A Short Story: Her

The following is a submission on which I was working for an annual contest sponsored by Selected Shorts of Public Radio International.  A few things started happening around here and I missed the deadline.  (Partly because I misinterpreted the rules and realized my error too late to do a proper rewrite.)  The entry must be no more than two double-spaced pages of 12-point Roman font (I think that was the font); the subject matter must center around an object of desire.  I have no training in short stories and have written none save the few I tried for this contest in the past two years.  Takes me out of my box.  I love to read and listen to short stories.  Writing them is an art.  Brevity is difficult for me.  Thus, I should probably practice within the short story genre for my own good.

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The frets, worn to smooth silver nubs, accept my fingers with a familiarity shared between intimates of long-standing.  There is no resistance to my caress, each string eager to welcome me back after my decade of absence.  Her rounded contours hug my body, the same perfect fit we’d once shared on a daily basis.  When she begins to sing, as clear in tone and pitch as the day when first I coaxed the music from her belly, I can’t stop my voice from joining hers, counterpoint of tears.  Oh, how I had missed her touch!

“What are you doing here?  Put her down.  Right now!” the words hiss from somewhere behind me, near the open door of the garage, “You shouldn’t be here!”  Feeling the onrush of habitual guilt, I push her from me, wiping my eyes on my jacket sleeve.  I turn to face my ex-wife and sigh, “You didn’t answer the door.  I found the key in the same spot, and it worked.  I didn’t think you’d begrudge me my own belongings.”  Instinctively, I place myself between her and my ex.

A trembling pink-nailed finger thrusts itself into my immediate line of sight, “YOUR belongings?!  That’s rich, sweetheart.  Rich!  I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed.” Sneers do not improve my ex’s features, but I feel it is best to bury this insight.  “You left her.  And me.  Ten years ago.  TEN years!  We DON’T forgive you!”  Behind me, her neck has warmed to my backward embrace and she doesn’t agree with this other voice in our shared space.  I am emboldened and step forward to challenge the finger and its surly owner.

“No.  No, you’re wrong.  I never left her.  If ever I got out, I promised to return for her, to take her away from this heartless place,” standing back, I widen my arms to take in the entire of the garage, “Look where you put her.  YOU don’t love her.  Let her go.  GIVE her to me.”  My boldness is gone, replaced by a desperate whine I try to suppress.  I’ve stood in front of burly tattooed men intent upon doing me harm in small windowless places where prying eyes couldn’t witness and open ears could not hear, but that pales next to the fear congealing in my veins as I catch the expression in my ex’s eyes.  It’s hate.  A hatred not directed at me . . . but at her.

My ex blames her for the thing which took me from them both.  One night of strumming for the party crowd.  One celebratory bourbon too many.  One four-way stop misread.  One 17 year-old kid who would never graduate high school.  I blame the rightful party: me.  But when the marriage turned cold with the banging of the gavel, I knew she was in danger.

And now that danger is screaming at us.  My ex waves a sheaf of papers in the air,  spouting on about state divorce laws, community property and police intervention.  My ex will exact her pound of flesh.  As much as I love her, I can’t go back to prison.  We can’t run away.  And she definitely can’t remain here.  Our options have expired.  All but one.

She’s in front of me now.  I want to remember our shared touch, the sense of rightness between us.  One final time, I stroke her slender neck and run my hand down the length of her, a comforting trill escaping her depths.  She trusts the decision which has passed between us.  I extend her, focusing on my ex’s face, “You WANT her?”    

“Whooomp!” with the power of countless hours spent pumping iron, I slam her beautiful body into the concrete floor.  Again and again and again.  My ex falls silent, her victory deflated.  Only my labored breathing and the grating of metal on mahogany can be heard: her final song rings mournfully among the pieces at my feet.  "Good bye," I whisper.   

On Books, Periods and Best Parts

I love to read a good book.  To dive in and stay under.  Hold my breath as the plot develops and the characters become flesh-and-blood company.  I prefer to stay under, floating in the ether of printed word, until the last page is turned, but rarely does a day or two present itself for such a pleasurable undertaking as devouring a novel from cover to cover.

In either case, when the story does end -- always before it should -- I hold the cover up for final inspection, returning to the jacket to again review the story outline, to peer at the author's photo and envision that writer's process: a decompression ceremony akin to watching the credits scroll at the conclusion of a movie, figuring out how to best reacquaint myself with my lungs.  How best to return to the surface and gulp the air of real life, of daily life as I absorb what has just been imparted to me.

But let's backtrack.

For the past day and a half, I've been sidelined with one of my infamous periods.  There.  I've said it.  The big dot-at-the-end-of-the-sentence word that makes our mothers cringe when we say it in public.  And I'm guessing MY mother would count this blog as a public place.  I know I do.  Anyhow, how could I ever have a real blog and NOT discuss my period from time to time.  It's a fixture.  It likes attention.  It gets attention.  One day, it will shut up.  And then it will be arthritic joints or impacted bowels or some such physical condition which competes with my regular life for attention.  (I'll just say right now that I'd prefer to NOT have the whole bowel issue if I have a choice in the matter.)

So, the thing about my periods is that they involve a significant amount of pain that I once endured without the benefit of medication.  Enduring said periods involved crawling on the floor, crying and praying, and afraid to take anything to alleviate the labor-like episodes.  Eventually, a smart doctor talked me through my irrational fear of medication.  I began to ingest ibuprofen in 800 mg doses, every 4 to 6 hours, for 3 to 5 days.  Despite researching alternate ways to handle this problem, and thus avoid developing resistance to, or stomach damage from, all those wee green-blue liqui-gels, I always end up back here.

When I don't adhere to this schedule, when I try alternate meds, I'm met with little or no success . . . and significant amounts of pain.  And that doesn't include the 'cloudy brain' syndrome which precludes thinking my way out of a paper bag.  The extreme sensitivity to noise and scents.  Irritability which makes me want to tape my mouth shut.  And an often heavy depression which feeds into my body image issues.  I try to rest, read, distract myself, pray, and apologize in equal measures during these times.  Some cycles are worse than others.  For awhile, when I was on the anti-depressant last year, my periods were more in keeping with the size of a grammatical period.  And after this weekend, I may return to that anti-depressant, despite the sound reasons I had for quitting last fall.  I've been trapped in a pattern whereby if I move, the pain rears its ugly head and puts up quite a fuss, and when I'm still the hormonal dark clouds fill my brain and mutter ugliness I know isn't true but feels quite potent in the moment. 

All of this to say that I used my distraction tools to keep my mind and body busy as much as possible.  Yesterday, I slept in, easier to do when doped up by the ibuprofen.  And then I moved my heating pad, pillow, ANSAID and iPhone to a docking station of sorts on the back patio where I was entertained by my family, including Ashley's boyfriend, for several hours with grill cleaning, meal preparation, jocularity, dog watching, and actual eating (which I also do in more dramatic fashion at this time).  Later, when the sun, sights and sounds got the better of me, I relocated to the recliner in the living room, where I remained planted until after 10PM.  I did, indeed, read post-film credits after admiring Michelle Williams' performance as an American icon in "My Week With Marilyn."

And in between all of this period subterfuge, I read a good book.  Anna Quindlen's "Every Last One" work of fiction, handed off to me from my mother earlier this month.  At 10:30 this morning, I found myself at the last page.  Crying one last time.  Scanning the dust jacket one last time.  Reacquainting myself with the lungs of regular life.  Once again.  Wanting to share with all of you.  Once again.

In a nutshell, an ordinary suburban mom must find a way to develop a new normal after a truly horrendous intimate tragedy shakes the foundations of her life and that of her family.  Fiction or no, any story worth the time it took to write affects the reader.  Parallels can be drawn.  Descriptions visualized.  Characters understood or misunderstood.  Sympathies and empathy elicited.  And I want to be affected.  Entertainment is not my primary goal when I crack open a book.  Betterment.  Growth.  Improvement.  Perspective.  They are on my short list of that which I hope will happen during my discourse with everything between prologue and epilogue.

I had tears in need of shedding.  There were thoughts in need of coalescing.  Painful though wide swathes of this book were, those same swathes served as catharsis for this suburban mom in the midst of transition.  That my present condition has opened several emotional conduits which might have otherwise stayed shut and dry is a given.  Truly, I believe this is one of the most useful functions of a period if it is exercised outside of stress and stereotyping.  Though I can, emphasis on CAN, be more volatile right about now, if those emotions on tap are allowed a healthy outlet as opposed to being exercised in a rough moment, there are benefits.  Because I'm slowed down and not able to busy myself, I can think and emote my way around an issue in its entirety and gain a bit of closure or deeper understanding.  That makes for better days ahead.

This time around the circumspect block, I needed to examine the whole issue of my Sarah now belonging to someone else.  Her new status as wife trumps her old status as daughter, though I'm well aware she exists as both.  I will miss everything about my relationship with her.  Mostly because mothering was not this natural sunny experience for me with any of my kids.  I grew into motherhood.  I learned from my mistakes.  Apologized for my shortcomings.  And eventually begin to give myself credit for those areas where I got it right.  Sarah and I have trampled through some pretty overgrown fields together to arrive at this lovely expanse of deep green meadow all around us.  Somehow, that frustrated and fiery little curly-headed girl who could NOT, would not, be swayed until she was ready, whose moods and motivations I did not always comprehend no matter how desperately I yearned to plumb those depths, somehow she came to know ME the best. Out of my children.  Out of my husband.  Even out of those with whom I was raised. 

Wherever those inner battles took her in her young life, however it was that my nights of holding her and coaxing her and waiting her out allowed balance to take root in her heart, whenever it was that the painful lessons of her choices became valid in her mind, these forward movements of her existence gifted her with a natural discernment of her mother's core.  How best to approach me.  How best to talk with me.  How best to pay attention.  How best to comfort.  How best to back off.  How best to pull me up by the short hairs.  And because she is a part of me, and vice-versa, and because such understanding is a rare gift, and because we are both bright lights in a dark world, there is this especially profound joy which wells up within me when she is around.  It is not that I love her any more.  Or that I consider her 'favorite.'  It is that somewhere in all of this she walked right into me and allowed me to have a rare glimpse at the best parts of herself . . . and they were, and are, also the best parts of myself.  As giving as I am, as much I am one who shares and imparts and gifts, I would not be human, nor honest, if I didn't say that I would love to keep her right here on terra firma America, attending UTC for another 3 years, allowing a bit more time for good ol' ma to adjust to her eventual grown-up life.

However, having seen those best parts, and knowing that two bright lights separated will push back more darkness than those same lights concentrated on one shadowed area together, the larger part of me is bursting with excitement for the life my daughter is soon to start abroad with her Pfc. Ekmanis.  As we have both played a part in revealing one another's hidden layers, it is only fitting that we branch out and find our independent ways in our interdependent lives.  We are alive.  And healthy.   And still living on the same planet.  And we no longer have to rely on the Pony Express for long-distance communication.  Before long, I'll be a Skype Master.  And have a few European stamps in my passport.

But as Sarah has reminded me, there's still the summer of 2012 -- or at least some part of it -- for us.  For ALL of us.  And then I join the ranks of parents everywhere, many of whom are my good friends and family members, who've had to wave and sigh from their empty, or emptying, nest.

Just remember that there will be two more similar entries in the years to come.  But no rush, Ashley and Zachary.  No rush.
  

Saturday's Guests

It's been a rather long time since last I posted on this blog.  The Push-Ups blog gets most of the action.  There I can be quick and light and picture-heavy when necessary.  My alter ego.  But at The Reluctant Suburbanite my "altar" ego makes its presence known.  That bared down, pared down, often raw deep down part of me which questions the world and its God.  At least the God I'm getting to know and recognize as the great Creator and Sustainer.  Those questions often lead to answers.  And not always to neatly trimmed and clipped around the sides and across the top.

I should rightly be asleep.  Though this is a common refrain for me, it is all the more true in this case as I've had possibly two hours of shut-eye in the past two days.  As I wrote much earlier today, my Friday night and Saturday morning were spent at my church as a volunteer, caring for a group of local women in need of food and shelter who rotate from church to church all around Murfreesboro courtesy of a pilot program called "The Way of Hope" which started this past winter.  Though these women find safety and comfort in our building more than once a month, once a month is all that our actual members are needed to actively participate in the program.  Two to three women, along with a male duo, are required to spend the night at the church with anywhere from five to twenty five women (guessing on the average numbers as in the beginning they were lower, more recently, as the service becomes more widely known and used, the numbers are growing).  At least one volunteer needs to remain awake at all times.  Last night, my high intake of caffeine, coupled with the excitement stemming from having four-fifths of my family helping out, kept me fully alert until five AM, at which point I crashed for an hour before joining my husband for a quick trip to Wal-Mart for the food we would pack for the ladies' lunches.

It was a huge success in my book.  An outdoor picnic with idyllic spring weather.  Low drama factor.  Well-behaved little boys.  That perfect homemade chocolate cake provided by our very own Barbara Earp.  And the enlightening time of fellowship via board and word games with our music worship leader, Josiah, our guitarist, Kirby, and our college-night barista and regular Sunday attendee, Kay Jaeger.  Though it's always rewarding when the women who stay with us let us know that they've had a pleasant stay and then extend blessings and thanks with sincerity, it isn't necessary for my peace of mind.  Because though the program is extremely important to me on many levels and I understand how vital it is to our community, my volunteering is an act of love to my church.  It is an act of appreciation for our pastors and the elders; for the lovely ladies who show up early to greet our attendees at the door with a smile of welcome that I know is 100% genuine Church at Cross Point; for the dudes and dudettes on stage who get us into harmony and melody with open hearts; for the members who forsake the Sunday message for the sake of ministering to our children; for the couples and families, new and old, and the individuals, who fill our seats with their presence and open their hearts to praying for others even as they, in turn, often require prayer for themselves.  After seven years of attendance, I can wholeheartedly refer to myself as an avid Cross Pointer, and a pointer toward the cross.  And it is all a very good thing.

In the wake of all that goodness, with the scents of sausage and bacon yet lingering in the air of the large open room where I join with fellow believers on Sunday, hang out with homeless but hopeful women one Friday a month when possible, and watched my middle child exchange marriage vows with her Army man almost two short weeks ago, my plan was to deliver my two young women charges, one with two small children in her care, to their hang-out destination for the day . . . and then take a long nap before walking Hankie Dog.

However, there was an alternate plan out there not of my devising but not outside of my liking or reckoning.  The two twenty-something ladies, dressed to flatter their youthful figures, hair and makeup complimentary to their African-American skin tones, realized that they had recalled wrongly the hours of a particular place where they had planned to stay.  They had nowhere to go.  Now, I could have told them I'd drop them off at the mall with their bag lunches for the next seven or eight hours and that would have been within my rights to do.  It was definitely within the parameter of my volunteer duties as outlined in the program.  But I often neglect to recognize parameters.  And without consulting my husband, not even thinking I needed to do so, I blurted out, "You know what?  You are welcome to come stay at our house and hang out.  I'm not going anywhere and it's comfortable if you can handle a cat and an active but friendly dog."

And they accepted my offer.

Zachary played with the five year-old boy ALL the rest of the morning and right up to five in the afternoon.  He dug out his old bicycle and pumped up the tires.  Found a good safety helmet and his trusty skateboard.  Introduced his young charge to the neighbor boys.  And even took him for a tasty trip to McDonalds.

Inside the house, Hank took charge of the toddler, alternately licking him to within an inch of his fearless little life (the kid was not afraid of Hank IN THE LEAST!) and beating him with that tail-with-its-own-zip-code.  The toddler, in turn, kept Hank fed with a steady stream of snacks which were first half-consumed by him and then finished off by the white wonder pup.

I managed to garner my share of hugs and kisses from these sweetly-behaved little guys, snapping off pictures whenever I could (with the permission of their mother).  The younger woman, Brittany, who wants to be known as Brit-Brat, responded to my questions with an awareness and intelligence well beyond her twenty years.  Though she knows her parents well, she's spent much of her childhood in foster homes, fending for herself in her later years, in Michigan, before moving to Tennessee just a few month ago.  Even in her present situation, she loves Tennessee and has formed a fast friendship with the other woman and mother, Pauline.  Brittany often walks to work, leaving herself plenty of time to be early for her Dollar General Store part-time job, so as to show her boss that she is worthy of gainful full-time employment and eventual managerial training.  Often, she arrives an hour early and hangs out a the grocery store while waiting to start her shift.  She would like to find an apartment with Pauline so that the two of them could work different shifts, care for the boys, share expenses, and build on their fast friendship forged under the duress of life's hard knocks.

It's not every person in this program that I would have asked over to my house.  I couldn't discern danger or manipulation in these girls.  (I'm a mother to grown children and am over 40; I can call them girls.)  I had occasion to watch them at Cross Point through the evening and on into the morning.  And as the balance of my marriage goes, when I allow my guard to lower out of compassion and personal history's empathy, my husband's antennae go up and out in direct compensatory gesture.  That's probably not a bad thing.  I don't fault him in the least.  And in the end, he allowed these perfect strangers entry into our family home for the balance of our fatigued Saturday.  When Brittany discovered she had been scheduled to work on her day off, Jimmy rode with us to her place of employment, listening and talking in equal measure, shining a bit of his fatherly charm on her.  (We both agreed that she reminded us of our own Sarah, so close in age, and displaying that unique brand of self-confidence and personality that shows in her attitude and demeanor.)  I later dropped off the little brothers and their mama at tonight's location for food and shelter, swapping numbers so that we could get that bicycle to her little man once they found an apartment and settled in.

They are not the kind who will remain homeless for very long.  There is no affect which suggests mental illness or drug/alcohol abuse or serious domestic crisis without the ability for resolution.  And because of these things, their time in the emergency shelter system can actually be more difficult to manage.  Preparing for work amongst other strange women embroiled in drama and impaired by major issues takes focus and an ability to shut out trouble makers.  Caring for small children within a larger body of females without children but with strong opinions on how parenting should occur and how children should behave can be challenging.  I was a child myself during the times I spent in church housing and local shelters.  People, staff, volunteers -- they're all nice to children.  And unless they are predators beneath the kindnesses, their kindness is real.  But homeless adults can face all manner of criticism and judgement, condemnation and derision.  As difficult as it was to be homeless as a kid with a memory and awareness, I do believe that the depression and self-doubt of adult homelessness might be downright crippling.  I hope never to find out.

But I do hope that it is in my future to continue to counter the negatives of all herein outlined with the love and purposefulness that is mine to share with my fellow human beings in need.  Life is plenty hard enough without the added daily worries of how shelter and food the basics of surviving will be met.  Especially in a country such as ours where excess is the name of the game for so many.  Living on the fringes while rubbing elbows with folks who are overflowing in abundance to the point of excess is disheartening, to say the very, very, VERY least.

See how I ramble when tired.  See poor Jane run . . . and ramble . . . and trip down the stairs and into bed . . . because she dozes at the keyboard . . . and her daughter insists she stop . . .