of that chip on your shoulder. You won't feel better until you decide that you want to feel better."

"I don't see what's so wrong with the way I feel now. It's not like I slit my wrists or swallowed two hundred aspirin or I've filled my room with shredded newspaper. Those are crazy things, and I've never done them. I don't see the point in paying you a hundred and fifty bucks an hour to thresh out the little kinks in my personality. Everybody's got kinks. My parents just have the money to pay you to find all of mine. I'll give you a list. Then can I go home?"

Matt sighed. "You know, in a big way, you really have to heal yourself."

"Great. I say I'm cured. Let's go, I'm beat."

"I mean it. But you're right. It has been a long day. You like ice cream?"

The first time I dreamed of horses, they mocked me. Snorting, laughing, raising dust, they mocked me, a dumb beast naked without forelock, mane, or tail.

"Who are you? What are you?" they asked, tugging at my essence. I gave them nothing. They cantered around me, taunting me in a language I did not know, their verbs running fast and fluid. I tugged back, but, hopelessly human, I was denied entry into their brotherhood. And then they left me, the dust thick with their scent, their fraternity scattering to the horizon. I didn't understand that dream: I had always loved horses, and yet, my mind was using them to torment me. I would go down to the stable to give my horse, Red, an apple, but I couldn't ride him anymore. All I could do was wish like hell I had the guts to put my boot in his stirrup again. But that's the way it was: Suddenly, Red was all of my wishes. Somehow, all of my wishes were horses, and I was a beggar learning to ride.

"So, doc, interpret my dream. Does it tell you about an unhappy childhood, unresolved feelings toward my mother, latent fears of open spaces?"

"What do you have for breakfast, Megan? Nails? I think that you need to tell me about your childhood, your mother, and your latent fears, and then I'll tell you about your dream. Start anywhere you want."

"Why should I be intimidated by that? All I've got to do is condense my life into a five-paragraph theme and a character sketch or two--"

"Isn't every life a character sketch, anyway?"

"Sometimes I'm almost sure you're a quack. Are you sure you don't need to recline on the sofa for a while?"

"Meg, I'll make a deal with you. If you'll be straight with me for an hour, then you can ask me anything you want. Okay?"

"Anything, eh? Okay. . .my childhood was good and bad, like most people's, I guess. I remember sitting up in bed in the middle of the night and screaming "Daddy! Daddy! I want a drink of WAAAAATERRRRR!" and he always came and brought me one, even though I know I must have bugged the hell out of him. He was never even mad, just a little sleepy. Or else it was "Daddy! I have to go to the BAAAATHROOOOM!". It was probably the happiest day of his life when I could reach the cups and the faucet by myself, because I still hardly ever sleep through the night without getting up for a drink. And then, of course, I have to go to the bathroom. Now my mother always thinks that we have prowlers because I never turn on the lights when I get up. I don't need them. I've lived in that house all my life. Is there something neurotic about drinking water in the dark? "And I remember this boy, Octavius, who used to beat me up every day during recess until he decided it wasn't fun anymore. No one ever did anything about it. He was black and I was white, so of course it was a racial thing. He must have been about thirteen then, and he went around most of the time with two of his fingers in this mouth and the other two on either side of his nose." I demonstrated. "Like this. I'm sure he's going to be a brain surgeon, know what I mean? He and his friends tortured me for years. I really hated him for what he did to me. I hated myself for trying to make him like me just so he'd never hit me again. It wasn't worth it. I felt like a coward. Bruises at least were honorable. But what does any of this have to do with why I can't ride anymore? It's not because I don't want to. I want to be able to do everything. Why does that make me feel like I can't do anything?" I started to cry, which was a betrayal of the family code: "Composure Before All Things".

Matt sat beside me. "Why do you think you have to be able to do everything?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should be able to handle it by now."

"Handle what?"

"Oh, I don't know, everything. Anything. But I can't. Everything gets to me. Anything that happens makes me cry. I hate it. I've got to develop self-control. I've got to grow up. Tears are for weaklings and infants. I'm not an infant, so I must be a weakling."

"Tell me about a situation you think you didn't `handle'."

"You don't have time for this. You retire in thirty years."

"Give me the highlights."

"I can't argue. Even if I'm absolutely furious, I can't scream and yell. I don't have the words for what I feel. I only burst into tears. So I get madder and cry harder. Which makes me madder and madder until I can't breathe, and I run from the room to keep from dying. I always think my heart is exploding, but it never has." "The first step is learning when to fight. Start with me. Whenever I make you angry, tell me. Look me in the eye and say, `Matt, it really makes me mad when you do that'. I think that's it for now. Now, if you want to freshen up, I'm ready to be interrogated."

"I'll be right back."

"Meg? Remember something for me. Tears are just an honest expression of how we all feel sometimes. And without them, what would become of all those people who make facial tissue? They'd be out in the street, kiddo! Could you live with that on your conscience? The poverty? The hunger? The millions of runny noses? Talk about your ugly Americans--"

"I get the message, Doc."

"How many times have you been in love?"

"Not going to get too personal, eh? A few times, but they all started to resent the time I spend with my patients, especially the ones that mean a lot to me."

"That's unfair!"

"No, it's just human, and I'll be more accommodating when it means more to me. I think it's time to go on a trip."

"Where to?" I asked. "You have the most unorthodox methodology!"

"Don't I? We're going to visit a horse."

"But, Matt,--" "Don't worry." Matt dragged me to the stable. "Have no fear. I'm practically Clark Kent with an M.D." He led the horse out of his stall. "Meg, we have to go for a ride. Red's dying for some exercise." I found Red's saddle.

"Did you miss me? I missed you," I told him. "Sometimes it takes me a while to conquer my fears of--"

"Of what?"

"It really is rude, the way we have of interrupting each other. What would Miss Manners say? I was trying to talk to my horse!"

"Miss Manners would probably tell us we don't HAVE any manners. Your horse will forgive me. What are you afraid of? Disappointment? Not getting what you want? Failure? You're going to face all of those feelings. It's what Miss Manners would call an Unpleasant Fact of Life."

"Why? I could stay here, write poetry, and look forward to afternoon tea for the rest of my life! It worked for Emily Dickinson."

"You have discovered the line between living and existing. You have to decide which you would rather do. Living incurs greater risks, but it also provides greater rewards." The thought of fifty years of afternoon tea made me stiff. I stood up in the saddle.

"I'll race you to the orchard!" Matt had a faster horse. Who was I to compete with Clark Kent? I didn't feel like I had lost. I could feel only gratitude.

The next time I dreamed of horses, I was standing in Red's stall. He became a man. His arms were around me, and he kissed me. "Tell me what you wish for, Meg. We can look for it together." I entered his spirit. When he spoke, I answered him with speed. I followed him to the horizon, fast and fluid.

Matt told me I was making what is known in psychiatry as "significant progress toward personal revelation of the deepest profundity". I wondered if he learned anything in medical school other than how to sling the bull. Matt excused himself to make a phone call, so I went home. I ran upstairs to my room. And I saw my mother-- reading my journal. I forced myself to look her in the eye. "I cannot believe this. Did it occur to you to ask me whatever you wanted to know so badly?" My stomach muscles knotted.

"Would you have answered me?" The knife was thrown. Find words. "I don't know." Remain calm.

"How am I supposed to know what's going on? You never tell me anything!"

"I'm sure Matt has told you I'm not suicidal." Angry words.

"You think that's all I need to know?"

"You mean it's not?"

"Of course it's not!"

"You don't listen to me when I talk to you."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Yes, it is. But you've found out everything I wouldn't have told you." I took the notebook. "I hope you found it fascinating." Tears are imminent. Exit.

"Megan,--"

"Mother, excuse me." I crossed the room with the shreds of my composure, and I ran with them clenched in my fists to the stable. Red and I rode out to the orchard. I opened my fists to let shreds of composure rain from between my fingers. I had to tell Matt. Maybe this was it--my "personal revelation of the deepest profundity"! I ran down the hall to his office. "Matt!--oh, I'm sorry. I'll wait outside."

"I'm hanging up now. `I'll call you later. Goodbye.'" He turned to me. "What's up?" "It happened! Just like you said it would! It was wonderful."

"Would you breathe between sentences, please?"

"I had a fight! Isn't that great?"

"Wonderful."

"Mom read my journal! Can you believe that?"

"Well,--"

"I couldn't. I told her so. I told her I hoped she thought it was fascinating. I told her you told her I wasn't suicidal. Told her she didn't look at me when I talk to her. What do you think of that?"

"I think--"

"I think it was wonderful."

"You do?"

"It was wonderful. I looked her in the eye, and I took a deep breath, and I thought the words out in my head. I told her what I thought. I enunciated clearly. It was very calming, like you said."

"How do you feel now?"

"I feel great."

"Then I can tell you something."

"Sure."

"Your mother didn't read your journal."

"Didn't I tell you I caught her red-handed?"

"She didn't read it."

"Don't defend her because she's my mother."

"I told her to go to your room. I told her to get caught red-handed."

"Why would you do that to me? I hate to fight with my mother!"

"I wanted you to find out you could, Meg. You needed to know you could do it."

"I don't want to talk to you right now, Matt."

"Are you angry, Meg?"

"I can't believe you would use this as a demonstration of your professional expertise. This is not between the good doctor and his patient. I thought we were friends, too. And right now, as friends, this is between us. Have I enunciated clearly?"

"Meg--"

"Goodnight." I gathered my composure for the third time, and I left, tendrils of anger curling in the air behind me, lingering like perfume. I walked to the end of the hall. I will not be the one who cannot sleep. I retraced my steps. "Matt, it really makes me mad when you do that." I closed the door to his office. I sat down across from him. His eyes were brown and pensive.

"I'm glad you came back."

"You have the right to defend yourself."

"Thank you."

"I did it for myself. I would have driven myself crazy, if you'll pardon the expression, if I hadn't." Brown eyes. "It was a lousy thing to do. Didn't it occur to you what a chance you were taking? What if I hadn't been able to talk to her? What if I had stood there and cried and let her say whatever she wanted to? You know what that would have done to me? I would have utterly despised myself. Are you so fond of my company that you looked forward to spending the rest of your career rebuilding my self-esteem?"

"Meg, I--"

"Wait. It's the second argument I've had today. I might not remain calm much longer. "So some of that is a little ridiculous. I had to learn to tell her how I feel without bursting into tears every time she makes a critical remark. It's a necessary survival skill."

"So I'm forgiven?"

"I don't think it should be that easy."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you have to force it to happen? Mother might have read my journal without your little hint. Or something else would have happened. "You used deceit to make us fight. I feel manipulated. Did I need that, too?"

"Meg, that's the last thing I wanted to do. You should be proud of yourself for standing up to your mother. And to me. That's all I wanted. It's remarkable, really."

"So I'm just another example of your skill as a doctor? "Well, congratulations, doctor. You made me mad, and you made me fight. I hope it was worth it."

"Meg. Wait. I'm sorry if I hurt you."

I allowed myself to laugh. "It is ridiculous of me to be hurt. After all, you are my doctor, and you were using your professional judgment. And you were right. But sometimes I'm just a ridiculous teenager. I should be thanking you." I extended my hand across the desk. "So thank you for everything. My mother will mail you a check. I'm sure she'll recommend you to her friends."

"Meg. Wait."

"I'm sorry, but it's getting late. Thank you again." In spite of our disagreement, I was never more my mother's daughter. I was never more grateful to have found within myself her composure and her polished social grace. The Year I Didn't Smile ended, awesome and bloody, like the Seven Years' War. I learned to smile again. I learned to feel and to fight, but it took me a lot longer to learn to forgive and to make peace. I have forgiven Matt. When I remember him, I remember the faith he had in me. I remember the strength his faith gave me. I remember that I loved him. And at night, right before I fall asleep, I remember that he loved me. I still dream of horses. Sometimes I spend the darkest hours of the night speaking the language of my unconscious wishes, jumping fences like a stallion, streaming forelock, mane, and tail.

The End   

THE SISTER TREE

 

by Suzanne M. Adams

 

The tree had always been here, planted in the beginning by some unseen ancestral hand to give shade and protection to those who would come later to sit underneath it. The trunk spread its branches in two opposite directions, almost as if it wished to be two separate trees, straining away from its center, yet each part of the same whole, sprung from the same soil, sharing the same blood, each one incomplete without the other. "Hello?"

"Lydia? It's Kristen."

"Yes, Kristen?"

"Well, how are you?"

"I'm fine. And you?"

"Fine. No. I'm not fine. I'm anything but fine, and I'm willing to bet you're not, either."

"I was just trying to be polite, Kristen."

"Polite? When did we suddenly become the Waltons?"

"All right. So it hasn't been the best week of my life. So death has a way of depressing me. But I'm okay. Is there anything else?"

"I wish that we could--"

"I think I hear someone at the door, Kristen."

"Mom wants to know what time to expect you tomorrow."

"We're leaving as soon as Ken gets home from work. We should be there by noon. Don't worry, Kris, I know how gauche it is to be late for a funeral. Although, it's not like he's going to change his mind and leave town or anything, is it? He's already left all of us way behind. Sorry. I'm talking too much again, right? I'll see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Kristen." Lydia placed the phone on the hook. "Just because she's my sister doesn't mean I have to like her!" Lydia reached across the table for a cigarette. "Great. Now I have to go outside before I stink up the whole damn place. Where did I put my shoes?" She went outside barefoot, alternating between sucking choking drags from her cigarette and aggravating a rhinoceros beetle with her big toe. "She's my big sister. Big deal. Does that automatically make her the World's Greatest Human Being? I don't think so, either." She said to the beetle.

"I thought I heard you gagging out here. How're you doing?" Her husband asked as he walked toward her.

"Fine. No. Don't kiss me. I've been smoking."

"I can see that. Come inside. That beetle's ready to walk off with your toe."

"I will. Soon."

"Honey, it's going to rain."

"Okay. My outfit's not wash and wear, anyway. I'm coming." She gave the beetle one last jab and followed her husband inside. "Will you put my suitcase in the car?"

"Sure."

"Did you remember to lock the door?"

"Yes."

"That's good. I always forget." She watched the first raindrops hit the window, staring mutely into the silent, silent night. Lydia hated rain, and, of course, it was raining. Pouring. Turning away from her husband, she leaned back in the bucket seat and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke at the roof. God, she hated family gatherings, and funerals were even worse. Kristen would love seeing everyone again. She'd show the proper amount of grief and impress them all with her good looks and charm, only made more beautiful by tears. What tears did to Lydia usually took seven hours with a makeup artist and the set of an extremely graphic slasher movie. Kristen could handle anything. Lydia more often ended up feeling handled by a difficult situation. She bathed endlessly, trying, somehow, to remove the grimy impressions of the world's fingertips from her backside. Her husband, Ken, was fond of saying, "Lydia, Kristin can't be any CLEANER than you are!" And then she would laugh and realize how ridiculous she was being. Kristen was tall, blond, and pencil thin. Willowy, even. Lydia wasn't. She was short, dark, and "just right," according to her grandfather. She twisted nervously, careful not to make any new wrinkles in her skirt, and checked her face in the mirror for the twentieth time. "You look terrific, honey, so stop worrying about it."

"I think I've gained weight. Wonderful. Ken, why didn't you tell me? I should've worn stripes. They're so thinning. How does it feel to be married to Yankee Stadium?"

"You're right, Lyd. I'll file for divorce right after the burial. Or should I try to stick it out for a decent interval afterward?" She punched him in the arm.

"You shouldn't tease me when I'm being neurotic about Kristen. You know I hate it." She laughed. "Maybe if you get as big as a baseball team, we can play together!"

"I've always been a sports fan."

"God, I need some air! I'm the only person I know who smokes exactly three times a year: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Family occasions. I guess it will be exactly four this year. What did I do with my lighter?" She saw it on the floor and reached forward to get it, but the seat belt held her within an inch of grabbing it. "Crap!" She released the belt and retrieved the lighter, inhaling deeply when the end of the cigarette glowed orange. "Here's to you, Grandpa. You know, the funny part is that I don't even LIKE to smoke. I think it's a disgusting habit. But right now `disgusting' fits my mood perfectly. How much longer is it?"

"A couple of hours. We just crossed the state line. `Welcome to Virginia'." "Wonderful. I can hardly wait. It's going to be wonderful."

"Why don't you try to sleep for a while? You didn't sleep much last night."

"I'm sorry. Did I keep you awake? Sometimes I don't know how you put up with me. Kristen walks in the room, and I become someone I don't even know. Emotionally retarded. Stunted. Lacking all interpersonal skills. With about as much appeal as a toadstool. Just thinking about it makes me nervous. Come to think of it, how'd we ever get married? I met you at a social function."

"Kristen wasn't invited, remember? And you're rather attractive, as toadstools go."

"Gee, thanks a million, darling. It must've been your silver tongue that got us through. Gosh, I know I'm being awfully pleasant. But you have to forgive me. Because you're my husband. It's a rule that goes with being a wonderful person." "Any other Rules of Wonderfulness I should know about?"

"I'm making them up as necessary. I'll give you a list of what I've got so far." "Thanks. I'd hate to overlook something. Honey, really, is there anything I can do?"

"You`re doing it. Just listen to me."

"Well, since you only do this three times a year...and since, on the other three hundred sixty two days, you're dangerously close to perfect, and since I'm just a wonderful person "

"I know. Sometimes I wonder how I ever fell in love with you. You don`t have a single neurotic tendency. What kind of freak are you, anyway? It really must be true that opposites attract." She leaned against his shoulder. "I really do love you, Ken, and I really will be a normal person again. When all this is over."

"I know. I love you, too, Lyd."

"You know, don't you, that they're going to ask when we're going to have a baby? I cross the threshold, and my biological clock starts ticking. Audibly. Twenty six. Twenty six. Twenty six. I wonder if the person standing next to me will be able to hear it. `Hey, Lyd, you got a bomb in your pocket, or what?' They'll say, `Well, Lydia, it's not as if you have a real job, and Ken supports you, doesn't he, and what the heck are you waiting for, anyway?' They're so glad I married a lawyer. They're certain that I'd starve, you know, and it's so good of you to see that I get enough to eat, Ken."

"Don't be such a worry wart." "And give up my favorite way to burn calories? I couldn't!"

"Not if it's the only thing standing between me and Yankee Stadium!"

"I'm going to remember that!" She crushed out her cigarette butt in the ashtray. "Can we stop somewhere to empty this thing?" She held the ashtray as if it contained nuclear waste. "You know what I'm waiting for? Someday the ticking will stop, and this voice inside me will say, `You're ready. You can do this. You will be a good mother. It's time.' Mom would think I'm crazy if I told her I'm waiting for a little voice. So I won't say anything when she asks me what I'm waiting for. I've been practicing this inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. But I know the time will come. And then I will jump you when you come home from work and whisper my secret in your ear."

"I like it when you do that."

"I know. So do I." She closed her eyes, lulled into half sleep by the rhythm of the rain against the window. Unconnected images floated through her mind like clouds, dotting the landscape there with small, furious storms. Grandpa. He'd been proud of her imagination and her talent. But her imagination had died with him, and she was going to watch it be lowered into the ground and covered with dirt, to rise or fall with the weight of his soul. For now, she could only wait for its resurrection, and sketch in the gray hues of mourning until then.

Her grandfather was the one who had introduced her to the tree. He took her there for the first time when Kristen had won the lead role in the school play. Everyone had been so excited for Kristen that Grandpa was the only one who noticed that she wasn't saying much. "Come along, Lydia Leigh, I'm going to show you something." He'd marched her smartly out to where the tree stood and set her down underneath it. "You've got to realize that you and Kristen are like this tree. Two different people who are part of each other. You can't deny part of yourself without causing pain. You would feel it, and she would feel it. You would both bleed for each other. Because that's what family is. You might not always like it, but there's nothing you can do about it. You love each other, and you hate each other. Because you can look into Kristen's eyes and see the person you almost were. "

"Lyd. Honey. You awake? We're here." Lydia blinked and yawned and got out of the car, smoothing hair and skirt as she went. She walked across the porch to where Kristen stood, next to the swing.

"Hi, Kris," she said. "You look terrific." She thought to herself, "Skinnier than ever! I knew I should have worn stripes!"

"Thanks, Lyd. So do you. How was your trip?" "It rained the whole way here. You'd have loved it. Otherwise, it was fine."

"We haven't had rain in ages!" "Maybe we should swap houses." "Maybe."

"Would you like my husband, too?"

"Lydia!"

"I know. Absolutely shocking, wasn't it? Ken TOLD me to leave my claws in the car, but I can't seem to come home without them."

"Oh, Lyd. I've always wanted your sense of humor."

"Really?"

"Sure. Who wouldn't? You always make people laugh."

"Is that a new suit? It looks expensive, Kris. Did you get promoted again this week?" Kristen laughed.

"Thanks. I like yours, too. It always compliments you."

"What's that supposed to mean? Was I supposed to run out and buy a new suit for the happy occasion?"

"Lyd, really! Why do you always deliberately misconstrue everything I say?" "Maybe it's because you're always deliberately baiting me!"

"Lyd. Really, all I meant was that your suit always looks so good on you with your dark hair. Smashing and all that stuff. Forgive me if I was being cryptic."

"If you forgive me for being a nervous wreck." She pulled a piece of lint from her red jacket and smiled a quiet truce for her sister.

"Grandpa made me promise a long time ago not to wear sad colors when he died. I guess I'm just not ready for him to leave me." Kristen reached for her hand.

"That's one thing we can agree on. I'm not ready, either." Their father came to the screen door.

"You girls coming inside today or not?" Lydia crossed the porch behind Kristen. "Dad, can I take a shower before we go? I'm filthy." Thirty minutes in a hot shower hadn't made her feel any better. It merely made the skin shrivel on her fingers and toes. The thought reminded her of the wrinkles on her grandfather's face. From a distance, she heard her aunts exclaiming that she had smoked a cigarette on the porch in front of Kristen. Tobacco! They breathed, in the same tone of voice guidance counselors use for discussing the dangers of crack with a street-wise fifteen-year-old dope dealer. "Oh, Grandpa! I really hate it that you died in the spring. It's your favorite time of year. I hope you can see it from wherever you are. What difference does it make, though, really? I would feel as bad in any season. I really hate it that you had to die. You had to leave me for a better place, and I'm still stuck in the same old place I've always had. I still haven't figured out what to do with the empty place you left in my life. Could anyone else ever fill it? Would I want them to?" Lydia was vaguely aware that the car had stopped. She heard Ken's voice beside her, low and soothing, his fingers gently unwrapping hers from the door handle. "Ken, I'm stuck. I don't think I can let go."

"Lyd. Honey, give me your hand." Ken blew softly on her cramped fingers. "Let me help you."

Lydia tried to concentrate on the minister, `Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me...', but she was distracted by the faces of her family. She searched their faces, each marked by pain, looking for a reminder of the man they were here to bury. They were all probably wondering if she were going to fling herself in the shallow grave and sob her grief for her grandfather. Kristen might feel like it, she allowed, but she would never so forget herself. It wouldn't be proper. Ken put a fistful of dirt in her hand. She squeezed it, feeling it behind her fingernails, feeling her nails dig into her palm. She stood on the edge of the grave for a long time before she tossed the earth she held. She finally felt tears on her cheeks, and pain sharper than she ever thought it would be. But that's because she was bleeding. She was leaving her grandfather here today, and it was making her bleed. She heard the dirt hit the casket as it left her hand, mingled with her own blood. She reached out to touch her sister, smearing shared blood on the lapel of her expensive new suit. `Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' Headstone. Burial. Eulogy. And that was it. The end. Lydia did another improper thing after dinner. She couldn't seem to do anything properly. She walked out while people were gathered to offer her their sympathy. She didn't even pause to register the collective `o' of her family's mouths, large with disbelief. She thought she might scream if she had to smile one more time and say, "Thank you for coming" like the hostess of a dinner party. So she bit her tongue, hard, and swallowed the sound stuck in the back of her throat, and she went out quietly through the back door. Instinctively, her feet carried her to the tree. She knelt and waited for her grandfather to come. He came, bringing peace, and scolded her gently for leaving the house. "I know it was impolite, Grandpa, and I will make my apologies, but this is the last time I will really be with you, and I know, if you're anywhere that I can find you, you're not in the dining room or the parlor or the kitchen, you're here, and I need to say goodbye." She didn't know how long she sat there, silently speaking words of greeting and parting, beginning and ending, blessings and curses.

"I thought I'd find you here." Lydia jumped when Kristen spoke.

"How did you know where I was?"

"I've looked everywhere else."

"Sorry to cause you so much trouble."

"It's no trouble. Lydia, I came out here because I want to know if you're all right." "Well, now you know. You can go back to the house now. Tell them that I'm sorry, but I feel like hell."

"You know, Lydia, sometimes you really are such a jerk! How do you think I feel? Just because I'm not sobbing and renting my clothes doesn't mean I loved him any less than you did!"

"But you never needed him the way I do."

"How do you know what I needed? You're always too busy checking out my hair, my clothes, and my manicure to notice anything else! I knew where you were because I did exactly the same thing this morning before you got here. I walked out on a different group of people, and Dad finally found me here." Kristen sat down beside her and started digging in the dirt with a stick. "He told me that those people at the house came here today to share my pain and offer me their compassion, and that I ought to have more respect. I told him that I didn't care, but he said I ought to care, whether I did or not. I guess I ought to pass the lecture on to you by proxy."

"I can't share my pain with people who haven't seen me in fifteen years. I have found out that pain is a very private thing, and it takes a lot of trust to share it with anyone. There's always a part of it that refuses to be given away." "I know, Lyd. But can't you share the other part of it with me? I know how much you miss him. I miss him, too."

"Yeah, I know you do. So, have the aunts forgiven me for smoking?"

"Now they're deciding who gets to nag you this time about having a baby. You and Ken will have such precious babies, or so they say!"

"Poor Ken! I shouldn't have left him alone to face the Aunts! Now he'll know what it feels like to be grilled by the prosecution. I'll have to remember to rub aloe on his shoulders when we get home. Kris, I do love you, and I 've always wanted us to be friends, but you always seem so much calmer and more certain of yourself and more together that all I can do is admire your poise endlessly, and I never know what to say to you. What could you possibly have in common with me anymore?"

Kristen laughed. "I'm sure I seem to be a lot of things, Lydia, but that doesn't mean anything, really. I have as many doubts and insecurities as you do. I admire you, too, you know. You are so talented and sensitive and funny. I used to make up excuses, like a lost shoe or a missing blouse, to come to your room and look and your sketches. I have a copy of every book you've ever illustrated, and everybody I know knows that my sister did the sculpture in Lincoln Park." "Really?"

"Really. There are so many people who care about you. And you have Ken, who absolutely adores you."

"I adore him, too. Oh, Kris, I'm sure there's somebody almost as wonderful as he is out there wondering where you've been all his life. Ken knows a lot of nice people, Kris. If you'd like to come to a dinner party or two, it would make me very happy to help you find--"

"I'd love to come to dinner, Lyd, to spend some time with my sister, not because I'm looking for a man."

"Okay, but if you should happen to find one sitting next to you at the table, you shouldn't let a good man go to waste."

"I wouldn't! You know, Grandpa used to bring me here when I was a little girl. He told me a story about this old tree "

"About how we were like the tree? Part of each other?"

"He told us the same story!"

"I never would have guessed, but we both needed to hear it. It's strange that he had to die to teach me what he knew about living. As crazy as you make me sometimes, Kris, I'd be crazier without you. Have some compassion for my poor husband, and don't let that happen. Think what horrible things the other partners--and the Aunts--would say!"

Kristen grinned at her sister. "You know, if we don't tell anybody, we could have a smoke before we go back."

"You SMOKE, Kristen? Oh, dear, do you really think you ought to?"

"I only want to because it reminds me of the time we stole Grandpa's pipe and hid behind the barn--"

"And almost burned it to the ground!" Lydia laughed as Kristen pulled a pipe from her pocket

"Let's go!" Together they stood up and said, "`Bye, Grandpa." If Ken later noticed the scent of Grandpa's tobacco smoke lingering on their clothes, he did not see fit to mention it. He was glad to see his wife smiling again, and holding her sister's hand as they skipped together up the steep porch steps. Lydia crossed the room to her husband, kissing his cheek, and studying his face closely. "Missed me, huh?" he said, hugging her.

"Just checking to see if you look scorched. Did you survive the Aunts?" He laughed.

"It wasn't so bad, and we have names for our first three kids."

"The first three? How many are we having? No, don't tell me now. I think we'd better leave before you promise them an even dozen!"

"Are you ready to go?"

"Yes. I've said my goodbyes." As they pulled out of the gravel drive, the Aunts were yelling, "Y'all come to see us", as if they lived in the next street. Lydia leaned her head on her husband's shoulder. "I'm kind of glad there are some things that never change, aren't you, Ken?" A week later, Lydia woke up in the middle of the night, possessed by a familiar feeling. Imagination! She smiled to herself and threw a kiss toward the ceiling. "Thanks, Grandpa!" She leaped out of bed and ran downstairs to her studio. Hours later, exhausted but happy, she had produced sketches of what she thought would eventually be a sculpture. The Sister Tree, a trunk that branched into the separate but connected faces of two women, sisters, with hair of leaves flowing together. When she finally climbed back in bed, Ken was awake, smiling at her. "Welcome back, honey."

Lying down beside him, she said, "We're having Christmas dinner at our house this year, Ken, okay? Things will be different. I won't smoke a single cigarette because you know I really hate them, no one will tell me to get a real job, although someone will probably say that `a baby would be nice, wouldn't it?'." She yawned hugely. "Someone might be right about that. It'll be wonderful. I can hardly wait." If Ken had visions of his wife spending five dollars on chewing gum on Christmas Eve, or sneaking out to the gazebo for a frantic smoke after Christmas dinner, he wisely said nothing and watched her slip further into pleasant dreams.

The End

Indian Summer

 

 by Suzanne M Adams

 

 

I have dreamed of anonymity. A place so vast and certain, it reduces my anxieties to inconveniences. Surviving nuclear war. No parking spaces near the mall entrance. Ovarian cysts. Traffic lights that won't turn green. Loneliness. Soap scum. Feeding the homeless. Child-proof caps. Garments marked "dry-clean only". I close my eyes and concentrate on my heartbeat and the blood moving in my veins, separating hemoglobin from platelets with each pulse. I release myself from my body, seeking isolation atom by atom. When sleep comes, I am strong: history is meaningless without its geography. Jamie woke me from my dreams. We steal away from home like thieves. We are going to the place I dream of. "But--"

"Just DRIVE, Jamie."

"You have to, Ellie. She'll have the state patrol on red alert."

"Gimme the car phone."

"Nice try. But I can find you a phone booth."

"I wish you wouldn't go to so much trouble to please me." I find myself dialing the number. Click.

"Ellie? Oh, my God, you've been in an accident. . ."

"I called to let you know I'm okay."

"You've been arrested!"

"No--"

"If you haven't had an accident or gotten yourself arrested, why would you call at three o'clock in the morning?. . .You're too drunk to drive. Oh, my God!"

"No, Mom, it's nothing like that. I needed to hear your voice before I go."

"Before you go where?"

"I'm going to Arizona to teach English on a reservation."

"WHAT?"

"You heard me. Don't get crazy, Mom."

"I'm not the one who's crazy. Why do you think you want to do such a thing? It's never occurred to you before."

"I do speak the language fairly well."

"Come home and go to bed. This is an impulse."

"That doesn't mean it's a bad idea. You'll never understand, but could we part without bloodshed just once? I don't know when I'm coming back."

"This is completely irresponsible."

"I don't think so." "Driving across the country in the middle of the night. Alone. It's not the way to do things."

"It's the way I do things, Mom. I won't be alone. I'm going with Jamie."

"Jamie? Oh, my God, he's even more irresponsible than you are! You're ashamed! That's why you're sneaking off like this!"

"I'm not ashamed. I love him. And I'm leaving now because you'll talk me out of it if I wait until tomorrow. I can't let you. Jamie's my courage. He's not using me or leading me or manipulating me. He's the only completely honest person I've ever known. I need him. People who are afraid of everything need a lot of courage. I'm using him. I just hope I don't use him up."

"Why didn't you just say you're eloping? Why did I have to hear all that drama about going to Arizona?"

"Because it's not drama. It's my life. And I'm not eloping. We have no plans to get married."

"I certainly feel better. Since you don't have the faintest idea where you're planning to BE tomorrow, the fact that you're not planning to get married reassures me completely."

"Oh, Mom. What do you want me to say? I'm going. I need to go."

"I'm sorry, Ellie. I didn't realize you were so miserable."

"I'm not miserable. But I could be a lot happier. Doesn't that matter?"

"You're old enough to do whatever you want. I can't stop you. You have inherited this wildness from your father."

"Maybe you shouldn't have married such a hellion. Look what havoc his blood has wrought upon your family tree!" I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "Jamie's honking at me. I've gotta go. I'm sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep." "Wait. Please. I wish--"

"I know. I'll call you. Don't worry."

"Took it that well?" Jamie said, reading the look on my face as I got back in the car.

"She's probably still deep-breathing into a paper bag. She accused us of eloping, and she was NOT appeased when I tried to tell her we have no plans to get married."

"Is that all?"

"No. The usual stuff about using me, manipulating me, leading me astray."

"She's certainly got it all figured out. I manipulate you so well that you don't know I'm doing it."

"She refused to take me seriously. She can't believe I'm not ten years old anymore. Because, of course, I still act like a ten-year-old."

"If you didn't, Ell, I wouldn't have anybody to play with."

"Thanks. I was dismissed. I'm not going to get tired of playing the guitar and lose it somewhere in the attic. I wasn't Glenn Campbell. I stopped practicing. This isn't the same thing . . .Besides, I'll be too far away to crawl home. I'm going to do this."

"You don't have to convince me. I believe you."

"You're easy. You always believe me. It's the Christopher Robin in you."

"Tut, tut. I figure there's enough skepticism in your life."

"No kidding." I kicked off my shoes and put my feet on the dashboard. "Jamie, you have to promise not to tell if you discover what a fragile creature I really am."

"Oh, Rabbit, that's not going to happen."

"I talk in my sleep. I could say anything."

"There's nothing you couldn't say to me. I've known you since you were five. We used to fill each other's shorts with sand, remember?"

"We did THAT long after we were five."

"Funny how it had an entirely different feel when we were fifteen. . ."

"I'm serious."

"I'm not? You're not fragile, Ellie. You're just. . .uncertain. Which will change when you find what you're looking for. I couldn't discover you to be something you're not, right?"

"Right. Why does this feel like a trick question?"

"The world was still round even when everybody thought it was flat, right?" "Unless you navigate better than Christopher Columbus, I may NEVER find what I'm looking for!"

"I have a more recent map. . .somewhere." He waved it at me like a flag. "There are no bleak private revelations in our future."

"I can think of one. My mom thinks you are going to be her son-in-law. . .which means that she thinks she is going to be your--"

"Don't go any further. That's bleak enough. If I lapse into catatonic depression, I won't be able to handle the stick shift."

"Just poke me when it's my turn to drive."

"With pleasure."

I yawned at Jamie's wicked grin and spoke the thought that came to me as I fell asleep on his shoulder. "Someday, she'll respect me. I'll be able to negotiate with your future mother-in-law from a position of power. I'm going to learn from the spirit of some Navaho chief. . .Wear the war paint . . .Scalp the pale-faces. . .Smoke the peace pipe. . ."

"Rabbit, that's going to be quite a dream. Speak up so I can hear you." I had always pretended to hate it, as required by the politics of our friendship, but, secretly, I think Jamie's the only person who could make "Rabbit" sound like a term of endearment. I slept until we got to Birmingham. I couldn't remember my dreams, and Jamie didn't tell me about them. He pinched me with zest.

"Rabbit? Time to stretch your legs and powder your little cotton--"

"Watch it, James. You might be heading for some deep--"

"Water?" "Thanks, I'm parched." I took the thermos and drank.

"My turn to drive?"

He nodded. "Yep. I'm beat. But let's take a walk first. "I'll race you around the lake. . .Loser has to get wet!" We sat on the bank of that man-made lake, drying out. He beat me, but I wasn't about to get wet alone. Which he knew before he pushed me in. We were acting like ten-year-olds. "Ellie, we're acting like ten-year-olds."

"Yes. Feeling guilty?"

"No. There are some things about being ten that should last forever."

"Amen. Why did you come with me?"

"Somebody's gotta keep you out of trouble."

"I would've brought my brother if I wanted to stay out of trouble."

"Somebody's gotta keep you company while you're in it."

"We're getting closer to the truth."

"You're not the only one who has a few things to figure out. I just don't suffer from my confusion like you do. Some good Indian grass will make everything crystal clear."

"You might be able to convince my mother that you're a hippie, but that's only because it confirms her opinion of you."

"We've been playing Follow the Leader for so long that it seems natural. You can't have adventures that don't include me."

"I'm cold. Let's hold off on the early morning swims for a while." I could have stayed at home and lived the lives of my sisters: marriage, children, charity committee meetings, tennis. And I wouldn't have been unhappy. I would have poured my restless frustrations into stories of smoke signals and wigwams for my children. I would have instigated arguments with their father, who would not have been Jamie. He has no place in the lives of my sisters.

"Mom! Ellie's on the phone!"

"Thanks for going to GET her for me, Mark."

"No problem. MOM!. . .I think she fell asleep on the sofa. When're you coming home?"

"I'm not coming home, Mark. I'm going to Arizona."

"Can I have your guitar? And I never really liked my room. I've already put my woofers in yours. Mom said I'd have to move them when you come back--"

"Will you leave my picture on the coffee table?" "Sure. It's behind Cheryl's graduation. Here she is."

"Ellie? Did the car break down? How much money do you need?"

"The car's fine. We're stretching our legs. I have plenty of money. Does every phone call I make have to be a request for disaster relief?"

"I expected you to need something. You usually do. Do you know what time it is?""I'm sorry. I won't call again until we get to Window Rock, so you will soon sleep undisturbed."

"Be careful. Cheryl wants to say hello."

"Cheryl. How's life on the courts? Love-all?"

"Ellie, the TALK on the court is that you've run away to get married. . .Jamie might not have blue blood, but--"

"I DID NOT! Do me a favor and take out a full-page ad in the Trib. I AM NOT RUNNING AWAY FROM ANYTHING; I AM NOT GETTING MARRIED. Wait. That's not completely true. I'm running away from life in the bosom of my family. I want something else. Something different. Something I will find in Arizona in the middle of the desert. Toss some bird seed over your head, Cheryl. You've talked me into it. If Jamie doesn't want me, I'll stand on the side of the road until I get lucky! And then we'll sell whiskey to the Indians!"

"That's ridiculous!"

"Which part?"

"Why would Indians buy whiskey from you and some guy you don't even know?" "Cheryl, you've gotta stop playing tennis during the hottest part of the day. . .You're forgetting to pant!" Click. She hung up. We stopped in Texarkana for the night. I wanted to look for some cowboys, but Jamie checked us in at a hotel and pushed me toward the elevator.

"You're vicious when you don't sleep. You'd alienate the city, and we might need some goodwill before we leave." I was deeply insulted for the entire forty-five seconds it took me to fall asleep after I stretched out on my side of the lumpy posture-pedic.

"I'm concentrating on the blood moving in my veins. . ."

"Oh? What do the vessels have to say?"

"Oh, my God, aren't we to the LUNGS, YET?"

"Goodnight, Rabbit."

". . .Night." I drifted into sleep and dreamed of the desert and moonlight, and it was beautiful, and then I rolled over. The moon was shining on my one-room school house as it burned to the ground, and ten little Indians with red plastic book bags cantered around me on their paint horses, chanting one. . .two. . .three. . .four. . ." My dreams didn't prepare me for the first time I saw the desert. It wasn't what I expected it to be. It didn't reach its healing brown hands out to me. It hadn't been waiting for me. And I was so sure. Whenever Mom complains about my chronic tardiness, I tell her it takes me fifteen minutes to get my expectations in the car. I didn't know it then, but peace is more than age or time or distance. It is age and time and distance, but it is also a more personal investment. I expected age and time and Arizona to give me peace. I thought that enough distance would separate me from the part of myself I tried so hard to leave behind. But it still took me fifteen minutes to get all my stuff out of the car when we got there, even though Jamie was carrying my suitcase. "I'm still the same. Exactly the same."

"What's up, Ellie? You look like you're ready to turn around and run home."

"I'm not going anywhere. They're counting on me. Somebody's expecting me." I stopped myself from adding that I hoped he wasn't as prone to expecting too much. "Besides, we're out of gas. . .I already checked." Maybe I wasn't exactly the same. This is it. Window Rock. I stood in the shade provided by the door. I knocked. "Mr. Zah? I'm Eleanor Wade, the new English teacher. I think you've been expecting me. . .This is my friend, Jamie Hyatt."

"Yes, Ms. Wade--"

"Please call me Ellie."

"Ellie, then." He reached out to shake my hand. "You two come in out of the sun." "I promise to be much more articulate when I meet the children. You're probably wondering what they could learn about speaking English from me. . .I'm just overwhelmed. I can't believe I'm really here." Jamie's hand on my arm stopped me from babbling further.

"You've had a long trip. I know you must be tired." I mentally kicked myself for that first presentation, but I was utterly speechless when I looked into the bright, ageless faces of my students. I was their teacher? Could they tell that I had come as much to learn their secrets as to teach them their letters? As they ran their hands over my blond hair to see if it felt like gold, the ceremony began: I HAD come home. The rest of my life was waiting for me. Here. Anywhere. Peace isn't a place. It's an achievement. A choice. I have chosen the setting for the life which will follow: marriage, tribal dances, grammar lessons, children on horses, and red plastic book bags. Now, I have work to do.

The End

                                        by Suzanne M. Adams

 

"Goodnight, Dad. Sweet dreams. I love you." These words fall from my lips into the air outside my window, their syllables bridging miles between us, whispering in his ear as he falls asleep. "I hope you find something wonderful tomorrow. I miss you." Kneeling in my window seat, I blow him a kiss. He promised me a long time ago that my kisses would find him, wherever he was, relieving his loneliness, and mine. I'd imagine him in Banghkok or Cairo or Johannesburg, looking for his ancient stones and skeletal remains, receiving my kiss on his cheek. "Watch out for the lions, Dad."

"I'm not hunting cats, honey, just fossils."

"Well, but the cats don't know that. They might be hunting you."

"I'll be careful."

"Sleep with your window open, so I can kiss you goodnight."

"Always. I love you, Midget." He would come home to me between adventures to catalog his finds and give lectures, and I would fling myself upon him before he even had a chance to open the door.

"Daddy! You're back! You're back! You're back!"

"What a welcome for an old man!" he'd say as I launched myself at him and wrapped my legs around his waist.

"You're not old, silly. I'm so glad you're back. I missed you so much. I didn't have anybody to tell my secrets to."

"What about Mommy? I'm sure she would guard your secrets as carefully."

"Yes, but telling her isn't the same as telling you. You know, Daddy."

"Yes, I know. So now you're positively bursting with things to tell me."

"Oh, yes." And I buried my nose in his neck to reacquaint myself with his scent, a mixture of aftershave, hard work, and far distant places which has always been to me the sum of what I know of peace.

"I missed you, too, Midget. Tell me all your secrets before you explode." I would whisper in his ear, and he would receive my childish recitations with respect and tenderness.

"I've grown an inch since you've been gone, Daddy. Mommy measured me, and she said that just this once it would be okay to put a mark on the wall right where my head is. Come see it. And I fell out of my treehouse last week, and there's gonna be a scar on my knee, but now it still has stitches in it." I offered him my wounded knee. "Blow on it for me, Daddy. You know that always makes it hurt less." We would spend weeks or months together, depending on the season, and then it would be time for him to leave again. My mother would hold me up, our dark red heads close together, and we would wave to him from the window in my room. "Goodbye, Daddy! We love you! Come home soon!" He told me once that he used to carry the image of our silhouette with him like a photograph to remind him of home. But that was a long time ago, before she left, when the image was torn in half by her absence.

It was June, and we were spending the summer with my mother's parents. We decided to walk out to the reservoir where my mother and her friends used to swim, and as we walked, she told me stories of her childhood. "Look, Mommy, I found an arrowhead!"

"Yes, honey. You should put that in your pocket so you can show it to your father when he gets home." She knelt beside me in the tall grass of the sunflower field. "Sit, Livvy. I need to talk to you."

"But I want to go swimming, Mommy. Now."

"Not now. In a minute. Sit here with me first." We sat facing each other, Indian-style. The breeze blew a lock of my mother's hair across her troubled face. She sighed as she tucked it behind her ear. "Honey, I need to talk to you about Daddy. About Daddy and me." A grasshopper jumped in my lap, and I shrieked. "Oh, Olivia, it's just a grasshopper." I don't know what it means that the sounds of grasshoppers have been the background music for every pivotal scene of my life. I have often wondered about it, but I would probably have to ask Tennesee Williams or William Faulkner. Neither is available to me. For now, wondering merely causes anxiety, which causes hives. My mother tugged on my hand when I would have run away. "Olivia, I wonder if I can ever explain this to you. Do you know what it means to be extraordinary?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Well, I think Daddy is extraordinary. And so are you. Because you know he loves you, like you know the ground beneath your feet. Like you know this." She put my hand on the ground beside her, and placed hers on top of it. "And to know something so deeply will always grant you peace, and give you courage."

"I'm extraordinary?"

"Oh, yes, my sweet girl. Oh, yes. Because you and he can kiss each other goodnight from opposite sides of the globe. Because he knew to call home when you fell out of your treehouse. Most daddys can't do that."

"They can't?"

"No. It's a kind of magic. It doesn't happen a lot. But it happens. Because you love him enough to let him do what he loves and be who he is, even if his work takes him away from you."

"He always comes back, Mommy."

"Yes, he always does. Can you understand if I tell you that I'm not like you and Daddy? I'm not so extraordinary, and I can't feel his presence beside me just because I leave the window open. I'm glad that you are so like him. But I need someone who will be with me more, and need me more, than he does. I need more proof of his love." Her voice became urgent and broken. "You can't understand that, because you'll never need it yourself. You feel the proof of his love inside you, and you give it back to him with your own. I love your daddy, and I love you. Maybe not in his magic way, but I love you. Will you remember that? Will you promise me?" I remember speaking the words of that promise, our little fingers wrapped together, impressed by the moment but uncertain of its meaning. She stood up and held her hand out to me. "Now, let's go swimming before Mommy starts to cry." It was the last time I held her hand. She kissed me goodbye that night while I slept, and she was gone when I woke up. People tell me that I look very much like her, that I have her hazel eyes and graceful hands.

 

I sat up in my bed, shaking, sweating, terrified by the images in my latest nightmare. Grasshoppers. I untangle myself from the twisted sheets and walk unsteadily to the window. Daniel. I stand there, letting the night breeze cool my burning face, and chills race over my body. Hunting knife. As I shiver, I inhale the scents of honeysuckle and columbine growing like crazy in my backyard. Sex. "It's just a dream." I tell myself. "Right, Dad?" I distract myself by imagining his day. I bought my house because it has a huge window in the master bedroom, facing east, and my father. I curl up in the window seat to escape my dream. "Did you find something wonderful today?" Argument. "It happened a long time ago. Dreaming about it shouldn't still freak me out." Blood. I sighed. "It shouldn't, but it does." I acknowledge another sleepless night, and go downstairs to work on my novel. "Maybe it would help if I were writing about a perverted serial killer with a thing for fifteen-year-old girls who limp. And maybe it wouldn't." My father's blessing, blown through my open window by some kind tropic jetstream, used to be enough to grant me pleasant dreams. But an ancient pain sleep walks in the middle of the night. And the distance of years doesn't allow me to forget. I never forget anything. Details leap the synapses in my brain, athletes of my relentless memory, and I feel it all over again every time I close my eyes. Daniel. My first memories of him are sweet. Deep-water blue eyes and black hair. The tooth I chipped in 1976 when he was teaching me to box. He told me to jab, so I jabbed. It's not my fault if he didn't know how to duck. He beckons me, so I follow him to my grandparents' farm, unable to resist him still. "Last one there has to bait the hooks!"

"I've been baiting you for years!"

"Shut up and run!" I take the shortcut through the vast, unkempt field of sunflowers that had become one of my favorite places on earth. He changes course to follow me.

"You're dragging your feet!"

"You're dragging me through these flowers like you always do. There's nothing I like more than being spit at by grasshoppers." He continued to complain as he followed me. He was my best friend. We met the summer I turned ten, when I was staying with my grandparents while my father was away, and he was visiting his cousins. We grew up together. "Why do you always do this to me?" "Because it's the only thing that slows you down enough to give me a chance of beating the pants off you, my man."

"Geez, Liv, if you want me to take my pants off, all you have to do is say so."

"Oh, go soak your head! I doubt that there'd be much to see!" I said too much, but I was too young to know it, and too young to know how to take it back. At fifteen, I was neither graceful, nor delicate, nor gentle.

"You should take that back! You might live to regret it. If I let you live." Daniel caught up with me. "Take it back, Liv." he insisted. "Now. I'm not kidding around." "I don't think you're equipped to make me!" I didn't recognize the look on his face.

"I never ignore a dare." He was wearing the shark fin boxers I had given him for Christmas as a gag. The fin was right in front, over the fly. My father had tried to tell me that Daniel was a sensitive and delicately wrought creature, and he would not appreciate the spirit in which the gift was given. "But, Dad, " I told him, "Daniel would not appreciate being treated like a sissy, and I have plenty of regard for his feelings."

"But, Livvy, you and Daniel are growing up, and his feelings may have changed since you saw him last." Daniel was still my best buddy, and I knew he'd howl with laughter when he opened my present. But I was wrong. If we'd been five years younger, he would have made me eat dirt, literally, for what I'd just said. But he kissed me. Because we were hot and sweaty and reckless with the last true freedom of childhood. Because we could both cock our heads toward the past and still faintly hear the last echo of "Step on a crack, break your mother's back.". We still remembered the kids who believed those words. There had never been much distance between us. We were close enough then to talk to each other without speaking. But he changed the quality of that distance when he dropped his pants. I moved closer to him, pulled by curiosity and surprise and a new excitement I couldn't name. It was undiscovered country. Daniel and I were exploring new territory with enthusiasm.

"C'mon. We'd better hurry, or all the fish will be gone." he said in a strange, strangled voice when we had finally paused for breath. He reached out to touch me, and I jumped, causing my heart to resume its pounding. "You have a grasshopper in your hair, Liv. Hold still." He led me home through the sunflowers, and I held his hand as I followed, thinking of how much I loved him, and how much I hurt him, and the dare he had offered me which I would not refuse. "I bet the first time you do it, it'll be here."

"What a great idea! That means the first time won't be with you. I know how you feel about being spit at by grasshoppers!" And so began the tug of war. Sense and sensation opposed each other all summer.

"I guess a few grasshoppers aren't so hard to handle. I think we should. It would be educational."

"You think we should what?"

"Do it, stupid. Now. Here."

"Are you really trying to convince me that my father would approve?" I laughed in spite of the gravity with which he spoke. "Oh, Daniel, I can only think of about a thousand reasons why we shouldn't."

"Name `em. I dare you."

"Would you like them arranged alphabetically, by subject, or in order of importance?"

"Now you're making fun of me, Liv."

"Of course I am, silly. There's no one in the world of whom I would rather make fun." I tugged on his arm to move him from where he sat and turned toward the pond. "We're too young. We're not ready to do anything that changes life forever. Geez, life already feels like it changes forever approximately every fifteen minutes. Sex is too important. You can't ever take back the first time. It absolutely separates your life into Before and After. Do you really think you're ready for the first half of your life to be over? You must be temporarily insane. And my dad agrees with me."

"You told your dad?" "Well, we had a mostly hypothetical discussion of general principles. It's hard for me to stifle the urge to tell him all my secrets like I used to. But it was mostly hypothetical, really."

"Pathetic is right. Geez, Liv."

"I'm sorry. But the only other person I would talk to about it is you, and you're hardly capable of having an objective discussion when your whole body is screaming, `Just do it!'."

"You wanna do it just as much as I do!"

"So what if I do? Curiosity just isn't a good enough reason right now. Part of growing up is learning not to do every single thing you want to do just because you want to do it. Just forget it, Daniel! And if you don't think you can control yourself, just stay away from me for about a hundred years!" I was so mad at him that I threw down my fishing pole and ran through the sunflowers toward the barn. Daniel grabbed the two poles, the tackle box, and the hunting knife he used to clean the fish we caught. Fresh trout is one of the best things on earth, but I can't eat it anymore. The smell, the taste of it take me back to that summer, that second, and the memories choke me like bones hidden in flesh. I heard his feet crushing the grass, and the hiss of disturbed grasshoppers as he ran to catch up with me, and I turned to face him.

"I ought to make you eat dirt for all that crap you just said."

"You just try it, you stupid jerk!" In my dreams, I feel the blood in my veins as if my every atom were leaning toward its destiny. I stepped back, into a hole, as he stepped toward me. We both lost our balance when I jerked away from him as he reached out to help me. Even though it was my fault, he still feels so guilty that he can't look at me. I don't even know if his eyes are the same shade of blue. He fell because I was mad at him, and I didn't want him to help me. And when he fell, the hunting knife in his right hand ended up deep in my left leg.

"Oh, my God, Olivia, NOOOO!!!! I'm so sorry! Please, please, God, forgive me." It was an accident, but he can't take it back. Ever. So it seems he really did divide my life, though not in the way he would have chosen. That was Before. This is After.

 

I hear his anguished apologies every night. The repetition is killing me. Monday bleeds into Friday, and weekends surprise me with their abrupt arrivals. I'm half-dressed for work, late for a tenure committee meeting, and I realize it's Saturday as I step over the weekend edition of the Journal, face-up on my doormat. "Life is passing me by," I tell my Siamese cat, China Blue. "Probably because it thinks I'm too tired to notice. That's not fair. I notice plenty," I said as I poured her milk in the flowerpot beside her bowl.

"Olivia?" I heard my boyfriend slam my front door, calling my name.

"I'm in here, Kurt." I poured some milk into my coffee cup, and then I closed the carton and put it away. "There's coffee if you want some."

"God, Liv, do you ever drink anything but coffee anymore?" He walks directly to the refrigerator and opens the door, examining the contents with exasperation. "How about juice? And didn't I ask you to pick up something for lunch? What did you get?"

"Which question am I supposed to answer first when you ask me four things at once? Shall I address the issue of my coffee addiction? I happen to like coffee, but I'm not going to make you drink it if you wouldn't care for any. That would be impolite. You, of course, may drink whatever you want. Do you think I have a problem? Right now I can think of several problems which are more pressing." I say in the falsely sweet, I-am-about-to-get-really-really-mad tone which I know drives him crazy. "Maybe I should call Betty Ford and see if they have room for me." I take a deep breath and make an effort to calm down. "If you'd look on the bottom shelf, I got chicken for lunch. You didn't tell me what you wanted, so I had to guess." The long-suffering stare he directed at me pushed me over the edge between armistice and anger. "I occasionally have trouble reading a mind with so little in it. If chicken doesn't appeal to you, go to the damn store yourself next time."

"I will. What's eating you?" He leaned back against the counter and studied me closely. "You're awfully well-dressed for a Saturday," he told me, raising his brow at my favorite green linen suit.

"This old thing?" I tried to smile at him, but he was not in the mood to smile back. "Okay, okay. I forgot what day it is. It happens all the time. To some really decent people. That's why they make calenders. Because lots of people forget what day it is even when they're not suffering from insomnia."

"Like you forgot we were having dinner with the partners last night?"

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry! I can't believe I forgot. I didn't screw things up for you, did I? Please forgive me. I feel terrible." I completely forgot that I had good reasons to be angry. "I mean it. I really feel lousy about it." I would have hugged him, but he did not respond, and I stepped back when he pulled my arms from around his neck.

"It's okay. I told them you had a deadline for your novel. They all sympathize with workaholics. But you could've called me. I waited for you for a long time."

"I forgot, Kurt. How could I have remembered to call you when I forgot I was supposed to meet you in the first place? I'm sorry, okay? I'm really, really sorry. I've had a lot on my mind lately. I should have called. Hell, I should have remembered dinner in the first place. I am sorry. I've said it four times now, and I mean it, but I'm not going to spend the rest of the weekend apologizing. I'm too tired, and I don't need anything else to feel guilty about." I put my coffee cup on the counter with such force that the handle broke off in my hand. "Damn. That was my favorite mug. Damn." He crossed the kitchen and took my hand.

"Did you cut yourself? Let me see."

"It's okay. It's not deep." I turned on the water in the sink. I backed up as he reached for my hand again.

"Would you cut it out, please? I can take care of myself. When did you graduate from med school without telling me, anyway? I'm going upstairs to change my clothes. If there's something else you want to say, you'll have to yell or come with me, whichever suits your mood more closely." I heard him sit on the bed behind me as I found jeans, a Boston College sweatshirt, and my favorite socks in the dresser. My feet are always cold.

"If I didn't know better, I might suspect you were cheating on me. What's that guy's name from school? The one with the rather large crush on you? The one who always wants to carry your books? That's not all he wants from you, you know. When was the last time you talked to him?"

"Are you talking about Ted? You're the one who's never nice to someone without a reason. Ted, however, was just being nice, just because it's easier for him to carry my books, and because it's a small thing he can do to make things easier for me. God, Kurt, I don't have the energy or the inclination to do anything as elaborate as faking insomnia as a ruse to allow me to see someone else. If I wanted him to do more than carry my books, I would just say so, for pete's sake. I can hardly handle one relationship right now. Do you really think I'd try to juggle two? I'd have a nervous breakdown." I walked to the closet to hang up my suit. "It's probably a good thing I forgot. Lately I've had all the warmth and charm of John Doe with a toe tag." I tried again to smile at him. "But I'm sorry. My entire body is pink with shame. . .Wanna see it?"

"No."

"So much for undiscovered country." I walked to the bathroom and slammed the door in his face.

"What?" He pounded on the door. "Olivia? What's the matter with you? I thought we were trying to have a conversation here." I opened the door when I had finished changing.

"Yeah? Well, I thought we were trying to have a relationship here. Imagine, if you can, what an idiot I feel like. I thought you would care more about why I didn't call you than you do about my not calling you. But the person I thought you were has never really existed. I am in love with a figment of my imagination. Do you see a sensitive, compassionate, intelligent guy in this room? You look an awful lot like one. Maybe I shouldn't feel bad for being so easily fooled." I sat on the bed to put my socks on. "It could've happened to anybody."

"I really hate it when I don't know what the hell you're talking about. And that tone in your voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up."

"I know. What about the hair on your back? Or the hair on your--"

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. But you could've thought about it first. I'm not too tired to notice your lack of interest. You really know how to make me feel good, baby. Maybe you're the one with a confession to make."

"The only thing you've been interested in lately is some guy who almost cut your leg off fifteen years ago!--"

"The strangest things create bonds between people, don't they?"

"Everything's a joke to you, isn't it?"

"No, you dork, it isn't. Am I laughing? Have you ever heard of a coping mechanism? If a couple of wise cracks upset you so much, maybe you need one or two."

"I'm supposed to feel compassion because you dream about some other guy?" "He's not screwing my brains out. He is cutting my leg off! It's not exactly the scene from my childhood I would choose to replay a thousand times! And yes, compassion from you would be a pleasant surprise. Apparently, you have a serious birth defect which caused you to be born without any!" I realized I was jumping up and down on my bed, fists clenched. I took a deep breath. "I'm really starting to get mad. I'm sorry." I faced him across the room, suddenly very tired. "My fuse isn't usually so short. I'm largely unfamiliar with this person who's imagining yanking out your eyebrows one at a time. It must be because I'm so tired." He tried to help me step down from the bed, but I wouldn't let him. "I'm not pushing you away. It's just that this isn't about you. It's not even really about Daniel." I leaned back on the bed, stretching my arms over my head to ease the knot beginning to form in the middle of my back. Some people are virtually paralyzed by stress. "You can't honestly be jealous of him, can you? I haven't seen him in a very long time. Every time he looks at me, the only thing he can see is his knife in my leg. He feels too responsible for my life to be a part of it."

"I am jealous. No matter what happens between us, you'll always be closer to Daniel than you are to me. I can't remember the last time that we even touched each other."

"That's not entirely my fault, you know. People have to bridge emotional distance before they feel comfortable enough to touch each other." I received a blank stare. "Okay, I guess it only applies to some people. Or only to me. So, in yet another way, I am completely alien to you." I retreated to my closet to find my favorite shoes. He came to lean against the door. "Greetings, earthling. Thanks for making me feel so at home on your planet." Still no connection. I sighed, and stood up. "What's between Daniel and me is blood, Kurt. Lots of it. Great, big, messy gobs of it. White tendons, shredded muscles. Would it make you feel better if I stick my head through the windshield of your car? A blood stain on the front seat would certainly be something we couldn't forget. Although it feels like I'm running out of unspoiled surface area with which to reassure you. I can only hope one wound will be enough."

"What are you talking about? Sometimes I just don't get you, Olivia. I didn't come here to fight with you. I'm getting a headache. I'm going downstairs for some aspirin." He stomped out of the room.

"Wait a minute!" I followed him downstairs as quickly as my left leg would let me. "Why are you the only one who gets to get mad? This is the first real fight we've had because I always said I'm sorry before. I'm the only one who's had to make any real adjustments."

"That's not true!"

"Name one."

"I had to adjust to the way people stare at you all the time."

"What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"Yeah. I just can't believe you really said it. Have you always been such a jerk? Why didn't I ever notice it before?"

"Why? Do you think it's easy to be with you?"

"Who said it's supposed to be easy? Loving anybody is a risk and a challenge. I learned that from my mother, and there's nothing wrong with either of her legs." I sat on a barstool, momentarily stunned. "That's why love is so great when it works out, and so lousy when it doesn't. Because it's so big. So powerful. So healing and so hurtful." I laughed so he wouldn't see me cry. "Kurt, if easy is what you want, I'll never be the girl for you. And I wouldn't ever have been, even if Daniel hadn't cut me. I am difficult and complicated. And I think too much. And I like William Faulkner and Tennessee Williams and E.E. Cummings. "

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing, I guess. But it may provide a clue to understanding my gothic Southern nature."

"God, I always feel like I'm having six different conversations with you at the same time. It's really exhausting."

"Please forgive me if I've tuckered you out, sweetie. But there's always a subtext. You just don't generally acknowledge it. Or do you really want to argue about orange juice and my coffee intake? Don't you have any depth at all? Or do you need visual aids to get the picture that orange juice is not the problem here?"

"I came to return your key. I think we should start seeing other people."

"Oh, Kurt, you can't blame our problems on my dreams. Daniel and that summer are on my mind lately. So I dream about him. The reason I don't tell you about my dreams is because you don't really want to hear about them. Go ahead, tell me it's not true. But you can't fix what's wrong between us by leaving."

"But what do I know about any of the things that would fix what's wrong between us? Or about reconstructive surgery and physical therapy and nightmares? You expect way too much of me."

"But I don't expect you to know anything about those things. I only expect you to listen. To be present. To invest your sympathy and your heart. It's the same thing that would be required of you from anybody else. Only the subject matter is different."

"I'm sorry, Liv. I know this makes me a coward, but I'd rather not talk about it." "So, you want to pretend that I do not limp until you are forced to acknowledge that I do because people stare at me every place I go. It isn't going to go away just because you don't acknowledge it. It doesn't require acknowledgement. It simply is. Pretending makes it bigger than it is, not smaller. And so much pretending is exhausting. And it changes everything. It denies us the means to be close to each other. Is that what you want?"

"No, no. God, I'm not saying this very well. I'm sorry. I fell in love with you, Olivia, but lately I've been feeling really overwhelmed. Things happened between us so fast, and I need some space. To think."

"Well, you can certainly have all the space you want. Were you thinking of leaving the state?"

"Come on, Olivia, all I need is some time to--"

"What? I'm not being sympathetic enough to your crowded sensibilities? Pathetic is right. I've never pressured you into anything. You are here because you want to be here. Things happened fast because you were sprinting, and because I thought I had to keep up, and because I thought I could rely on the promises you made. We are where you have led us to be." I laughed at him. "What's the matter? Have you just realized that you don't recognize any of the landmarks?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you're over your head in dangerous waters, and you just remembered that you've never been a very good swimmer. What are you going to do about it? Finally learn to swim or bail out?"

"I do want to be with you, but it's hard for me."

"It's hard for me, too. You're not the easiest person in the world to figure out, either. But that doesn't mean it's not worth trying. Does it? Or have you already made your decision?" I recognized the look on his face. "I see. I do have a problem with knowing when to quit. But if you never intended for us to end up here, why did you have to lead the way?" I needed something to do with my hands, so that I wouldn't touch him, because I needed to, and because I knew that I wouldn't ever freely touch him again, so I filled up the sink with hot water and washed my broken coffee cup ten or eleven times. I felt so lost that it took me a few moments to find my voice again. "I didn't expect you to love me. I gave you so many chances to tell me it didn't mean anything to you, that we were just fooling around, and all foolish things come to foolish ends. You could have said anything. It would've been okay with me. You chose to say `I love you, and will you marry me?'. If you didn't ever mean it, why did you ever have to say it?" I wiped my hands on a towel and put it down quickly when I realized I didn't want to put it down. "Did you think I wouldn't sleep with you if you didn't? Curiosity would have led me to it, sooner or later, regardless of the declarations you chose to make. Curiosity has gotten me in trouble before. And I am my father's daughter, compelled always to go to places I have never been. But I guess it had to be sooner, if you weren't going to stick around for later. I have to admit now that I still don't know what it feels like to be touched by someone who loves me. If you had ever told me the truth, I wouldn't have expected to know."

"Please, Olivia. Please don't cry. I'm sorry. I thought that it would be a good experience for you, whatever happened between us."

I touched my face. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I didn't know that I was. I know you hate that. I hate it, too." I took a deep, ragged breath. "You thought that I didn't know what it felt like to have someone lie to me?  I wiped the last tear from my face with an impatient finger, and promised myself I'd turn to stone before I let him see another.

 "I just don't understand you. The night I met you, the room was full of beautiful women. Why couldn't you have left me alone? You said you watched me walk in. You watched me walk across the room to Graham. You watched him help me on to the stage.  Oh, God, get out, please just get out. I think my head is about to explode, and I know how you feel about the sight of blood." I put my hands on each side of my head to ease the throbbing. I waited for my brain to ooze between my fingers into the sink. The room was so quiet, I thought he must have left while my back was turned. And then I felt his hand on my shoulder.

 

"Olivia, please. I'm so sorry. Let me get you something for your headache. Where did you put it? Is it in your purse? Have you eaten anything today? You shouldn't take these on an empty stomach." He walked me to my favorite chair, the big rocking chair my father and I used to sit in together when I was little. "Here. Drink this." He squatted down in front of me. "Can't you believe that I never meant for this to happen? Can't we be friends?"

"No. We can't be friends. We were never friends. Friends don't lie to each other. So, all you want from me is . . .what? Is this where I tell you it's okay, that you didn't hurt me? I wish I could tell you that. But you did hurt me. I loved you for saying that I could always wake you up when I had a nightmare, that you would always be there. I loved you for having names for our two kids. I believed you. I finally trusted you when you asked me to trust you. I loved you, and I can't give you what you need from me now. I can't make it easy for you to go. It's too late for easy."

"I'm really sorry, Olivia. I know I'm letting you down. I wish I didn't have to. I really thought I could handle it. I know I led you to believe I'm a better person than this." He put his key to my front door on the table beside my chair. "I also know that I don't deserve you." He leaned over to kiss me goodbye, but I moved away from him.

"I guess that should make me feel a lot better, but it doesn't help much. I hope you recover quickly. Thank you. I've learned to be more careful about giving this away." I picked up the key. "Goodbye, Kurt. I wish you better luck. But everyone has a past, and everyone remains affected by the unresolved bits of it that he carries around. Even you, I suspect. You may even carry me around for a while." I walked to the staircase, feeling my face flush in reaction to his eyes on my back, feeling as though I would exchange five years of my life for one graceful exit, for one distilled moment of absolute self-possession. I put my hand on the rail and turned slowly to look at him for the last time. "So don't forget to pack your bags before you go. I'd hate for you to leave part of yourself here. And I don't need any reminders of you. But please don't take anything that isn't yours. I still need my past, even if it is occasionally hard to manage." I didn't look at him again, and I waited until the door was closed behind him before I walked back up the stairs to my room.

I picked up the phone and dialed. "I made the stupid appointment." I made a face at my cat. "No, I'm not going to break it. I may be many things, but I am not a coward. It's going to be awfully crowded in there, though. Me, Mom, Dad, Daniel, Kurt. I hope he has a big office."

 

"Can I get you anything before we get started?"

"Let's just do it. I don't know what I'm doing here. Except that I'm running out of options, and there is this mass exodus of loved ones from my life right now. "There was an accident when I was fifteen. A friend of mine almost cut my leg off with his hunting knife. We were having a stupid argument about sex. My dad calls it the Diamond Deed. The one thing I can never alter or atone for or overcome, the one that will last forever. Five thousand years from now when some passerby stumbles on my bones, scientific analysis will reveal that I walked with a limp. That's what the archaeologists will say, when they hold my fibula in the air like a chicken leg for the camera. They won't know the color of my hair or my weird sense of humor or my favorite song. But they will hold the source of my shame in their dirty fingers and expose it to everyone in their national tv audience. "I feel like I deserved it in some Cosmic sense, even though it doesn't make any sense to feel that way. I know that I'm not always living this life the way it should be lived. With my head up and my eyes clear and storming every obstacle. I'm not strong. I keep waiting for it to bother me less, just a little less. I just don't want to dream about it. Tell me that it's possible to close my eyes and think of other things."

"It is possible. But you'll always dream about your accident. It changed the course of your life in many ways. But all of the changes haven't been for the worse, have they?"

"I know. I know that it has made me a deeper, more sensitive, compassionate person, and it has added levels of experience and observation to my life which I would never otherwise have known. I believe all of that, and I appreciate the changes to my character. But sometimes I would just rather be a slightly less thoughtful airhead cheerleader type who knows what it's like to be queen of the prom. And then I feel bad for feeling that way. Because I know that it's my vocation to do this with dignity and grace, and that I cannot invest my life or my actions with either until I achieve some deeper measure of peace. That's what I came here for, I guess. So, do you think you can fix me?"

"You're not broken."

"I shouldn't be. I should feel like the Bionic Woman. I dream about it every night. I forget things, and I never forget anything, and my boyfriend left me this morning because he thinks I'm getting off on it."

"Are you?"

"No. I'm afraid to go to sleep. It would have helped if he had held me. But he doesn't understand intimacy which isn't a prelude to sex. "Sex is wonderful. Sure. But sometimes it's inappropriate. I'm not cold or unfeeling or distant just because I think sometimes relationships should be consummated in other ways. I did want to be close to him. It didn't surprise me when he left. He said I'm difficult and complicated. I am. I think too much. I do. I wore him out. I feel vaguely sorry that he didn't stick around. I was trying so hard to love him. He told me that my life is hard on him. That bothers me. You can hide the hard parts of your life with the right distance. But when people get close to you, they're not watching from that distance anymore. Everything's from the front row. So part of me is secretly glad he's gone. It hurts less now than it would six months from now."

"I think you probably handle your life and its challenges better than you think you do."

"How can you possibly decide that in an hour?"

"It's not a decision. Just a guess. But you're out there. You think you're over your head half the time, but you're okay. You can't expect your limp to have no effect whatsoever on your life. I think you think it means that you're not dealing with the physical realities of your life when you have to make a concession. But that's exactly what it does mean. Everybody has to make concessions to the limits of their abilities. And everybody's limits are in different places."

"But the first concession leads to the second and the third and the fourth, and then why not just put a rocking chair on the front porch and park myself because it's easier than being out there is?"

"I'm so sure you'll never let that happen that I'm going to play some ball with my son. Come back next week. Call me if you hit a rough spot before then." I took his card.

"Do you make house calls?"

"I don't think you'll need one."

"Why don't psychiatrists ever answer questions?"

"This isn't about me. Go home, Olivia. Take a nap. Then show up at some social gathering. I'm sure you remember how."

"Vaguely."

"You must be very charming when you choose to be."

"Have you been talking to my father?"

"How did you and Kurt get together in the first place?"

"A very delicate process including but not limited to brain washing and certain principles of mind control. He should eventually recover completely. I hope his next girlfriend likes the Funky Chicken. I don't know why, but he dances every time he meets a train at a railroad crossing. Funny thing. Apparently, a hex is nothing to play around with." I sighed. "It was his destiny to have a limping amateur witch for a girlfriend. If he hadn't just broken my heart, I think I'd probably feel bad for him. People are going to stare at him every place he goes. Now, I just laugh every time I hear a train go by." I sighed again, more deeply. "I am a wicked, wicked woman. Is there a cure for it?"

China curled up beside me when I got home, forgiving me for giving her breakfast to my wandering Jew. Amazing, but I slept. For a while the dreams were peaceful. I'm sure they were gifts from my father. I remember feeling gratitude. And then I remember nothing. And then, I was so deeply asleep, and so tired, that I couldn't fight them, these memories, feelings, phantoms. People who had loved me, but left me, so that the chorus of grasshoppers forever singing in my head always seems to be chanting, "Don't go, don't go, don't go. Please." So that I am always calling them back to me at night, when darkness reveals my need for them.  The need I keep covered during daylight, each hour spending the currency of my bravery.  So that all my coins are spent by dusk.  Mom.  So that I spend all the darkest hours of my life alone, counting change, hoarding pennies.   Because I am extraordinary, like my father.  I followed where they led me. Daniel. I heard my father's voice saying, "Let me blow on it for you, Midget. You know it always makes it hurt less." Please. Daniel. Oh, Daniel. When the telephone woke me, all that remained was one vivid image.

"Hello?"

"Olivia? It's Ted."

"Hi."

"I called for your usual refusal of my invitation to the faculty supper."

"I'd love to go."

"What?"

"If you don't think the shock will kill you, that is."

"I'm stunned. Give me a minute. I have to rewrite all my lines."

"Would you believe me if I told you that this has all been part of an intricate scheme to keep you interested in me?"

"No."

"Ted, do you draw?"

"Yes."

"Would you draw something for me?"

"Sure." I wore jeans and sandals and my favorite sweater.

"Looks like we're the first ones here". He held my chair for me as I sat and pulled his closer. "You usually wear your hair up. I like it down. You look beautiful. Are you blushing?"

"Still my usual response to a compliment."

"What do you want me to draw? First. Are you only here because I can draw?" "Not only because you can draw."

"Tell me the rest."

"I've always liked you. And I was told to go out tonight. And I had a dream, and I need to draw something in it. Do you think that's sort of flaky?"

"It's only flaky in the most appealing way."

"I want you to capture this one vivid image." When we got home, I led him upstairs to the drafting table in my office. "My dad bought it after my accident. First, I should tell you about the vivid image. A man and a woman in bed together." I smiled at the grin he gave me. "Not that kind of a picture. He's sleeping on his side, curled up toward her, like this." He turned to watch me sketch. "She's awake, staring at the ceiling of their bedroom, like this. It's important to me. Because it's not the dream I've had for the last six months. Because it's got nothing to do with anything that's ever happened to me before. Will you help me?"

"I'm sure it will sound like crap, but I'm touched that you asked me to help you." I leaned over his shoulder. He could have sketched quickly, merely to placate me. But he chose instead to take his time.

"Ted, can I ask you a question?"

"No, this isn't the weirdest first date I've ever had."

"Can I ask you another one?"

"Ask me anything."

"Can I ask you why you like me? Kurt told me I shouldn't have asked him why. He didn't understand why it mattered. I wasn't being insecure. I wasn't asking him to flatter me. How can you know if it's going to last unless you know why it started in the first place? You can't know that it will. Life is an independent variable. But I think sometimes you can know that it won't."

"Are you saying that you need to know?"

"I need to know if it would only be stupid and painful not to send you home now. I deeply regret trusting Kurt. And I tend to carry my regrets rather heavily. Right now I think my hands are full." He stopped drawing.

"Suddenly, it gets serious?"

"It doesn't feel like we're clowning around anymore. Tell me now why you're here. Is it just sex?"

"Part of it is sexual. But I like you, Olivia. And I think I could like you a whole lot more. The only way you're going to know whether to believe me or not is to trust me a little. I don't intend to give you anything else to regret. I'll call you tomorrow."

I called Dr. Winston. "It's an ungodly hour. I know. I am sorry."

"Olivia, you don't need me to tell you what to do. You're capable of making your own decisions. I don't think you ever needed me at all. You were dreaming about Daniel because you were reaching out to someone who loved you. Uncertainty is a natural reaction to any new relationship. It might end well. It might end badly. It might last for the rest of your life."

"Thanks for the great advice, doc."

 

 

 "Good morning, Sleepyhead."

"Good morning." "I did come ready to work." He held up a picture frame. "Just tell me where you want me to hang it. I guess you could send me home. But I wanted to know what you look like when you wake up." I opened the door to laugh at him.

"It's pretty grisly. Are you a strong man?"

"I'm as strong as I need to be, and getting stronger every day."

"Do you feel like going for a ride with me after we hang the masterpiece? There's a place I want to show you. How do you feel about sunflowers?"