Announcing the Winners of the 2024 Eugene Gullish Writing Competition

Updates

Mar 1

We are delighted to announce the winners of the 2024 Eugene Gullish Writing Competition, hosted by the Paris Henry County Arts Council. This year, we received an impressive total of 29 short story submissions, showcasing the immense talent and creativity within our community.

Without further ado, let's shine a spotlight on the exceptional writers who emerged victorious in this year's competition:

Adult Category:

1st place/Judges Choice: "The Fighter" by Auston Jenkins
2nd place: "Lament of the Gingerbread Witch" by Susan White
3rd place: "A Second Chance" by Lydia Perts

Youth Category:

1st place/Judges Choice: "Eyes Straight Ahead" by Elise Bye
2nd place: "MESO" by Allison Williams
3rd place (TIE): "Moving On" by Rebekah Perts & "Memories Return: A Princesses Rediscovery" by Sofia Chaney

The outcomes of this year's competition were particularly intriguing, as we witnessed both first-place winners also receiving the title of Judges Choice. This rare occurrence underscores the exceptional quality of the submissions and the difficult decisions our judges faced.

In the words of Caleb Grissom, Director of the Arts Council: "We see so many times in art shows that pieces win First Place as well as Best Choice… that is exactly what happened in our writing contest! Our judges scored the stories following a numeric rubric based on plot, story structure, character development, setting, grammar, and sentence structure. Their opinion of their personal favorite and best overall went hand-in-hand with the score sheet."

Moreover, we are thrilled to share an exciting development regarding the Youth category. Historically, the category was excluded from consideration for "Best Overall." However, this year, one of our esteemed judges, Melanie Howard, selected "Eyes Straight Ahead" as their best choice, prompting us to open up the Best Overall award to the Youth category. This decision reflects our commitment to recognizing and celebrating the immense talent of our young writers.

Speaking of our judges, we extend our heartfelt appreciation to Melanie Howard and Zachary Aaron for their diligent efforts in evaluating the submissions. Melanie, a seasoned freelance writer and former reporter, remarked, "All of the entries in this year’s contest were exceptional, it was hard to decide which ones were best. I admire all the writers for being brave enough to put their work, which often represents their most emotional experience, in front of judges. I encourage all of them to keep writing and honing their craft." Zachary Aaron, a historic consultant and accomplished writer, echoed these sentiments, expressing his enthusiasm for the creative pieces he had the privilege of reviewing. Zachary shared, "I was thrilled to be included, and I want to strongly encourage everyone who entered submissions to this competition to keep working on developing your stories— I read so many creative pieces and cannot wait to see where your writing may take you."

We extend our warmest congratulations to all the winners and express our gratitude to everyone who participated in the 2024 Eugene Gullish Writing Competition. Your passion for storytelling enriches our community, and we look forward to witnessing your continued growth and success in the world of literature.

“This story is dedicated to my parents. Thank you for giving me everything I needed to fight my way through life. I still hate you both, and I hope you go to hell…”
Droplets of blood are splattered across the ring like rose petals on the floor. The air smells like a mixture of liquor, leather, and sweat. Around him and through him, the echoes of a roaring crowd reverberate off the walls so loudly that he can feel it in the pits of his stomach. Sweat beads off his brow and into the corners of his eyes. His blurry vision spins as he crumbles to the floor.
It's round number three in a nine-round match, but for him it might have well felt like an eternity.
He’s a fighter. And right now, he’s losing.
“One… Two… Three…” the ref begins to count.
Grabbing at the ropes, he manages to stand back up. His knees shake and his legs wobble. That last hook hit him like a freight train across his jaw. Lucky for him, the pain is quickly replaced by numbness.
Looking across the ring, he sees his opponent glaring at him like a wolf eyeing its prey.
He fears this man - hates him even. This ring is a trap, a cage containing him in here with both this man and his own demons. It’s a cage with no way out other than through the gauntlet.
So, raising his gloves up and nodding to the referee, he steps back to center.
If there’s truly no easy way out, then he’ll at least go down swinging.
That’s the lie he tells himself at least. It’s the same lie he told himself when he was just a kid hiding from the drunken monster that rampaged through the house every night. Day after wretched day, night after sleepless night, that monster prowled through that trailer like a hungry wolf ready to devour any glimmer of joy it managed to sniff out. For ten years he was forced to find somewhere to hide as screams and banging echoed off the walls. For ten years he endured the same backhand across his face. And at ten years old, he finally got tired of running.
CRACK!
The shot across his ribs hits him harder than his father ever could. Buttoning up, he quickly finds himself against the ropes. He’s spent most of the fight here already. Across the ring, he can just barely make out the voice of his coach yelling at him to work his angles and get on the inside.
He’s right. That would get him off the ropes. But he also isn’t the one getting the literal snot beat out of him right now.
WHOP!
That damn right hook again.
Falling forward, he can’t let the ref see that he’s about to crumble, so he throws out his arms and goes for a clinch. He just needs a second to catch his breath. Just a few seconds to get the feeling back in his legs.
He just needed a minute to get his shit together.
But that’s just another memory that haunts him. Crawling out of that Humvee was like crawling onto another planet. Smoke filled the air. Bullets hissed by his head. Bodies, or at least what remained of bodies, were scattered on the ground. The military was his one-way ticket out of that trailer park he grew up in. However, it felt more like a one-way ticket to hell. In his mind’s eye, he can still remember himself trying to wrap his head around it all - the explosion, the burning corpses, the firefight that ensued. He can remember thinking that he just needed a minute to compose himself. Just a second to figure out what was going on.
Unfortunately, time wasn’t a luxury he could afford.
DING - DING - DING!
Thank God for that damn bell! Another minute in the ring with that monster and he would be lying unconscious on the mat.
With half swollen eyes, he stumbles over to a corner.
It’s not his corner.
Looking over, he sees his coach shouting at him, so he stumbles over there and takes a seat.
Removing his mouthpiece, he begins swishing water around in his mouth as his coach lathers a fresh layer of Vaseline across his face. Spitting into a metal bucket, chunks of blood stream from his lips. Quivering, he desperately tries to catch his breath.
“Do you want this!?” his coach yells at him. “I said, do you want this, or not!?”
Suddenly, he hears his wife yelling at him from the not-so-distant past.
“Because, if you don’t, then I’m taking our son and I’m leaving!”
Truth be told, nothing in his life ever hurt him quite as much as the day she nearly walked out on him. They had been arguing for months after he got home from Iraq, mainly about the drinking habit he couldn’t seem to shake. She had been faithful to him through it all; three deployments, the loss of his closest friend, and more night terrors than anyone would dare to count. She was his last glimmer of hope. She was everything he held dear. And that night, she was about to leave if he didn’t do something to save himself from becoming everything he hated.
That night was the night she stormed out of the house. It was also the same night that he poured out the last drop of whiskey into the kitchen sink. Wanting to sober up as fast as he could, he threw on his shoes and just started running! He ran for what felt like an eternity. Past the subdivision where those rich bastards lived, past the trailer park he once called home, past the recruiting center where he signed his name on a dotted line.
He ran past it all.
And then he kept running.
He didn’t stop until he puked!
And he eventually puked in front of the old boxing gym.
DING - DING - DING!
The bell tolls again.
Standing to his feet, he looks across the ring at his opponent. In his eyes, he sees that same hungry wolf still staring back at him.
Glancing across the crowd, he catches a glimpse of his wife and son. She’s nearly six months along with their second child.
Stepping out into the center of the ring, he’s ready to fight like his life depends on it!
Because, at the end of the day, it does.
Droplets of blood are splattered around the ring like rose petals on the floor. The air smells like a mixture of liquor, leather, and sweat. Around him and through him, the echoes of a roaring crowd reverberate off the walls so loudly that he can feel it in the pits of his stomach. Sweat beads off his brow and into the corners of his eyes. His vision begins to focus as he marches out to face his opponent.
It's round number four in a nine-round match, but he’s been fighting since he was ten.
He’s a fighter, a warrior, a soldier. And right now, he’s giving it everything he has left.
I didn’t plan for this to happen.
I was short on coins, desperate for attention, and a little bit stupid, if I’m honest. All that ‘double, double, toil, and trouble’ was fun at first. A little frog spawn here, a beauty spell there. I swear, I didn’t know the recipe included baby fingers. Everything was so new at the time, a whirlwind of bright colors, strange potions, beautiful creatures, and blind trust. I didn't think blood could taste so sweet.
Once upon a time, I was a baker. Every day the townspeople would come for my cherry strudels and boysenberry tarts. Scents of cinnamon rolls and banana muffins drifted through my little cottage as parents bought their little sweeties sweets for the week. Life was good, I was young, and Sugar Sally’s Sweet Shoppe was my dream and my home.
Funny thing about sugar, though. It doesn’t burn; it explodes.
In less than fifteen minutes, my hopes and dreams were spread out over the village in an eruption of fiery flecks, each landing gracefully onto the thatch roofs of my fellow villagers. All because I left my oven on. Do you know how long it takes a village to burn? A single night. Do you know how long they held a grudge? I’m still counting the days. Apparently, sugar and spice do not make everyone nice.
From there, everything went downhill. Town to town I went to barter my sweets, traveling farther and farther away to avoid the plague of bad luck that seemed to come with me. The woods were my only comfort. Animals aren’t picky; they’ll eat what’s brought to them. I made friends with the crows, who stole coins for me in exchange for a few slices of bread. But when I ran out of bread, even the animals turned against me. After a month of no food, I was barely more than an animal myself.
That’s when I met the Weirdings. As for what happened next, I can’t say they didn’t help me in some way. Yes, they were witches. I knew that from their facial warts and spell talismans in the doorway. At the time, I didn’t care. They fed me, clothed me, and treated me with kindness I hadn’t had in a long time. Their world was small, but isolated and cozy. Calliope grew the vegetables in the garden for potion making, Zeldaba collected books and histories of the world, and Alecto tied the group together as their mediator and medium. All they were missing was a good cook.
I’ll never be sure whether they spelled me, or whether I turned to their world on my own. I was enchanted by the three of them. Their potions could cure deadly illnesses, and their books told of hidden worlds with diverse lifestyles and philosophies. Alecto, especially, inspired me to try new things, new recipes for life. They had such a unique and passionate appreciation for nature and self-preservation. All life was precious, and each life had a purpose. To grow stronger, you had to consume the weak, just as nature decreed. I never quite agreed with that philosophy, but having known hunger, I could definitely appreciate the value of eating meat.
One morning I woke to an empty house. The Weirdings were often gone the night of a full moon, so this wasn’t unusual. I purposely never asked them what they did on those nights for fear of the answer. I decided to bake them a cake, as they would most likely be hungry from their ventures. I added my usual sugar, flour, eggs, and milk, also sprinkling in some lavender and rosemary for flavoring. Zeldaba was fond of cinnamon, so I reached into the jar and pulled out a brown, coarse piece, shaving the entire stick down into the batter. The whole thing looked so delicious that I couldn’t help dipping my finger into the mixture and spreading the taste onto my tongue.
If I had been more observant, I would have realized that the Weirdings had in fact come back to the house before dawn and restocked the pantry. If I had been smarter, I would have remembered that we had run out of cinnamon just two days before. If I had listened, I would have overheard Calliope talking about the list of ingredients she needed for a beauty potion she wanted to make. That was the purpose of their full moon hunting trip. To become beautiful, you have to consume beauty. And what could be more beautiful than the delicate, stubby fingers of curious children picked at the ripe age of three?
I had eaten dried baby fingers.
A normal woman would have been repulsed. She would have spat out the mixture and thrown the whole cake out for good measure. If I had done that, I could have moved on with my life with only a bad memory in its place.
Instead, I swallowed…then I took another bite. Then I took another and another until the whole bowl was gone. No longer would I ever crave sugar in my recipes. I had found something far sweeter. The pure, candied goodness of children carried far more honey than any tart or strudel I could ever make – and I wanted more. But the innocent cannot consume the innocent without consequences.
Soon, my appetite grew too much for even the Weirdings, and I left their cozy, little world. It was just as well. Their tastes were too bitter for what I had in mind. Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping children when they could come to me? I’ve always been a baker, and everyone knows children love sugary sweets. Add a few doses of bat’s breath, a few magic words, and soon my simple cottage had turned into pure gingerbread.
I’m sure you know the rest of the story by now. Sweet, goodly children would stop by to nibble a morsel or two on my house. I’d entertain them with stories, fill them up with sweets and pastries until they were ready to pop. And on every full moon, I’d feast on their delectable, little faces. My mother used to say that you are what you eat, and I wanted to be young. So, I was for a while, at least until it was time to cook the next child. But with every recipe, eventually you end up with a few bad ingredients. Mine were named Hansel and Gretel.
The boy was easy enough to lure – a few cherry tarts, a nice, warm cookie, and he was out like a light. The girl was harder to persuade, smarter. She had a refined palette for sweets that even I could appreciate. But eventually, she too fell asleep holding one of my peppermint lollipops. With the full moon still a month away, I took her on as my slave until her brother could be fattened up.
As the weeks went by, Gretel showed her true colors. A little poison in my coffee, a deadly spider in my bed, even an obedience potion sprinkled on my pancakes that she’d stolen from my book. I realized quickly that I could never consume her. She was nowhere near as innocent as she appeared, and that wouldn’t look good on my complexion. I suppose I was a bit lonely too. How can a woman even call herself a witch without a coven to share her success with? I saw a lot of myself in that little girl. So, against my better judgment, I decided to take her on as my apprentice. When her brother was gone, I would be all she had left in the world, and she would love me for it.
I grew too careless, too assuming to think that Gretel wouldn’t turn against me. All it took was one simple question, one stupid response, and before I knew it, the little traitor was pushing me into my own oven. Ironic, I know. Fire had been my beginning, and now it was my end. I didn’t go out with a bang as I had before. There wasn’t enough sugar inside me for that. My death had to be slow and painful, such as a villain like me deserved. I had many regrets, but my appetite was never one of them. I had tasted beauty and innocence, power and friendship, hatred and disgust. Life has so many flavors. I regret having consumed only a few.
My last moments were filled with reassurance as I noticed my blood-lollies on the table – leftovers from last month’s full moon. I couldn’t help but smile, watching Gretl greedily stick one in her mouth and let out a small moan of pleasure. Then she took Hansel’s hand and walked out of my crumbling cottage. I hope they lived hungrily ever after.
The world is ending. That's such a common thought uttered in moments of despair. This time, it's true. “With a heavy heart, I regret to inform humanity that an asteroid will hit Earth in less than a week's time.” The opening line of the broadcast we received this morning replays in my numb head. An evacuation pod is established in Washington, D.C. It will leave two days before the world's destruction.
I should be grateful that I’m the only one I have to worry about; but, once again, guilt reminds me of a wife and child. I abandoned them three years ago, pulled by the world's lure of a better life. I was a coward then, and I'm a coward now. The lure of a better life tugs at me again.
My son is six now. Lily probably spends her waking moments hating me. I may never see them again.
Within two hours, I'm pulling out of my apartment's parking lot. The traffic is thick and suffocating. Helplessness and fear cloak those who flee their homes. Does Lily wear the same look? Is she crying uncontrollably like the woman on the highway’s shoulder? Is Patrick clueless, like the boy in the back seat? The last time I saw him he was only three years old. What's he like now?
I drive until the night is deep and the traffic thins out. If I was going to D.C., I would already be on a pod destined for safety. But I'm not. I have nothing else ahead of me. I have no career or legacy that must be protected. I do have a family, though, and a child that does have his whole life ahead of him. Even if Lily won't have anything to do with me, even if they're already in D.C., I have to make sure they live too.
I don't know when, or how, I fell asleep, but it would seem I slept for a good few hours because the sun is already comfortably in the sky when I awake. After a snack machine breakfast, I pull out of the rest stop, and onto the highway. Lily's house, my old house, isn't more than four hours away. Doubt begins to weave her fingers into my mind. What if she already left for the pod? Why wouldn't she? Maybe this is all for nothing; maybe she and my son are far safer than I am right now. I tell myself that's what I want, but a selfish part of me wants to see them again. I grit my teeth. I regret leaving my family so much that it hurts. Did it really take three years for me to feel the self-loathing and regret I feel now? I hate that man who was so self-absorbed he left a family he should have adored. I had everything, but apparently, it wasn't enough. When are our lives ever enough for us, though?
Make it right. It's like I actually hear the words spoken in my mind. The self-loathing is replaced with resolve. I promise myself I'll try.
I put my hands behind my back to hide their shaking while I wait for the door to open. The blue door… the one we painted together. I shake the memories away and focus on the present. What’s taking so long? I knock again and almost fall inside. Before me, stands an old man, irritation marring his features.
“What's the matter with you?” He demands bitterly. “Don't you have a spaceship to catch?”
“I'm sorry sir,” I say. “I'm looking for a woman named Lily Wright. She used to live here.”
The man thinks for a moment.
“Oh, her? She sold me this house a little over two years ago.” She sold the house? Of course she did. She wouldn't have been able to afford it.
“Do you know where she might have moved to?” But the elderly man doesn't. Lily could be anywhere. Back in my car, I lean my head against the steering wheel, and let the tears pool in my eyes.
“Mom, what are we doing here?” My head jerks up. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, in front of the house, but the voice of a child brings me out of my despair. In front of me, on the side of the street, a car is parked. A woman leans against it. A little boy holds her hand. She's gazing at the house.
“I just wanted to see this house again,” she answers softly. My fingers fumble with the door handle. It's Lily. Her thick dark hair is pulled into a hasty bun and, even from here, I can tell she's incredibly exhausted. I can't seem to move. I wonder if it's too late to climb back in my car and drive away. I almost do it. I've seen my family again. I know they're safe. There's no need to stay. It takes strength and courage to snuff out the cowardice. Time stands still when Lily sees me.
“Mom, who's that?” He's so different. His hair is less blond; it looks like mine. He's so tall now.
Lily ignores Patrick, shaking away the stun.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice is stiff and formal. I take a step towards her, then retrace it.
“I wanted to… see you again. To make sure you guys were safe.”
“You're a little late, don't you think?” The wounds I caused are so visible.
“Yes,” I agree. “I’m sorry, Lily. I’ll go now. Bye, Patrick.” I smile at my son and he looks at me with a confused expression. I move to get back in my car, but Lily stops me.
“Wait.” She hesitates, pulling on her fingers. “Do you have gas in your tank?”
Lily and I don't talk. Patrick provides the words that pass the time.
“Mom says we have to go to space, but the car broke. Are you taking us?”
“Yes,” is all I answer. The drive is long. Even so, silence occupies most of it. What would I even say?
Heavy traffic. Silence. Darkness. I take a breath, not even looking to see if Lily's awake.
“I’m sorry, Lily. I don't expect you to forgive me. I just want you to know that I'm sorry. I was a coward. I've always been one. I still am.” I pause, meaning to say more, but Lily cuts in.
“A coward would be someone already on a pod.” I look at her in the darkness and she smiles a small, sad smile. She's right. I may have purposely missed out on three years of my family's life, but at least I had the strength to trample the cowardice that almost made me abandon my family again. Would they have even made it to the pod if I wasn't looking for them at our old home?
It's late afternoon when we arrive at the evacuation site. The panic and desperation the world feels is so palpable it weighs down the air. We push through the crowds, hand in hand so as not to lose each other. In the distance, people board the ship destined for safety. There's a limit, a woman told us. Only so many people get to live.
We stand in line for hours. Patrick gets tired and asks me to hold him. It feels weird holding him again. I missed out on so many chances to hold him. Finally, after seven hours, the pod’s doorway is separated by just a few people. We made it. I breathe a sigh of relief as the woman in front of us enters the ship.
“I'm sorry, but we're very tight on space. I ask that only one parent board the pod with the child.” It takes me a moment to realize that the woman in a military uniform is talking to us. The air is knocked out from me. After all this, I'm going to lose them again. Lily and I are both silent, numbed by the news.
“You can go.” Lily's voice is so quiet, so defeated. I almost accept. Lily is giving me another chance to be Patrick's parent. Do I take it? Cowardice implores me to. The cowardice that's plagued me my whole life.
“No.” I have to pry the word from my mind, forcing it into my mouth. “You go. Patrick needs someone who will actually be there for him.” I feel tears on my cheeks. Lily's crying too, shaking her head. I hope she doesn't argue. I'm not sure my weak self would be able to handle that.
“Please.” Something in my tone makes her nod, accepting the inevitable. She opens her mouth, but instead of saying anything, Lily wraps her arms around my neck.
I cherish the embrace, keeping it close to my heart. It's the embrace that fills me with peace, not regret, as I watch the pod disappear from the sky.
Changes:
The phone call from my daughter-in-law on that November Friday evening was heartbreaking and life-changing. Our only son lay lifeless on a hospital bed twenty-five miles away after a motorcycle accident took his life that dark night on a country road of strawberry fields.
Why Adam?
Why Us?
Why Me?
It’s strange to feel change coming. I could not ignore the feelings. An underlying restlessness of questions and emotions was raging in me. We were going about our daily business, now there is a pit in the middle of my stomach of heartbreaking emptiness.
How could this have happened?
What will his family do without him?
What will I do without him?
Lost:
It was that day in early November I lost my purpose. Adam was the reason I became a special education teacher, due to his academic struggles in school. My Master’s Degree in Special Education didn’t seem important anymore. I was back in the classroom after my family bereavement time. I was present but filled with grief, anxiety and depression as the days, months and years passed. I was an empty shell of myself during that time. Walking the hallways with a smile, pretending life was okay while My heart ached for Adam to return, yet knowing his absence was our new reality.
No Adam
No passion
Joy:
After six years of crushing grief, I awakened on a January morning with a commitment to be happy again. I called my psychiatrist to let him know I would not return to counseling and that I had stopped taking anti-depressant medication. His comment, “You won’t be able to do it.” His doubt was the spark that fueled the fire
in me to work hard on finding happiness and purpose in life again. Each morning since 2016, I awake and recite, “God give me happiness today. Help me to give others happiness today.”
Joy after loss
Joy after grief
Joy every day now
The horizon darkened
I’d prepared just like I thought I should
My heart quickened but my spirit braced
What will still be standing after November rolls in?
A rumbling shelf closed in
My armor clamored
There’s no hope of silence in the rattling
I was soaring in my head
While my feet stayed planted
But then the wind bent me just enough to see it
My heart sank
How could such a dark and heavy cloud go unnoticed by everyone but me?
It tracked toward a single hollow point, a single hollow soul
My body locked with fists held high
I wanted to stay
But I needed a break
It’s easy to stay
Until you feel yourself break
Now to the lowest point -
Where the flood all flows - to find, to surround, to muffle, to choke.
The gasping: a faint cry in the thick of it
Will I see my end here?
No future and no hope.
I heard them whisper just beyond,
“Stay”
It was enough.
My voice became my rescue, though shaky and weak
“Hosanna” became my new song
The Lord rescued me!!
My head is still soaring
My feet are still planted
But my posture has seen a shift
My lifted fists have opened
My wounds have closed
Healing has begun
Strength made perfect in weakness,
A sound mind sifts through lies and truths
Truth prevails: a platform for worship
Heads bow
Hearts bend
Hope leans in closer
A savior whispers, “ I have overcome”
Light breaks through
The storm is still visible, but the coast is clear
Love says, “I know the plans”
“Plans for a future and a hope.”
A future.
A hope.
A resurrection.
Our spirits are thrust into physical bodies and then tossed into the place where the ether meets Creation - where everything is fluid: fear, love, pain, joy. At first, we may wade knee-deep into the water, where we still have control. We play and wonder and discover. And then we plant our feet into the sands below us, determined to make the moment last. It’s easy. The cadence of the waves lulls us into a fully-realized, fully-accepted peace.
But then comes the tide. In our inexperience, we do the only thing we’ve learned: we dig our feet in more. We cope in our own ineffective ways. We bury ourselves down as the water rises up. We bury ourselves as our one last effort to maintain control. We bury ourselves before we are even dead. Soon the crest of each wave is over our heads. We learn the cadence once again, but it’s only enough to catch our breath then hold it. Catch. Hold. Catch. Hold. We do this until it’s over. The water recedes. What happens next changes everything.
Do we dig in again? Do we play? Do we discover? Do we look to the horizon for the next big waves? Do we stay and anticipate the next tide? Or do we just simply leave in a quest to test other waters?
I dug in, each battering tide a naïve surprise. But I learned to catch and hold and catch and hold my breath, concluding that sometimes it’s more comfortable just to hold it. But that gets old. After a while, I left. But where do we go when everything is fluid? Life itself is fluid.
Do we follow the current of a steady stream, just to eventually find ourselves tossed around in the rapids? Do we construct our own vessels and then refuse to leave them as we are called out on the water? Do we believe there are still waters or is God a liar?
Do we abandon it all and dig into what we understand best: our friends, our plans, our work, our lovers? Many do. But everything is fluid. The cyclic dance between life’s turbulence and stillness continues. We are crushed and tossed and battered. We hyperventilate in the catching and holding, catching and holding. So, we use what we think is our last breath to finally cry out!
And we are washed, we are sanctified, we are justified.
We are now aware. Our tears baptize us. We are drenched in love. At first, we may flail and kick and hold our breath, because that is what we know. But eventually we learn that it’s okay to sink. It’s okay to dig our feet into God’s sands. It’s okay to lay back and float. Even the cadence of tumultuous waves lulls us once again into a fully-realized, fully-accepted peace. We are all in brackish waters: where fear meets love, where death meets life, where we meet God.
God. Is. There. And if we listen closely enough, we can hear his soft voice hum over the crashing waves. And if we look closely enough, we can see him working on our behalf. Sometimes he’ll calm the storm. Sometimes he’ll remind us to lay back and go with the current. Sometimes he’ll walk hand-in-hand over the waters with us back to the boat. We learn to tread water. We learn that we can swim. We learn that we are encompassed by his love. Sometimes we’ll sink. Sometimes he’ll reach down and pull us back up to the surface. And sometimes, he’ll drain the whole damn ocean. In the end, the truth is this: Everything is fluid, but he will not let us drown.
Rough seas.
Bows and bodies break.
Despair flows in the same way the waters always flow - toward the deep.
There seems to be a void that extends to reach the core.
I can always feel my true self in times like these.
A warrior who is always ready to fight for those she loves - but never able to fight off those that abuse that love.
Rough seas.
Souls and voices break.
Tears go the same way they always go - unnoticed.
The problem is that humans think they own one another. The problem is that flesh rips flesh and hands cover mouths. The problem eventually becomes the silence.
It’s easier to sit in the quiet than to break the silence that despair brings.
I say, “I’ve seen my resurrection.”
But something no one knows is that I’ve also seen my lifeless body.
It looks like relief. Like it’s finally over. “It is finished” - right?
They say it's a lie - that I’m not actually undone. But I see the frayed edges with my own eyes and I hang by the threads. I hear my own whimpers. Can anyone else hear them?
Does hope tell the truth? That He has overcome the world?
Rough seas.
Waves and clouds break.
Light consumes what it always does - the stubborn shadows.
The truth is found. My body sits upright while my head sinks in worship. In spirit. In truth.
I cling to Love Himself. Here I am fully and finally known and heard.
Love is enough. Love is enough to stay.
I’m an only child. I always guessed that Paw was hoping for a son to fill his boots, which may account for his pride in the fact that I could sit a horse before I could walk, spit further than any of my classmates, and could win an arm-wrestling competition with most of the boys in the school. Maw tried to “girlie” me up by putting lacy spreads on my bed and papering my room with posies, but had trouble keeping the knees of my pants patched.
I loved spending time with the cowboys that worked for Paw. Maw provided meals for the ranch hands who bunked in the bunkhouse and, so after Paw said grace for the group, supper time was always filled with stories of fixing fences and chasing wayward steers. Paw knew I tried to spend my non-school time with the hands, and was secretly amused by their descriptions of my roping and shooting skills. Maw “tut-tutted” and reminded me that I needed to take care of weeding the garden after school and needed to help with canning once it was ready to harvest.
In the late fall, supper conversations often turned to the town’s hoe-down. Those of us who were ‘young-uns’ could not attend the hoe-down until after our fifteenth birthday, but that didn’t keep us from imagining what went on at this exciting gathering. Some of my school-mates told stories about sneaking into the barn to snitch some of the treats or hiding in the field so they could heard r the frolicking good fiddle playing. Maw and Paw always went to the hoe-down too. Paw would help the sheriff make sure the festivities didn’t get too rowdy, and Maw would help with the food table. While Maw and Paw helped with the hoe-down, I stayed with my Aunt Bessie but we would sit outside on the front porch to listen to the music.
Then early in the summer that I turned fifteen, Maw gave me some hair ribbons for my birthday and told me that I could wear them for my first hoe-down in the Fall. I carefully wrapped them in tissue paper and put them in my top dresser drawer, to keep them nice. As summer passed, Maw would bring up the hoe-down in conversations as we pulled weeds in the garden, but I was simply eager to join the hands working out on the ranch and didn’t pay her much mind. When the school year started up, the girls in my class would giggle in little groups about the hoe-down, and talk about the cute hand who was helping the local rancher, but I was more interested in beating the boys in a game of hoops to be involved in their nonsense.
An outhouse trip should not stand out in my mind, but finding a page from a Godey’s Ladies Book jammed in the crack of the outhouse wall was unique enough to make the run to the small building memorable for me. The page showed a picture of the latest fashions. I had never seen such fancy dresses or such elegant looking ladies. Even the little girls in the picture had cascading curls and layers of ruffles on their skirts. Though I had never paid any attention to fashion, I could clearly see the difference between their fancy duds and my feed bag, cotton skirts. Because I insisted on wearing britches under my skirts they always puffed out, but certainly did not look like the hooped dresses worn by the ladies on the print. I quickly stuffed the picture in the waist of my pants, so no one would notice, and took it home to look at it closer.
I laid on my bed and carefully flattened out the page. Is that how the girls dressed for the upcoming hoe-down? I had no idea. Though ladies looked fancy in their lacy gowns, I couldn’t imagine dressing up like the ladies in the picture. The picture wound up getting tucked in my dresser drawer along with the hair ribbons.
Though I didn’t want to act too interested, I didn’t want to totally embarrass myself at the hoe-down. I managed to pick up clues from the ranch-hands when they talked about hoping to dance with their ‘pretty little gals’. While working one day, I was lucky enough to hear a new ranch-hand sheepishly admit that he didn’t know how to dance. After the joking died down, one of the older men suggested that the ‘green-horn’ needed to spend more time hoeing in the garden to learn the dance moves. “Get out there and practice ‘hoeing and a wiggling’”, was the recommendation. For the next several days I tried to complain less about having to hoe and pull beans from the garden, and hoped no one noticed my “practicing”.
I don’t really know if she found out about my dance practicing in the garden, but one day Maw shared about her first hoe-down while we were shucking corn. She told how she and her friends tried to follow the dance calls, only to laugh themselves ‘silly’. She went on to say that only the old-timers had the dance steps down and helped the younger folk. While the corn was soaking in the huge kettles, she left the kitchen and came out with a dress that she had ‘kept for good’ from her cedar chest. She held the fancy blue dress up to me and decided that she could take it in for my lanky frame. Though I was still unsure about the hoe-down, I admit to feeling a little more at ease about the whole affair.
The afternoon of the hoe-down, Maw had some of the ranch hands drag the tin bath tub into a corner of the kitchen and filled it with hot water from the cook stove. She helped me scrub and finger-comb my unruly hair, and even added some rose-water to the hot tub water for extra measure. She then helped me get dressed and carefully tied the ribbons in my hair.
That evening we loaded up the wagon to head to the barn where the hoe-down would take place. It was a pleasant evening but, to my mind, seemed to be too warm to be dancing in a barn. When I kept fanning myself, Maw just patted my hand. I was torn between eagerly looking forward to my first hoe-down and wishing I could cut the horses loose and ride off into the hills. As we neared the barn, we could hear the fiddles warming up and the laughter of those setting up the tables. I helped Maw carry in and set out the filled casserole dishes and decided I would just as soon crawl under a table instead of making conversation with Maw’s friends. Much to my embarrassment, several of them said that I had become “such a pretty young lady” and complimented Maw’s fine stitches in my dress.
Before the tables were completely set up, the barn started to fill up with twittering, silly girls, and guffawing boys in addition to groups of local ranch hands. Never being one for girl-talk, I simply watched from behind the food tables. and wished I could join the ranch hands in their pushing, shoving, and joshing. When the musicians became better organized and the caller stepped forward to call the first dance, the sounds of clapping, stomping, and laughing filled the barn, making the roosting pigeons fly for the open barn doors. Watching them, I thought about escaping too!
I’m not sure if Paw bribed him to do it, but after the second dance one of Paws older hands took me by the elbow and nearly drug me out to the wood plank dance floor. He whispered, “Just follow me!” into my ear. Awkwardly I attempted to follow his moves as we do-se-doed around after the other pairs of dancers. Not deterred by my lack of skills my partner kept a firm grip on my arm as the next dance started. After I fumbled through some steps, trying to make sense of the calls, the patter called to change partners, I was turned to look into the bluest eyes I have ever seen. My new partner seemed to be as surprised as I was and his grin was nearly as broad as the brim of his cowboy hat. As his sweaty, calloused hand took ahold of mine, we laughingly, haltingly sashayed around the room, I caught a glimpse of Maw and Paw nodding and laughing as they clapped to the rhythm. As the blue-eyed cow-hand kept a hold on my hand for the next dance, I realized that I was no longer eager to leave the warm barn and the table full of food and just enjoyed the camaraderie of my first hoe-down.
I have no memories of my life with my real mom and dad. Occasionally a smell or the sound of a train whistle will cause a flash of something vague, but as quickly as it comes, it’s gone. My adopted Maw and Paw made sure that I knew that they had rescued me from the depravity of the city when they picked me up at the church and brought me home to Bremond, Texas. I was one of the children sent on the “orphan train” by the Children’s Aid Society to a better life in the West. All I knew was that I should never complain about my situation and hard work because I was “indeed fortunate”. Because they had signed the agreement form, Maw and Paw made sure that the representative, who checked up on me, in the spring of ’26, saw that I was dressed properly, had a bed to sleep in, had food to eat, and went to school and church when there wasn’t too much work to do.
Maw and Paw were not affectionate with each other, so I never expected that they would hug and kiss me like I saw some of the other parents do with their own kids. As I watched some other kids with their ‘real’ parents, I did wonder if being chosen from the orphan train somehow made me less lovable. I had little memory of my birth family because I was only four years old when I was put on the train. One of the older “orphan train” girls from school said that she hoped she could find her sister after she could leave her adoption home. My Maw and Paw never let me talk about my adoption, so there was never a chance for me to ask about whether any of my family was on the train with me or if my birth Maw and Paw were still living in a city up north.
Some hot days as I was scratching the hard ground with my hoe or picked the white bolls of cotton from the plants that pricked my fingers, while I drug my sack through the field, I would daydream about having an older brother to protect me from the school bullies, a sister who I could walk beside as I went to school, or a mother who had the same blue eyes as mine.
I do know that my adopted Maw and Paw and I worked hard to plant, harvest, and bale the cotton that grew on a farm. My Maw and Paw said that, if they would have known that I was the last orphan train group of children to come to Bremond, they would have adopted another child. Paw fussed that hiring the other pickers, who got paid by the pound, cost more than providing for me. I often imagined that I would be happier if they had adopted another child. I imagined that if I had someone to talk to, laugh with, or just work along-side of, I would be more content with my home. I craved a sibling as I listened to the migrant workers sing as they worked and bragged about the pounds of cotton that they could pick in one day or the money they would earn picking the crops.
In addition to picking cotton, when the garden vegetables ripened, I helped Maw preserve the harvest. She’d try to pick the coolest days to can the okra, peas, beans, corn, and occasional fresh fruit or berries, but most times the crops needed to be picked and prepared for canning as soon as it was ripe and was picked, not when the weather was best for canning. There were rare times, when I had finished all my chores, when I could sit and rest, but most times there were clothes to be mended or vegetables to be sorted when I was resting my feet.
One day in the fall Paw brought home a small bag of round strange looking thick root-like items called ‘bulbs’ from the store. He said that the grocer got them from a salesman from up north. I think Maw was happier and more excited about those brown, dead-looking bulbs than she was about the flour and sugar that Paw brought home. She told me to dig holes in the ground around the sides of the front porch so that each bulb would have its own hole, then she carefully placed the bulbs in the holes and tenderly covered them with soil.
The following spring, thick shoots began to push their way out of the ground. The shoots from the bulbs were sturdy looking, but Maw treated them with the greatest of care. She waited patiently for the large buds to form and the beautiful yellow flowers to appear.
The soft-petaled, delicate flowers reminded me of a picture of a fancy-dressed lady I had once seen in a magazine. My rough cotton clothes and slouch hat were worlds away from the fancy dress and feathered hats that I saw and I wondered if that’s how people dressed in the city where I was born.
At the end of the blossoming season, Maw had me dig the bulbs back up. Some were separated to make more bulbs, and the extras were stored away for the next planting season when they would be planted elsewhere.
The idea of being planted in a new place, got me thinking about my own move from New York City to Bremond. I wondered if I would ever get a chance to return to the place where I had been born. Were either of my parents still alive and, if so, had my separation from my real mother and father been a difficult one for them, or were they glad not to be saddled with an extra mouth to feed? Did they pray that I was headed to a better life, or was I just given away and forgotten? Like the representative from the agency said, was my life better in Texas than in New York City? Would I have rotted in the dirt of the city, in the asylum where I was dropped off, just like some of the bulbs that became mealy and soft? These unanswered questions keep me looking in the direction of the rising sun as I gently replanted the bulbs that have been moved to a newly dug spot in the unforgiving ground. As I held one of the bulbs in my dirt-covered hand I wished that I had gotten to take my roots with me when I was moved from my home.
The tattered edges of the index card had yellowed over the years. Across the top of the card, written like a title, Betty Jane Harrald. Blonde hair, blue eyes, 154 pounds, age 14, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, stayed with close relatives for six months. Off and on through the years I would dig the index card out of the box that lived on the shelf of my closet and look at the name and wonder, does she ever think of me?
Growing up I was always told that I was adopted. My adopted parents told me that being adopted made me special, because it meant that I was wanted. Still the longing of a familiar face that only my soul could recognize followed me like a shadow on an overcast day. There was always an emptiness, something missing that I just couldn’t explain. I always felt less than, and even though I was told from an early age that I was wanted, it seemed that there were conditions to feeling wanted and loved. Sometimes I felt I would never be exactly what was wanted by anyone. Would I ever be enough?
One sweltering hot summer evening when I was sixteen, I went to visit my mom. She and I were sitting on the front porch swing talking when I brought up my birth mother. Mom said I think you are old enough now and she got up from the swing and went into her bedroom. Inside the top draw of her walnut stained oak armor she pulled out a 6x9 manila envelope. When she returned to the swing, she handed me the envelope and said she had been saving it to give to me when the time was right. She explained that there had been a mix up when they adopted me. The information that was supposed to have gone to the attorney was mistakenly sent to them instead, so they had some information on my birth mother. Inside the envelope were documents, old calendar pages, shot records, and an index card with information about my birth mother. For the first time, I knew where my blue eyes came from, and I held that card as if I was holding my birth mother’s hand for the first time.
During one of my searches in the late 90’s, I was able to find address information on three people in Tuscaloosa with the same unique spelling of my birth mother’s last name. They each lived on the same road, so I figured they were family, but I still wrote a letter to each of them. Some weeks later my phone rang and on the other end was a man’s voice. He and his mother had received my letters. It turns out that he and I were one year apart in age exactly, as we shared the same birthday, even his son shared that day as well. Physical descriptions were even similar. Short, dirty blonde, blue eyes and a bit on the heavy side. We could have been twins by that description, but unfortunately they didn’t know of a Betty Jane Harrald. His mother was big into family ancestry and no one by that name was in their family. The lady across the street though was not part of their family. According to him, she was a bit of a reclusive, not very friendly, and definitely not part of their family either. His mother thought that perhaps since it was the late 60’s that my birth mother gave a different name or wasn’t actually from the area, so another dead end! Still, I wondered about the mystery woman from across the street. Could she know the answers to my quest? Why didn’t she write back? I poured my heart out into those letters. Was she my mother with a different name, or the close family that had kept me for those six months? Not a word from her. Was I so bad as a baby that they didn’t want anything to do with me now? Did my birth mother have a new family that didn’t know about me? Was I that ugly secret that must never come to light? I didn’t search again for almost twenty years.
It was 2017 and I had started thinking a lot about my birth family again. After all, I was going to be fifty next year. My birth mother would be about 63 now. How did time pass so quickly? I still wondered about the reclusive woman that didn’t bother to write back all those years ago, but as the whiplash of time flew on, the desire to know more about my birth family grew. As the year drew to an end, the Christmas holiday was upon us and my wonderful better half got me a gift that would change everything for me. With the wrapping paper ripped off, the small feather light box sent a jolt of wonder through my mind. Could this little box give me the answers to years of questions? I had no idea at that moment just how powerful that little box would be in my life.
The new year was already in full swing as the holidays were a few weeks behind us and it was a nice Saturday night. The movie would be starting soon as we sat in the theater eating popcorn and chatting while we were waiting for the lights to dim. That’s when I felt the familiar sensation of my phone vibrating in my pocket. I had put out of my mind the stress I had felt when sending off the contents of the Christmas gift I had received. The worry over what if I had done it wrong or messed it all up somehow. The instructions had been straightforward enough, but it is my nature to stress and worry over just about everything. As I pulled the phone from my pocket the little icon on the front screen showed that I had received an email, and of course on Saturday night the first thought I had was, great more junk, but instead the subject read, You have a Match from Ancestry.com.
The movie couldn’t get over fast enough and I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. As soon as I got home, I logged into my Ancestry account, and there were hundreds of matches, however one stood out, Debra Harrald Nichols, she was my closest match. Possible first or second cousin it said. From looking at her page it was clear she was active in the family history found on the site, as she had a large family tree built. With a bit of courage, I wrote her an email and with the woosh of the sent mail sound, I laid down for a sleepless night. The next day to my surprise she had written back, and welcomed me into the family. We exchanged personal emails, phone numbers, and just like that, overnight I belonged somewhere. I actually had a family! I had been all over her family tree, and there was no Betty Jane, so maybe my mother had used an alias. There was one person on the family tree that matched with the age I had for my birth mother, Connie Harrald. She was a half sister to Debra and there hadn’t been any contact with that side of the family for years. That’s when Debra reached out to Binky, her cousin in Tennessee and Monday night I was talking to them both on the phone. Binky said she would drive down to Alabama that next weekend and talk to the family down there to see if anyone knew who Betty Jane was. Both Debra and Binky said they couldn’t promise any answers, but no matter I was part of the family.
Tuesday was just another day at work, when my cell phone rang at noon. It was Debra and Binky. They wanted to know if I was busy, because they had some news for me. I said just a minute, and I got up from my desk. I walked down the hall into the part of the building we used to call the dark side. It once held offices, but now collected old dusty file boxes, desktop calculators, and old computer equipment that had been left to die. I said ok I can talk now and Binky started, well I couldn’t wait until this weekend, so I called Cindy down in Alabama. She is Connie’s youngest daughter. I told her that we had a new relative reach out on Ancestry and we were trying to figure out…and Cindy interrupted her, Oh My God, have you found my sister Betty?
In the dark dusty room, peering through a window that hadn’t been cleaned in more than a decade, tears streaming down my face as I spoke the first hello to my sister who was quietly listening on the call. After years of searching for Betty Jane Harrald, I actually found myself.
It has taken me sixty years to be me. While I have always been me, I have not always allowed me to be me. If that sounds weird to you let me try to explain. I have only recently discovered who I am by allowing myself to be me without guilt or worry or stress, that I mostly brought on myself. Guilt and worry that I may have committed an offense against someone or myself or even society. And stress about all the guilt and worry! How can it be that a perfectly healthy baby girl would grow up to feel guilty and worry her entire sixty years so much that she never acted as herself?
I was born in the sixties to two very flawed human beings. While my parents did their best, they could not provide what myself and three younger sisters really needed-a stable home. When I was seven my parents divorced and that was the beginning of my life as a latchkey child who lived in the projects pretty much on her own all her preteen years. Money was always tight and some days I would come home from school and there was no electricity in my home. The power had been cut off due to nonpayment of the bill. On other days there would be no Christmas tree or presents. But we always had love and we always had some guidance. Guidance to do the right thing no matter what. Guidance to behave and to work very hard and to do our best.
I took my first transatlantic flight across the ocean at twelve years old when I escorted my two-year-old half-brother across the big pond to Germany, where our father and stepmother were living. Being the child of a military man and a divorced mother, I was not fazed by moving but even for me the trip was eventful. Little did I realize how much maturity came with that trip!
Fast forward to when I became a teenage mother of seventeen-years –old--of twins! Congratulations! That girl that was now a mother was on her own with two young daughters in the 1980s. Despite the hardships that woman (me) faced, she did what she had to do. She graduated from high school with honors while nine months pregnant with her twins. She had a lot of support and did what she could to do the right things for her twin babies. She married the father of her twins. The marriage did not last. There was also a recession going on. Despite the difficulty of finding a job the young mother was determined. As was her own still single mother who wanted a second chance to get it right when raising kids. Somehow, I managed to join the Army. My mother agreed to take my daughters for me while I joined the Army, did basic training, and advanced training-her second chance at raising children as my mother would help me to raise all four of my children during my twenty-year active-duty career.
That career saw me through some of the most amazing years of my life. There were good times and tough times and challenging times, and I cannot survive these times but somehow, I made it through it all. My participation in three wars in three different countries, multiple missions to the woods without my children, months being homeless with my kids or transporting them across that big pond so that my mother could care for them let me to make a total of twenty one trips across the big pond all since I was twelve years old and now I am forty. I made it. Retirement with a pension has been a dream and now a reality. My children never came home from school and found the electricity had been turned off. No, they came home to their grandmother who lived an exceptionally long way away but who was always there for her grandchildren.
Through my career I found love with a man who finally made me feel secure and who supported me in a positive and healthy way. He made me feel secure and showed me how a married couple should live and relate to one another. This should have been an amazing thing for my three older children, but it was not. Somehow, through all my challenges trying to make a living and provide a good life for my children, I forgot the basics. I forgot to listen to them and to really hear them and to prioritize them. Yes, I provided the necessities such as medical care, dental care, a safe home with not only electricity and water and food, but with travel throughout the world. I showed my children amazing places like the Eiffel Tower in Paris and the Alps while skiing down the mountains, but I missed the part about listening and stability, love, and compassion. I was just so terribly busy making a living and trying to be a perfect mom, wife, woman, soldier, and person. I tried to live up to unreachable ideals to fit into a world’s view of being a good person. My kids noticed I was busy. At least the three older ones noticed. But I missed all the signs. We were a dysfunctional family despite outward appearances that saw us living a good life. My children never lived in the projects and never had the shame of receiving free meals and never dressed in hand down clothes, but they were still not the family I envisioned, and I was not the mother I wished I was, but society did not know that. I had responsibilities and I fulfilled them perfectly, but I missed the human touch. I missed listening and caring and not thinking about what anyone thought of me in any situation.
Today my four children are grown, and all are doing fantastically well on their own. My four children learned to do the right thing no matter what and to take care of business with one caveat, they listen to their children. They are striving to be a different kind of parent than their own mother was. And I am fine with that though that hurts a bit. Unfortunately, my three oldest children do not allow me the chance to speak to them or to do for them like I did when they were children, and we are not close. I feel embarrassed, guilty, and sad about not being a part of my oldest children’s lives, but I have come to accept that it is what it is. I cannot go back and make changes, though I am just not sure that even if I could go back and make changes that I would be physically able to do so. Living life has been a hard journey for me and I can honestly say I have done the best I could. I am close with my youngest son, perhaps because he needed me the most and because I was around him in his life so much more than my older children’s lives. The fact that I do not have a good relationship, or really any relationship with my oldest children has always bothered me and will always bother me because as I age, I realize things may not change. I always thought in my life that things would change for the better if I just worked hard, had a pure heart, and did the right things. Come to find out sometimes things change, but sometimes things change for the worse and not for the better, and we sometimes die without any change.
At this point in my life, at a ripe old age of sixty years, I arrived at an age that one of my sisters did not get to see. Another sister has been ill, and relatives are dying all the time.
I realize that no matter how hard we work and how we try to be the very best we can be, we are sometimes limited by the hands dealt to us and by the tools available to us. It takes two to have a relationship and to live a good life as a close family in a perfect world. And if that does not work out how we envisioned when we were young it is okay. The important thing is to BE THAT person you always were and to work hard and to have a pure heart and to focus on what is right here right now. Life is simply too short to have regrets, worry, guilt, and stress. I am me and I am free to be me without guilt, worry, or stress and I give myself permission to do so. What a freeing decision that is for me!
The silence was getting harder to take, and I did not know if I would ever get used to it. The scurries of creatures in the walls were the only noise I had heard for many nights; no music, no TV, no yelling, no talking. Only my silent sobs. I curled up in my corner of the room. The moonlight through the small window lit up the door opposite the window, but little else. My legs cramped up from lack of use. Eventually I lay back on my pillow, covered myself up with a sheet, and fell asleep.
I woke up when the moonlight changed to dawn. My stomach rumbled from hunger, and my head ached – no coffee for how many days now? No matter if it felt like eyes were everywhere whenever I ventured near the door. No noise, but eyes. Was there anyone else stuck in their fear too? I needed to and some food, some supplies, some people.
I dressed after washing with my last facecloth and pulled on jeans and shirt still damp from being washed in the sink. Barely dry. Not entirely clean. Who was there to smell me? I had cut my hair myself; now I pulled on a cap and tucked the ragged ends of my hair under it. The bones of my body were more obvious now, and I had to put a belt through my jeans to keep them on. Sneakers would be best, along with a jacket, the one with all the pockets.
With no electricity, cash would be my only currency, so I took 4 five-dollar bills out of the cookie jar and stuffed them into one of my top pockets. A knife went into my right-side pocket, unbuttoned for easy access.
Moving to my door, I first put my ear to the space between the door and the frame.
Silence.
I carefully unlocked the three security locks, and eased the door open, gently turning the doorknob. The hallway was empty. I re-locked my door and turned to go down the stairs. A mouse scurried across the third step, and I choked back a gasp at the unexpected movement. I slipped down to the lobby, ears alert, and eyes moving quickly from side to side.
The door of my building was already ajar. It creaked slightly as I gently pulled it toward me, and I winced at the sound. I stood for a moment in the bright light. Not a cloud in the sky. Not a soul in sight. The windows in the three houses across the street were all closed tight. Not a glimpse of light in Sarah and Matt’s house; or Mrs. Janzen’s house for that matter either. I had no idea whether they were still alive, or if they left at the start of this. Previous knocks on doors had produced no response, but that was weeks ago. I did not see any cars in the driveways; Mrs. Janzen’s dog was not barking at my movement in her window as he used to, and even Sarah’s son’s tricycle was gone from its usual place in her front yard. I carefully walked to the sidewalk and automatically turned left, towards the shops; towards others.
My heart pounded as a tram rushed by at the nearest crosswalk. I did not see one face at a window; no evidence of passengers. And just as quickly it was gone. I turned to stare after it. Had it really been there?
The sidewalk was empty. No mothers pushing strollers, no joggers wearing earbuds, no school children walking with their backpacks to an empty classroom. Not a car on the road. My feet crossed the big street without pushing the walk button. No need.
Soon, the Rexall drugstore was on my left. The windows were dark. The doors were locked. I peered in, blocking the harsh light reflecting over my eyes with my hand on the dirty glass. The shelves were bare. No one restocking; no one cleaning; no one checking out items like diapers or hair dye or aspirin.
I hurried to the next building, the Kroger’s grocery store, expecting at least one of two people coming in or out. But here the door was not only gone but smashed, as if a car had hit the frame and made it sag. I maneuvered my way in, walking carefully over the glass of the broken doors. While the aisles were unlit, enough sun came in that I could make out rotting fruit and smelly meat.
I grabbed one very ripe apple out of a pile of slush and bit into it hungrily. A box of crackers lay hidden from grabbers under a fallen sign down one aisle; a can of tuna left behind a post in another and of all things a box of tampons in the middle of the last aisle I ventured down. I grabbed my treasures and debated leaving a five-dollar bill on the empty checkout till. No need; this place would attract no one who would take it legitimately. The tuna I shoved into a pocket and found a limp plastic bag under the till for the rest.
I stood in the parking lot for several long minutes; tempting anyone to see me, to respond, to even try to rob me. But there was no one. Not a sound; not one human being tempted to kill me for crackers.
Next was the church, and I pulled out the heavy oak door, walked into its cool interior, and let the door close behind me with a swoosh. The cross at the front was stained glass, lit from behind by the sun outside, and beamed its blues, yellows, and golds into the center aisle. I sat in the third pew from the front and gazed at that glowing cross. If I was the only one left, would God still save me? I said a prayer and got up to walk out again.
As I turned, I sensed movement behind me. My hand went to my knife, and I sprung it open while withdrawing it from my pocket. I darted into the nearest pew and whirled back to the front of the sanctuary. There was a child, maybe age 6 or 7, a girl with a dirty face and matted red curls. Her clothes hung on her, and her shoes were untied.
“Hi,” I whispered. No need to frighten her further, I closed my knife and put it back in my side pocket. “Hi,” I said again.
“Are you a friend of my mommy’s?” The small voice came out of her hesitantly, as if she had not used it much lately.
“I am not sure.” My voice was not much better. Who was there to talk to? “What is her name?”
“Heather… Heather Kincade. My name is Chloe Kincaide, and my mommy is dead, I think.” Heather came out as hatha, but I knew what she meant.
I let out a whoosh of air. “Where is she?” I asked as gently as I could.
“In the back alley, I think. I ran away when the bad man came and hit her. Can I stay with you?” Her voice trembled, and she almost sobbed. “Are you a good lady?”
“Chloe, I am. Come here.” I kneeled down and opened my arms to her.
Chloe ran to me, put her dirty arms around my neck, and cried. “I miss my mommy so much.”
“I know, I know.” A child. Much like my eight-year-old Zabrina, who had succumbed to the fever that had racked her body until it overcame her and I had to dig a grave in the backyard of the house we used to laugh in.
“Chloe, where do you live?” The child took my hand and guided me out the door of the church, the sunlight hitting our squinting eyes. She pointed, and I followed her. In 3 blocks we were walking up the steps of a grey bungalow, front steps decorated with a welcome sign, and a lovely painted mailbox. The door was open, and Chloe walked right in, clearly at home.
“I lived here with Mommy and Daddy, but Daddy had to go away to the hospital, and then the bad man made Mommy dead. So now can you stay here with me?” Her tearful smile cracked my heart.
I thought longingly of my meal of tuna and crackers.
“Show me the kitchen.” I said, as I locked the door behind us.
As Chloe devoured the meal, I found glasses and poured us each a glass of water. It would do for now.
No longer alone. I sat down and asked Chloe to tell me a story about her mommy.
Together we would last until we didn’t, but for now, we were not alone.
Meredith woke with a start that night by something, she didn’t know what, but she had a feeling that something was wrong. Her husband wasn’t lying next to her, but that wasn’t unusual; he often got up when he couldn’t sleep.
However, this time something was different. She stumbled out of bed, trying to focus as she walked through her mother’s apartment. Their daughter was sleeping peacefully on the sofa, the dog was curled up beside her. But Dean wasn’t there.
Maybe he just went out to get coffee? Or to get a newspaper?
Grabbing her phone, she noticed there were no messages, no missed calls. She started texting, half-awake, having to erase, go back, and start over.
Hey, where are you?
She waited. When the phone finally beeped, she jumped. Surely, he was going to say he’d be right back in a few minutes.
I don’t want to be married anymore. I’m leaving.
Meredith stared at the phone, what did it say? She looked again; she must be dreaming. Why? What happened? She stopped to think of what to text back, wanting an explanation.
What?
She sent several texts after that, asking, begging for an explanation, but he didn’t answer. Where did this come from? Did she miss the signs?
Meredith knew she should wake her mother up. She was sleeping on the floor in the tiny apartment.
“Mother? Are you awake?” With each passing second, Meredith knew she needed her mother now, more than ever.
“What is it? What’s wrong Mer?” Glenda said, waking groggily, running her hand through her hair.
Her eyes filled with tears as she finally answered, “uh, Dean’s gone.” That’s all she could say. She grabbed a tissue to hold over her face as she continued to cry.
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Surely, he’s just down the street to get the Wi-Fi signal?” It sounded like the obvious conclusion, because that is what he had done every time they visited Glenda.
“All I know is when I texted him to find out where he was, I got a text saying he was leaving and didn’t want to be married anymore.”
“Now, calm down, there had to be an explanation.” Glenda was always an optimist.
She realized Glenda had been calling her name. “Meredith? What is it? Why did he leave? What about Frankie?”
As soon as Glenda spoke her granddaughter’s name, a small sleepy voice said, “what about me?”
“Nothing Peanut,” Glenda whispered, “go back to sleep.”
Meredith dreaded this moment, more than anything. How do you tell a little girl that her Daddy left and didn’t want to be married to her? She would need more time to get her words together.
As the sun started rising, Meredith looked out onto the parking lot, mounds of white had covered everything in sight. Dean had really taken her minivan and left them the huge U-Haul; a truck that was due to be returned the following day. It was full of their furniture. They had planned for months to move here, to raise Frankie in her small hometown. Now they had no place to go. The apartment she found was waiting on Dean’s signature and the money for them to move in.
Her heart was speeding up again, her breath was coming in short heavy gasps. Sweat was collecting on her forehead and eyebrows as the room was starting to spin.
“Sit down Meredith!” she could faintly make out her mother’s voice.
Her mother came over with a bag and a hand towel, dampened with cool water. These moments made Meredith grateful she had her mom on her side.
“The first thing you are going to do is go back to bed. I can turn on the tv, and hopefully you can get a couple hours of sleep.” Glenda was on top of things, going into high gear. “I’ll make something for breakfast, whatever you girls want.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll feel like eating for a while,” she confessed.
Glenda gently pushed her daughter to the bed, making sure she was comfy under the covers, and kissing her on the forehead. “It will be okay, don’t worry too much.”
Remarkably, she found herself asleep in minutes. Over an hour later, she woke up, hoping that everything that had happened was just a bad dream. Her phone proved to reveal the truth. His glaring text jumped out at her. “I’m Leaving.”
Not a dream, or a nightmare. This was reality. The sun was already up, shining down on the bright mountains of snow. She hoped it would melt some of the ice hiding underneath the snow on the U-Haul. As soon as the service station opened, she needed to call them to ask, or beg, them to extend her rental contract, in this situation. She knew it needed to be unloaded, somewhere, but she had no idea where?
Minutes later, Frankie was stirring. She dreaded what she had to do next. Frankie had always been mature for her age. She understood more than she said. Always quiet as a young girl, Meredith called her “The Thinker.” But this news would be hard to process for anyone.
Meredith rubbed her back and gave her a gently shake. “Honey, are you awake?”
“Uh-huh,” Frankie yawned. Then, seeing the anguish in her mother’s face, she asked, “what’s wrong, Mommy?”
“Honey, come sit over here with me,” she said as she patted the sofa. “I need to tell you something, and it’s not good.”
“Mommy? Where’s Daddy?” Frankie’s voice trembled with nervousness as she waited.
Meredith picked her up and sat her on her lap. She looked at her, eye to eye and said, “Baby, Daddy won’t be coming home.”
“What? Where did he go?” She would have dozens of questions, Meredith knew. All very similar to her own. For the moment, however, she needed to be brave and strong for her daughter.
“Daddy left us, Well. he left me. He doesn’t want to be married. He is still your Daddy, but we won’t be living with him.” The girl inhaled deeply before sobbing uncontrollably for several minutes. Meredith held her tightly and rocked her back and forth.
“Daddy doesn’t love us anymore?” she managed to say through her tears.
“No, Daddy doesn’t love me, he still loves you.”
“Daddy? Daddy!” Frankie cried as she woke from a short nap. Meredith’s heart felt as though it was being ripped apart. How could anyone inflict this type of pain on their child? She would never forgive him for the pain he caused Frankie.
“Hey, Frankie, wake up,” she soothed. “It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here.” As she opened her eyes, Meredith saw the confusion behind her daughter’s eyes. How could she explain this to Frankie when she didn’t even understand it herself?
A few more rubs and shakes and Frankie was wide awake. Meredith could see the minute she remembered what had happened. The sadness took over her expression and tears were in her eyes again. “Why did he leave, Mom? Is it because I’m a girl?”
“What? Why would you think that?” Meredith was shocked to hear the words her daughter was saying.
“If I was a boy, he’d play with me, and he wouldn’t leave.” To her young mind, that is how she saw it. She would be more lovable as a boy.
“No! That is not true, Frankie!” She hoped her daughter would trust her about this. Meredith didn’t have many answers yet, but this one she was sure of. “He would have left even if you were a boy. That isn’t the problem.”
“Then what IS the problem, Mommy?” Frankie pleaded.
“Daddy doesn’t love me anymore. You know how you have friends with parents that are divorced? We will be like that. You’ll get to see both of us whenever you want, just not together.” That was the best she could come up with.
Putting her small hands on Meredith’s cheeks, Frankie said, “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t cry. We’ll be okay.” Suddenly her seven-year-old daughter looked older and wiser than her age. She was stronger than Meredith gave her credit. She threw her arms around the girl and squeezed so hard, Frankie giggled, “I can’t breathe.”
“Sorry, Peanut. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mommy.” Just then, the little dog yipped and jumped up on the sofa. “And so does Dixie.”
She kept Frankie out of school that day. The young girl napped with Dixie. She cried a little, ate a little, then napped more. It would take time, her mother had advised. She knew Glenda was right, but it was still painful.
Meredith knew from this day forward, it would be one day at a time. Nobody was going to solve her problems. Her mother had done it when her parents divorced, she knew she could too. Glenda was a strong role model she realized. And she would be just like her, for Frankie.
We all start life with little or no plans of how we are going to turn out many years later. We don’t sit down and decide to have a heart attack at age 45, cancer at age 60, broken bones at age 65, lose a spouse or child before what we think is their time. But it happens to everyone.
So life began for the three of us. There’s BeeBee, MeeMee, and WeeWee. All girlfriends beginning when they met in kindergarten. Each year the three would think of where life was taking them now and in the future. Marriage, children, travel, grandchildren, and love daily. Together they make it with their friendship through high school graduation to move forward which moves them apart. Then as they continue to grow up life hands each one a different path to take.
BeeBee gets married after graduation. This was to be her dream and journey. Life for her was having children and keeping everything going at home for her family. There were the normal look life ups and downs as the children grow and spread their wings. But always together for her husband and children.
MeeMee goes forward with additional schooling. But then life steps back in. The love of her life discovers her. A new journey begins again. A couple of children and time to find a job to help raise them. Juggling life but that’s what life has planned for her. Her dream and journey have begun.
WeeWee isn’t sure where her life is going. No marriage, no schooling, no children are in her plans. Notice, I say her plans but always remember there is a higher power that is in control. When will her dream and journey begin?
BeeBee raises her family with the normal daily routine with small life events dropping in. But then there is a BIG challenge- her spouse has a heart attack. One he can’t recover from. She must discover a new journey for herself. Where are MeeMee and WeeWee? On their own journeys.
MeeMee is raising her family, working together with her spouse, life is grand. The children are grown, now time for us to enjoy our life. But along comes life, cancer. Together they face their challenge until God says come home. Once more MeeMee is alone. Will she have a new journey? Where are BeeBee and WeeWee?
WeeWee got a dream and a journey herself. She met and married the love of her life. Happily going through life together without major planning and enjoying each day they are together. But, long life is not to be for them. Alone. Where are BeeBee and MeeMee?
What are BeeBee, MeeMee, and WeeWee to do now? They get together and friendship resurfaces as they talk about their journeys of discovery to date.
Now they will each have a new life journey to discover. Friendship from the past to help find a new purpose to give life meaning again.
What can you do to honor your past, make life worthwhile and leave a journey of discovery that you are proud of?
You must ask yourself – what is important to me, will it be a worthwhile endeavor, and in the end will it show meaning to my life? When BeeBee, MeeMee, and WeeWee look at their journey can they move on to Life’s Journey of Discovery? They each must find a new path that honors their journey. Friendship will be there to help them through the new steps.
BeeBee holds her family close and makes sure they are all happy, know of her love, and that she is available always. Her path has changed but also stayed the same.
MeeMee enjoys her grandchildren and daily helps her family move forward in life. After a rocky start her new journey is growing.
WeeWee has discovered a new path. Serve her community where available in a kind and positive way. This path gives her a purpose in life, a way to honor her spouse, and a new chance of discovery.
You never know where you will discover something that brings someone/something new into your life. Just keep an open mind and see where the journey takes you.
Growing up in a fatherless home isn't easy, and when compounded with a rare immune deficiency and extreme poverty, life's challenges become a formidable mix. Despite my mother's unwavering love and belief in my potential, my journey was far from straightforward. Battling serious health issues like spinal meningitis and a coma before kindergarten left me with a learning disability. Though I had moments of success, I often faltered, occasionally succumbing to laziness, enabled by a forgiving system. However, a pivotal moment on the playground changed my trajectory, beginning a transformative journey. I fell in love with sports, namely football. An unlikely path gave me the guidance and structure I needed to change.
Like many, I yearned for guidance and a positive male role model. Amidst adversity, I found solace and purpose in sports, particularly football. Its electrifying atmosphere, the bond among teammates, and its strategic depth fascinated me, offering an escape from life's hardships and a means of connecting with others. Football became my sanctuary, providing a sense of belonging I desperately sought.
As I matured, my passion for football intensified, revealing its potential to positively shape my life and influence others. Determined to fill the void of a missing male role model, I turned to coaching youth football teams, dedicating myself to instilling values like discipline, teamwork, and perseverance in the young minds entrusted to my guidance. Witnessing their growth, both on and off the field, was profoundly gratifying, igniting a realization of my true calling in education.
My desire to coach football became my conduit for teaching, bridging the gap between the game and life's invaluable lessons. I recognized that the skills honed on the field – discipline, teamwork, and resilience – were transferable to everyday challenges. This epiphany fueled my ambition to become an educator, merging my passion for football with a desire to impact young lives positively.
I thought, "But hold on, we are poor”. Thinking about it, I recognized that college was simply out of my financial reach. Consequently, I chose not to pursue it at first.
Despite growing up in a large family surrounded by siblings and cousins, only my older sister and I seemed to harbor ambitions for higher education. I reasoned that she possessed exceptional intelligence and could secure scholarships, whereas I considered myself an average athlete and maintained only a marginally qualifying GPA. Regrettably, I hadn't taken my academic studies seriously. Until now, my primary reasons for attending school have been socializing and engaging in sports.
As time passed, my friends began their college application journeys. At the same time, I remained indifferent outwardly, yet deep down, I harbored a burning desire to pursue a path of teaching and coaching. Despite feeling this way, I hesitated to act. I neglected to submit college applications throughout my senior year, seemingly understanding my fate.
It wasn't until that summer, when my eldest sister, already enrolled in college, intervened and encouraged me to apply, that I begrudgingly took a leap of faith. Despite my reservations, I submitted my applications, though without much optimism. Then, a few weeks later, a letter arrived in the mail bearing unexpected news--I had been accepted! The shock and disbelief that washed over me were unmistakable. How could this be? Did I truly deserve this opportunity?
Deep down, my doubts gnawed at me. I hadn't excelled in high school, and my self-confidence was lacking. Yet, despite my inner turmoil, I seized this chance. Fast-forward a few months, and I found myself faced with a daunting schedule brimming with challenging courses in Biology, Statistics, Civilization, and Psychology. Despite the overwhelming nature of my workload, I adopted a newfound sense of determination. I approached my studies with unwavering dedication, treating them like my full-time job. Attending classes diligently, taking notes, actively participating, and studying religiously.
While financial constraints limited my resources, I refused to let them hinder my progress. Unable to afford the recommended TI calculator, I improvised by borrowing the professor's calculator during exams, determined not to let any obstacle stand in the way of my academic pursuits. I used these obstacles as a source of motivation, pushing myself to overcome every challenge to pursue my goals. With unwavering determination, I accomplished the task set before me and excelled. I proudly received the recognition as the top student-teacher at my university. This significant achievement constantly reminds me of my capabilities and fuels my perseverance during difficult times.
As a coach and educator, I provide an environment where students can discover their strengths, develop their skills, and become confident individuals. My journey of self-discovery, propelled by football, has taught me the resilience and determination necessary to navigate life's twists and turns. It has underscored the significance of positive role models and demonstrated that adversity can catalyze growth. As I continue to educate others, I am grateful for the opportunities football has afforded me to be that positive role model and inspire the next generation on their paths of self-discovery.
Later, armed with newfound confidence and enriched knowledge, I embarked on a journey to advance my education. I started with my master's degree and subsequently pursued and completed my doctoral degree. While faced with many challenges, I drew upon my past experiences as a guiding model, enabling me to navigate through difficulties and emerge victorious in my academic pursuits.
My journey through education has been immensely fulfilling, guiding me toward self-discovery and enabling me to make a meaningful impact on others. Grateful for the lessons learned and growth experienced, I embark on this journey with renewed vigor, inspired to empower the next generation.
In all the comic books I've read, the superheroes save the damsel in distress, and they fall happily ever after in love. But after years of waiting, no Superman has ever saved me from The Demon. I’m a 17-year-old foster kid named Melanie; my placement home is beyond good to me. I get food, clothes, a warm bed to sleep in, and unwavering love unlike anything I've ever felt before.
But even though my life is better than anything I could have ever imagined, there is a lingering dark shadow that clouds my life. It first appeared when I was 6, at the exact moment I realized that my birth parents cared about no one other than each other and I was just a hiccup that occurred in their life. And Nebraska so happened to be a safe haven state that allowed parents to drop off their children with a hospital employee up until the age of 8.
My birth parents took me on my seventh birthday, and the angel-of-an-employee they left me with became my new mom, Donna. I’m a week away from turning eighteen, and I know that the gracious hand my foster family extended to me expires on my eighteenth birthday.
I have always felt like a burden to those around me, and in my own mind, their love is frankly just an act until I'm of age. The Demon that creeps around every corner dips into me every time I feel too happy, reminding me of my captivity and my saddening reality. I never show too much emotion or allow myself to get intimately close to anyone in fear of The Demon swallowing me whole.
In my state of unconsciousness, it taunts me all throughout the night in paralyzing fear until the sun rises and The Demon has limited shadows to encroach in. As the days pass, I sink deeper into the darkness, seeing only a glimmer of light on the surface of the treacherous ebony blue waters that engulf me. With each breath, my lungs ignite, and my words lodged in my throat suffocate me.
The Demon mocks my every attempt to seek familiarity, and as a result, I’ve accepted my demise humbly. And throughout the days, I slowly and quietly pack up all my personal items from the room in my last week. The claws of The Demon plunge deeper into my flesh with every futile attempt at a signal of distress to those around me.
“Your attempts fall upon deaf ears, no one will save you from the darkness. You are mine!” says The Demon eerily. My alarm stirs me awake from my sleep. The dreaded day is upon me. It’s the morning of my eighteenth birthday. I stare up at the ceiling feeling tears prick my eyes but before the dread eats away at my body, I get up from bed and walk down the hall into the bathroom.
I place my things down on the counter, turn on the shower nozzle and feel the bathroom heat up with steam. I undress and let myself relax in the comfort of the steam and then climb into the shower, letting the water wash over my anxiety. “It’s gonna be okay, Melanie,” I say to myself, trying to do box breathing but slowly getting lightheaded.
I finish up my shower, turn off the water, slowly climb out and dry myself off. I take one long look at myself in the mirror before I begin to get dressed for the day. I finish up in the bathroom and head downstairs to grab something quick to eat before everyone wakes up. “Happy Birthday, Melanie!” My foster parents enthusiastically exclaim as I turn the corner towards the kitchen.
My eyes grow wide as I scan across the kitchen that’s been heavily decorated for a party. My eyes land upon a beautiful two-tier cake with lilac colored icing and white frosting borders. A single tear escapes my eye. “What is this all for?” I say, trying my best to hold back the flood of tears.
“Melanie darling, did you forget it’s your birthday?” My foster mom hugs me so tightly that I can feel The Demon shutter. “No, I know it’s my birthday but you're making it harder for me to leave,” I say as I try to pull away.
“What are you talking about? Who said anything about you leaving honey,” She questions. “Don’t act like you weren’t waiting for my eighteenth birthday to get rid of me!” I yell back, startling Donna. A pained look almost distorts her face, and I feel The Demon puff in victory.
“Melanie honey,” she says, wrapping her arms around me, I succumb to her loving actions and relax in her arms. “You are my child, even if I didn’t birth you Mel, you are mine and you're not going anywhere no matter how old you get,” she almost whispers, stroking my hair and holding me so tightly. The Demon is desperate.
“Don’t believe a word that comes out of her mouth, she’s lying to your face. She doesn’t care about you - she’s just pretending!” says The Demon in desperation, reaching out to grab hold of me. “Stop!” I scream. ‘I’m done being controlled by you - you keep feeding me lies and I’m tired of it.
I will no longer be blinded by your deceitfulness” The Demon begins to shrink back. “I am taking back control, and I’m no longer letting you manipulate me into negative thoughts. Your shadows will no longer hold me back. I will light a candle wherever darkness lays and see the good in life again” I screamed at him with every fiber in my being.
I watch in awe as The Demon that has taunted me a majority of my life shrinks back in fear minimizing in size before my very eyes. I tower over the demon and say “I no longer need a hero to save me, I am strong enough to save myself.” I step on the demon, squashing it from my life. The war is over and I can finally breathe without the heaviness in my chest. I'm free!
I hug my mom for real, “Mom, thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I love you.” Mom begins to cry while pulling me in tighter and says “ You’ve never called me Mom, oh my goddess honey I love you more than words could ever explain!” I returned the loving embrace and said “I’m ready to talk about completing the adoption process, Mom.”
Dillie looked at the assignment. Words leapt off the page: “essay,” “front,” read.” She shivered even though the day was warm with spring sunshine. She LOVED writing; SHARING her work was a totally alien concept to her. Her fear of doing so in front of her classmates was unmeasurable.
This was her second year in high school. Her first year had been less than noteworthy. She had attended junior high in a large city school where there had been eleven sections of eighth graders and equal numbers of seventh graders. To say she felt insignificant was a monumental understatement. Her family’s move to a small farm in the county meant that she started high school with one hundred ninety-five students - IN ALL FOUR GRADES! And these students had been together throughout their grade school years. An alien with two heads would have felt more accepted than she did.
She looked at the assignment sheet again. “My Favorite Person” jumped out at her from the list of topics. That was easy, well, other than her mother anyway. Her grandmother (her mother’s mother) was a person she loved dearly. Nonna had taught her to appreciate the beauty of Nature: names of flowers and trees and birds and butterflies. They went together to the cemetery where they took some of Nonna’s beautiful flowers and decorated the graves of Dillie’s grandfather, some of his family members, and strangers Dillie had never met but knew from Nonna’s stories. No one else; just the two of them. A labor of love honoring lives gone, but memories still brightly alive.
In her earlier years Dillie had often sat at a card table in the living room with both grandparents and learned the “rules” for working a jigsaw puzzle: once the pieces were on the table, the box was put away and never looked at again; complete the border first then fill in the rest. She realized now that she had learned spatial concepts matching those shapes and colors and she also learned teamwork at that table. And Nonna was known in many circles for the delicious food she cooked, often taking it to shut-ins. Dillie had decided that she would only consider herself a real cook when she could make biscuits and pies like Nonna made. Yes, there were things about Nonna that would easily fill her essay. Her subject determined, the actual writing was easy. But that had never been what caused her to shiver with fear.
Dillie’s true name was Odelia – a name she was proud of because she had been named for that same grandmother about whom she was writing. But it was a big name for a small child, so Odelia had become Dillie early in her life. But of course she was Odelia on all of her “official” paperwork, and the teacher for whom she was writing the essay was one of those who did not go along with nicknames. She tried to avoid being called on in that class because of the snickers and giggles that accompanied the use of her true name. In her mind she could vividly picture the scene as she walked to the front of the class amid the giggles and the under-their-breath whispers of “Oh-DEEEE-leee-a.” Maybe the Earth would just open up and swallow her before she got to the front of the room. But she knew that salvation was highly unlikely.
She picked up the essay and began reading it out loud; she had recently learned that doing this helped her to find errors in her wording and punctuation. But also in the reading Nonna came to life for her in the stories she related. One was the fact that Nonna had never learned to drive a car until after Dillie was about 7 years old. She had decided to stop depending on Gran or others to take her places. How must Nonna have felt taking her first driver’s test at age 50, surrounded by 16-year-olds? Did the driver testing person ask, “Lose your license, Dearie?” Dillie pictured her grandmother saying, “No. Just thought I’d join the rat race.”
Gran had died when Dillie was 9. He had “heart trouble” which eventually caused him to have to quit work. On the night he died, Dillie wasn’t aware of everything that was happening, but her mother had gone to Nonna and Gran’s house after supper and came back just before Dillie’s bedtime. Dillie heard her mother tell her daddy, “No, she wouldn’t come back with me. She said she would just change the sheets and go on to bed.” It was the next day when Dillie and her brother were told of Gran’s death. Thinking back on that night, Dillie thought about the strength it took for her grandmother to lose Gran but to continue living her life as much as possible as she had before.
But Dillie was NOT her grandmother. She remembered her early childhood when she had asthma. Because she was not allowed outside very much due to her allergies, the doctor had suggested that she get exercise indoors. So she had taken tap dance and ballet lessons and gymnastic and baton lessons. She had loved all of it, but she remembered the terrifying dread she felt when she had to perform at recitals, and especially when she had to perform in baton contests. The thought of reading her essay in front of the class brought all those memories back into clear focus.
“You survived all that,” her inner self said. “You did the routines. Sometimes you made mistakes, but the world didn’t end there. And here you are – beyond the threat of the asthma and with years of contests and performances behind you. You are Nonna’s granddaughter – her strength is in you somewhere – you’ve just got to find it.” Dillie read her essay aloud again, and this time . . .
“Odelia. Your turn,” came the teacher’s voice. Dillie stood up, essay in hand, but it was Odelia who moved with increasingly steady steps to the front of the room, accompanied by a force unseen by the giggling students, a force that drowned out any sounds other than her own steps. For Odelia knew now that Nonna’s strength was her strength as well. She was the granddaughter of a woman who had overcome much and lived a rich, full life by quietly moving forward through good times and bad. Odelia knew that she had found part of the secret for her grandmother’s strength and, as she read her essay to the class, her voice carried across the room with confidence and she knew her life and the one she was reading about had merged. Odelia had emerged from Dillie’s ordeal, like a spring butterfly from its chrysalis, spreading her new wings, ready to take flight.
Addy left the Uber, squared her shoulders, and walked briskly into the airport. Her carry-on bag bounced against her hip as she hurried to the ticket counter. The argument with her fiancé still fresh on her mind fueled her desire to quickly resolve this situation. She figured it would take a couple days and a few thousand dollars, then everything would go back to normal. She and Josh would have their careers, friends, and carefree life again with no more complications. He made it sound like it was her fault, but she had taken all the precautions. They got into this mess together, but she would take care of it herself. She bought a one-way ticket, just in case. She hadn’t told him where she was going, and she hadn’t consulted anyone else. She just stormed out of the apartment.
She briefly wondered if the body scanner was safe then walked through anyway. What did she care. She was so over the fatigue, moodiness, nausea and random food cravings. Enough already. Addy had always been headstrong and determined. Even as a child, she knew what she wanted to do when she grew up, and she had carefully followed her plan to achieve her dreams. Nothing was going to get in her way. She had several hours to kill, and since the smells wafting from the food court made her stomach queasy, she chose a seat far away and opened her wedding planning app. An ad popped up for a coloring app with a picture of a baby, and Addy quickly closed the app. The word “pregnant” raced across her mind. Four tests didn’t lie, so she faced the facts several weeks ago. The anxiety nearly strangled her until she had exploded at Josh and finally told him. This morning, she had told him the research she had done and what she was thinking about doing. It hadn’t gone like she planned. “Pregnant” also meant “mother”, something she had no intention of giving up her life to become. She certainly had no desire to be like her own mother. Addy was a lot of things, not the least of which included girlfriend, fiancé, friend, employee, granddaughter, and daughter. Soon “bride” and “wife” would be on that list. The thought made her smile. But “mother”? Just thinking the word made her chest feel tight. She glanced nervously around the room. No, she would erase “mother” from the list as quickly as possible. There was still time.
“Amanda Harris? Mandy?” A voice snapped her back, grating on her nerves. Not Annie Pierce, not here, not now. Addy groaned silently. That prim and proper do-gooder from high school. She saw Annie coming toward her, looking the same as she had in school, and there was nowhere to run or hide. “Mandy! Do you remember me from high school, Ann Pierce? Well, it’s Patterson now. How are you? How have you been?” Her smile seemed sincere, so Addy took a deep breath. “I go by Addy now, actually. I’m fine and doing okay. I’ve got a great job and a wonderful fiancé, Josh. We just got engaged a couple weeks ago.” Addy flashed her large ring, delighting in the expression on Ann’s face. “Wow, Addy, that’s wonderful! Congratulations! I bet your mom is excited. She always seemed to like celebrations.” A shadow flitted over Addy’s heart. “It’s none of her business.” Before Ann could respond Addy shifted the conversation, “What about you? How have you been? You said your name is Patterson now?” Ann smiled, “Yes, Tony and I have been married about four years. I met him early in college, and we’ve been together ever since. That’s him over there!” Addy waved to the handsome man Ann pointed out across the room.
“That’s sweet. Traveling somewhere special?” “We were visiting my sister here, but now we’re flying back. Actually, Tony just got a job in our old hometown, so we’ll be moving home soon. That’s why seeing you here is such a nice surprise! The right place at the right time.” “What a coincidence.” “Oh, I don’t think there’s any such thing as coincidences, just Providence.” Ann’s reply startled Addy. Even if people believe in God, they don’t normally talk about it in general conversation. Ann had always been like that, though, even growing up together in church. Addy frowned.
Ann put a hand on her arm and said “Addy, what’s wrong?” “Nothing!” Addy snapped back, “What makes you think something is wrong?” Ann looked concerned and replied, “You look like you haven’t sleep in days, you seem on edge, and then that comment about your mother. Addy looked Ann in the eye for the first time and wondered if she could trust her. Tears started welling up, and suddenly all Addy wanted to do was tell someone about it and have them tell her what to do. Even with her boarding pass in her purse, her plan didn’t seem so smart just then. Ann sat down and patted the seat next to her, “Here, sit down and tell me about it.” Addy sank into the seat and stared out the window. “I’m pregnant,” she began slowly. “I just found out a few weeks ago. Josh is scared and excited and wants to marry me, but I’m just scared. I don’t want a baby now, maybe not ever. I don’t know what to do. I know I can’t get an abortion here because I’m too far along, but there are other states. So, I’m flying to one now to get my life back. I’m not ready to be a mother, and it’s not who I am. I wish it would just go away!” She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.
“Have you told your mom?” Addy shook her head. “I really think you should tell your mom before you make up your mind to get an abortion. The truth is, you’re having a baby, not an ‘it’. He or she is a person, a human being, a baby. They are valued in the eyes of God and made in His image. Please don’t kill your baby. You’re frightened and confused, and that’s completely understandable. But please don’t take the life of your child. You can parent the child, and really, you’re already a mom at this point. You’ll do great raising a child. I have every confidence in you! Or you can give your baby up for adoption. There are so many couples who would love to have and raise your baby if you choose not to.” “Oh yeah? Where are they? I don’t see any pro-lifers lining up to help me.” Addy felt like she had been accused of murder.
“Have you reached out to a pregnancy resource center? They can give you all kinds of information, help, counseling, and even an ultrasound.” When Addy said nothing, Ann continued, “I volunteer at one. It’s been a great help and comfort to me. Honestly, Addy, my life hasn’t gone as I’d planned, either. We, I, can’t have children, as much as we want to. Adoption is so expensive, and fostering isn’t something we can do right now. That’s why volunteering at the pregnancy center and our church nursery have been such blessing to me. I would love to keep your baby, Addy, and so would many others!” There were tears in both their eyes now. “You really mean that, don’t you?” “Yes! What feels like a mistake to you is a miracle to God: the miracle of life! I know you have the option these days to do otherwise, but I hope you’ll choose life for your child and yourself. Abortion doesn’t just harm the child but the mom too, as I’ve been told by many women. Please think long and hard about it. And please pray about it before you decide.” Pray, now there’s something Addy hadn’t done in a long time.
“I used to feel like such a failure because I couldn’t have children, like there was something wrong with me. I had to let go of who I thought I was and who I thought I was supposed to be, and I’m learning now to be His child, whether or not I ever have children of my own.” “Thanks, Ann. I know you’re trying to help.” “Lots of people care about you, Addy, and lots of people miss you. Like your mom. Why don’t you call her this morning? Addy sighed, “Maybe I’ll do that.” “Good! Oh, that’s my boarding call. I have to go. It was good seeing you again! I’ll be praying for you Addy!” Addy waved goodbye and watched long after Ann disappeared. “Mother” didn’t feel like such a nasty word but maybe something almost do-able. Could she really be a mom? She sniffed and put a hand on her flat stomach. She already was a mom. The idea was stunning. Maybe it really was time to go home.
“Mom? It’s me, Amanda.”
Dear New Dialysis Patient,
I thought I would drop you a line and share my experience as a dialysis patient with you in hopes that it might help you with your new journey. You have just became a member of that unpopular club, the “Chair” club. I hope you enjoy sitting because 3 days out of every week, you and a recliner type chair are going to be good friends! You will have to plan your vacations and outings around a facility that can accommodate your new situation. You will have a lot of new relationships with people that are vital to your survival.A surgeon will put a lifeline in you called a fistula or graft or catheter. These are where 15 gauge needles will be put into one of these to filter your blood and waste from your kidneys and return the clean back into your body.You must take good care of this lifeline for the rest of your life or at least until you receive a transplant if you choose to pursue it. Your new mantra is “Hurry Up and Wait”, because that is what you will now do in everything concerning dialysis. You will wait as your blood is cleansed and filtered 3 times a week, usually for 2-4 hours each treatment. You will wait as you are tested to be put on a transplant list and you will wait your turn to actually receive a kidney from a donor. If you are lucky, a family member or some kind stranger will volunteer to give you one of theirs and hopefully, they will be a match for you and you won’t have to wait so long. Other than that, you can expect to wait about 2-5 years to finally get your turn.
It is not all gloom and doom, however. When I began my treatment, I started eating better, which helped control my blood pressure and diabetes greatly. I took new meds that helped me feel better because the Anemia that goes with CKD can bring you down physically and you won’t feel like getting out of bed, much less living. You MUST take care of your lifeline, or access, or you can get in a mess very quickly. Last Summer, I fell and broke my wrist on the arm that my fistula was in and the Orthopedic Surgeon was afraid if he operated on it, it would mess up the fistula and I HAD to have that in order to have dialysis.. My wrist bone had to heal on it’s own, and I can really tell it on a cold or rainy day.
The dialysis changed me mentally, some days I can deal with it, others, I wonder if it is worth the trouble.When I first started dialysis, 4 people in my clinic chose not to continue with the treatment any more and in a couple of weeks, their bodies shut down and they died. When this first happened, these people were constantly on my mind, driving me crazy! I wondered why they chose this way out after taking the treatment for so long. It is not my right to judge, but hope they looked to the Lord before making their decision.
I have experienced days where I would like to give up too, but I have the greatest relationship with someone who loves me, encourages me, and gives me strength and courage to push forward and his name is Jesus. He is who keeps me going mentally and physically and you too will need some in your life to help you through this. It is a rough journey, but you can do it!You can call on me anytime for help and I will call on you too if I need help! I love you and stay strong! This experience has been a journey of self discovery for me and before it is over, it will be for you too.
Love,
Me
My childhood was nomadic. For the first seven years of my life my father was in the Navy. The family went wherever the Navy posted him. My two brothers and I were born on Navy bases from California to Trinidad to Millington. We were so young that it seemed natural. I mean, didn’t everyone move every couple of years?
When I was seven Dad retired and we moved to Memphis. During the next three years he finished his college degree, and we stayed in Memphis until we moved to St. Louis for him to get his master’s degree. He became a hospital administrator and we continued to move as he looked for better jobs.
I was 5 ½ that first year in Memphis, and Mom took me and my older brother to enroll in school. It was first grade for me, and I was terrified. To say that socially I was not ready is an understatement. Sixty years later I remember that first day as vividly as if it was yesterday.
I stood in the doorway holding my mother’s hand until suddenly I wasn’t holding her hand. “Go on in Dale,” she said. Then she was gone.
I stood in the doorway petrified, unable to move. I was staring at about 25 little faces that were all staring back at me. What was I supposed to do? The teacher, a grey-haired older lady came over and said to me, “I’m Miss Young”, then turning to the class, “This is the New Girl.”
Oh, that name “New Girl- it would follow me for a very long time.
She pointed out an empty desk and said, “That’s your seat. You may go sit down.”
Without looking either right or left, I crept down the aisle and took a seat with 25 sets of eyes boring into me. Not just that day or even just that week, I always felt like the Outsider.
School had already been in session for a week and already groups had formed. I had no idea what cliques were or how to join one. Nor did I have any idea that this experience would follow me through the next eight schools that I would attend in eight different cities.
In those schools I would go to class and wait until someone approached me and then hopefully, I would make a friend. I rebuffed the popular kids because I didn’t feel confident enough to join their group. I certainly don’t blame them; I just couldn’t overcome the shyness and the feeling that we would be moving on to another school.
I went to that first school for three years, but I remained shy and don’t think I ever made any real friends. I did have a best friend in the neighborhood. She lived down the street and we became instant friends. Georgia and I stayed tightly bonded for many years.
Several years later, Mom saw me messing around with the piano at church. She knew I was lonely so when we got home, she went into her closet and came out with an old clarinet.
“Why don’t you give this a try?” she asked. “I used to be in the band, and we had a lot of fun.”
So, I joined the band in junior high and learned how to play. I felt at home there and they showed me that being a little different wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
At my first high school the band kids were the so-called cool kids. I was on Homecoming Court. Being in the band was the first step on my journey but certainly not the last.
As the years and the moves came and went, I began to step out beyond my safety net. I became more comfortable with who I was and what I wanted to be. Being both shy and pretty, I was considered aloof until classmates got to know me. We are put in little boxes, most often depending on how we look. I didn’t act like I looked.
In college I had a group of friends, both male and female that still are my friends today. We had a wonderful time and being a bit crazy was just fine with us.
The girls were the 4Gs, from the number and letter of the suite we lived in. The guys were the Mallards because they had a weird basketball coach their freshman year who used to call them Stud Ducks.
I met the Mallards when Candy and I climbed in Wicket’s window in the jock dorm and met him and his roommate, Ed. We connected from the very beginning and had a lot of memorable times that we still talk about today. One incident involving MD 20/20 comes to mind but unless you are old enough to remember the vile so-called wine that went by that name, it wouldn’t make a bit of sense to you.
So, college was the second step to becoming me. It was the first place I had remained in for more than a couple of years. I never wanted to leave.
But I did leave, and the next part of the voyage began when I hit the big city. After a couple of months of temp jobs, I got an interview for a sales position with the help of a college buddy.
It wasn’t the wisest idea, but I went out the night before and had a few too many Margaritas. The boss’ name was Dan and during the interview he asked me, “Why do you want to work for us?” About that time a sort of muscle spasm went up the back of my head, a result of all that foolishly consumed tequila. I stared at him as if I was pondering this most existential question, not having a mini stroke. I looked him in the eye and responded with the only thing my muddled brain could think of, “Because I need a job.”
“Oh, good lord,” I thought. “I really blew that one. Back to the temp office.”
But as it turned out, Dan appreciated the honesty and he burst out laughing.
“You’re hired”, he said. “We’ll start you as a summer temp working routes for people on vacation. If that works out, we’ll see about a permanent job for you in the fall.”
Of all the unlikely careers for an introvert to land, sales was at the top. I was one of the first three women to land a job in what had been a traditionally all male work force. I think I was too naïve to be afraid.
Dan was the best person one could have as a boss. Outgoing and friendly, he always had our backs. He taught me so much and a lot of it was just from watching his easy-going approach to people. Slowly but surely this girl was coming out of her shell.
I stayed with this company for a decade and my sales duties were invaluable lessons in how to approach strangers. I learned that for someone like me the most important thing was to be prepared. The more prepared my presentations were the more successful and self-confident I became. Sometimes fate puts us where we need to be, not where we necessarily want to be.
During the years with this company I became a mother and that presented another confidence challenge. Mothers must take huge leaps of faith that their knowledge and intuition are correct. As the saying goes, there is no manual and a lot of the time we just wing it. Our kids look to us to take the lead. My two children turned out well and learning how to confront difficult parenting situations calmly and respectfully was the best training I could have had.
When I was about fifty, my then husband gave me ballroom dance lessons as an anniversary gift. I have never doubted my ability to pick up the rhythm to any song. Now I had to learn the basics of eleven dances. I had to memorize the patterns and their names, the arm styling, the foot placement, how to turn without falling over, and how to stay in sync with a partner, all while wearing 3-inch-high heels. You have to have something inside to pull off all of that at the same time!
The beautiful glittering gowns and the sexy Latin costumes were a bit much at first, but they became second nature, and I loved it! I was able to perform intricate routines in front of audiences. My self-confidence was pretty much complete.
The adventure continues as I had my first published short story at the age of seventy-one.
It only took seventy odd years but my journey to be a full person is mostly complete. It took a lifetime and a lot of experiences, but I fit. I can walk into any room and know that I am no longer the New Girl.
Eliza stuffed her failed math test into her locker and slammed the door shut.
“Why am I so stupid?”
There was a tap on her shoulder, she turned to see it was her boyfriend Jason smiling at her.
“I heard that! You aren’t stupid Eliza. I wish you’d stop saying that.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Andrews” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “My mom is going to be so mad!
You can go ahead and kiss our weekend plans goodbye.”
“I guess your math test didn’t go well?”
“Nope, sure didn’t. And if you don’t get to class, she’s going to fail you too.”
“Mrs. Andrews likes me” Jason quipped with a wink and a giggle.
“Suuureee” Eliza laughed. “But for real, we are both going to be late to class. And I don’t need that too.”
“Well, you better call me tonight!” He yelled and blew her a kiss.
The 7th period bell rang. Eliza wasn’t looking forward to the car ride home. She knew the first thing her mom was going to ask about would be her math test and once again she had failed. She might as well just accept her fate of being grounded for life. It seemed she couldn’t do anything right these days.
Her stomach was already churning when she spotted the grey Honda Civic in the pick-up line. It was the one with a plume of cigarette smoke slipping out the driver side window. Eliza was racking her brain for the right words or excuse to explain her failed test when the car stopped in front of her. She didn’t even get her seat buckled before the dreaded questioning began.
“Wellll Eliza, am I going to be happy with you or disappointed?” Her mother started.
“Mrs. Andrews doesn’t even like me Mom. It doesn’t matter if I studied for a month for that test I wasn’t going to pass.”
“Is this you telling me you failed? At this point, I might as well call down to the Western Sizzler and get you a waitressing job. It’s not like you are going to make much of yourself. Your dad and I had hopes you could get into a decent college. At this point we aren’t sure you are going to make it out of the 10th grade. It’s probably all those distractions, that boy Jason….”
At this point her mom began to sound like a character from the cartoon peanuts. Eliza knew she would likely go on with her rant the whole car ride home and that her parents would continue the discussion over dinner. Eliza plugged in an earbud in her right ear and tried to focus on the music while her mother continued on.
When they finally got home Eliza was sent to her room until her mother “could stand to look at her”. She was called for dinner, but she didn’t feel like eating much and what she did eat she promptly purged herself of. Such had become her practice the last six months or so. This and cutting gave her a sense of control, she otherwise never got to feel. Later in the evening Ava called. Ava was Eliza’s best friend. Normally, they had a lot to talk about and a lot in common. They were both in the band, loved books, and abhorred Mrs. Andrews’ Algebra class. But lately, all Ava was talking about was church and her new youth group. She had been inviting Eliza but the idea of being “preached at” didn’t sound all that appealing. However, she did have to admit that Ava had seemed different, happier, brighter somehow. Jason called for his usual evening goodnight and Ava went to bed with a heaviness on her heart, that had seemed to become a permanent resident at this point.
The next morning Eliza headed to the kitchen for breakfast and found her mother passed out at the table with her hand still gripping a bottle of wine and design papers strode across all the kitchen countertops. Somehow her mother, Mena, was a successful, renowned interior designer and a sloppy drunk. Eliza tipped toed to the cabinet to grab a box of poptarts, taking care not to wake the sleeping beast. Her dad entered the kitchen with a whistle.
“Well kid, wanna go for a drive. I know you haven’t gotten to get a lot of driving time in?”
Delighted, Eliza replied, “Really? I’ll grab my coat!”
Eliza noticed her dad sitting in the passenger seat of her mom’s car.
“Dad, do we have to practice in Mom’s car?”
“Come on, Eliza, it’ll be fine.”
She took a deep breath, hopped in the driver’s seat and threw it in reverse.
This is nice, she thought and just before they were about to pull in the driveway, Eliza allowed herself to believe that this might be actually a good day. Then the neighbor’s dog jumped out in front of the car. Eliza, attempting to miss it, swerved right into their mailbox.
Eliza immediately burst into tears. “I’m so sorry Dad! Mom’s going to be so mad!”
Mena came storming out of the house after hearing the crash and a slew of curse words hurled from her mouth straight at Eliza. Before she even had a chance to explain Mena slapped her and sent her promptly to her room.
Sorrow overtook Eliza. She slammed and locked her door and slid onto the floor in a heap, crying and curling into the fetal position. Thoughts were swirling in her mind.
“Why am I so stupid? I can’t do anything right! My own mother hates me! Why was I even born?”
Every mistake, every horrible thing that has ever happened, every harsh word all seemed to come back all at once. Her tears seemed endless, and she was hopeless.
Her eyes caught a glimpse of a bottle under her bed. She inched over and retrieved it. Turning it over in her hands she saw it was a bottle of their dog’s heart medicine. Dark and awful thoughts began to overtake her mind. She emptied the bottle of little white pills into her hand and the phone rang. It was Ava. She declined the call. She continued rolling the pills around in her hand and without another thought, threw the whole bit into her mouth and swallowed. The phone rang again.
Should she answer and at least tell her best friend goodbye, she thought. Her thumb hit the little green button.
“Hello?”
“Hey Eliza! I have some really exciting news! I am getting baptized at church tomorrow and I really want you to come! I can come pick you up in the morning! Will you come, please?”
Eliza was quiet.
“Helllooo?.....Eliza?.....Are you there?”
“I’m here….for now” Eliza responded in a quiet voice.
“For now? What does that mean? Eliza, are you ok?”
“I just want to sleep Ava. I am so tired. I am tired of living my screwed-up life.”
“What’s the matter Eliza? You aren’t still upset about your math test are you?”
“Ava, you wouldn’t understand. Just know you were my best friend. Tell Jason I’m sorry and I really do love you both.”
“Eli….”
Eliza ended the call before Ava could even finish her sentence and closed her eyes, lying on the floor, hugging her knees, hoping she could embrace what she thought would be a long and peaceful goodnight.
When she woke up the next morning Eliza was lying in a hospital bed. Her dad, John, was asleep in the chair next to her bed. Ava was in a chair by the window reading her Bible when she noticed Eliza stirring. She ran to the bedside and wrapped her arms around her friend, tears welling in her eyes.
“Oh Lord, thank you, thank you my friend is ok! Oh Eliza, I am so thankful you are ok.” Ava choked out.
Groggily Eliza responded, “What happened?”
“The Lord saved you Eliza. When you hung up I knew you weren’t ok. I called your Dad. He pushed in your door. He saw the empty pill bottle on the floor and he rushed you to the hospital. The doctors had to pump your stomach.”
“Thanks Ava,” Eliza ashamedly responded.
“Eliza, I know things are hard at home. I am so sorry about that. But I promise God has a beautiful purpose for you and for your life.”
“And how do you know that?”
“He says so! Listen, to this.” Ava proceeded to open her Bible and read verse after verse to Eliza. She read her verses of hope and life in Christ, of the love of the Heavenly Father, of how he had given her a hope and a future. The night turned to day and…
Eliza began to go to church with Ava weekly. She gave her life to Christ. She found that her hope, joy and fulfillment would never be found in the earthly. She discovered her true self in who the Lord Jesus said she was.
Katherine settled into her front porch rocker and gripped her worn teacup. Her heavily hooded eyes scanned the open fields for what brought the buzzards to the farm that day.
The farm had been home to Katherine since she was twenty and newly married to Charlie when he got out of the army. Early on, they moved to the north side of the property, but true to his word, after a few years Charlie had built her the stately Victorian home, just like her childhood home in Kentucky. It looked as if it had been picked up from old Louisville and placed in the middle of a Tennessee farm by mistake. Charlie could do everything; build, fix, design and dream! Everyone wanted a part of him; a man so full of life- like no one she had ever met. Charlie’s accident felt like a distant dream - one where she had died too. For years she had felt as she was outside of her body watching her life pass by. Now, nearing eighty she was alone on the farm with only her memories.
She heard the rumble before she saw a flash of red. She could see through the thick trees as it passed by and heard it slow down and turn up the drive toward the house. The old red thunderbird came to a stop in front of the porch. A tall lanky got out and took off his hat. “Hi Ma’am, I’m Ralph.” “ Your nephew, Willy, sent me to fix your electrical problems.” He said. “He did, did he? Well, I don’t have any problems and you can just go back to where you came from, and tell Willy I can take care of my own affairs!” “Please Ma’am, Willy don’t want you to fall and break a hip on those cords is all” “ I can fix your problem ma’am, I learned to work on electrical stuff back in my army days.” He said. “ Army days?” She gave him a questioning look “Yes Ma’am I served ten years.” He said.
Something about the way he held his eyes caught Katherine off guard. “Well maybe take a quick look.” She said. “Ralph told Hobo to stay in the car and pulled a piece of bread from his frayed overcoat pocket and with coarse hands passed it to him through the opening of the car window. Ralph climbed the porch steps and she let him inside. “Oh this is a beautiful place Ma’am.” “My Peggy would love this house m” Ma'am” “She had cut out from magazines and they were just like this.”
He said. Ralph stepped over the extension cords as Katherine led him to the back room of the house. He stepped into to a pale pink bedroom and found an outdated fuse box. “This needs to be changed out Ma’am, it can cause a fire.” “But don’t worry, I can fix it.” “When I first met Peggy she had an old house and it was falling down around her.” “ Her ex husband liked to drink and he didn’t fix nothing.” “ I told Peggy I would fix her house up and I did.” “I worked all night one time getting it painted real pretty to surprise her.” He said. “Who is Peggy?” asked Katherine. “She’s my wife Ma'am, but she passed a while back God rest-her soul” He said. “How do you know my nephew?” She asked. “ I have to wonder about someone keeping company with Willy.” She questioned. “ Well ma’am, I work for Willy and he rents me a trailer.” Ralph said. “ “I came here from Kentucky after Peggy died; I have a sister here but here but her husband Dwayne isn’t very nice to me, so I moved out from them” “Now Willy rents a trailer to me and gives me jobs fixing things.”He said. “Very well, when can you come back and get it fixed?” She asked. “I’ll be back tomorrow Ma’am, and I’ll bring my tools and the new electric box.”
Ralph came to Katherine‘s house the next day and installed the new electric box and found a ceiling fan that needed fixing. Katherine found something else to fix that day. Ralph shared with her about airplanes and his former life with Peggy. Katherine looked forward to his visits. She told him of life with Charlie on the farm. “What did Charlie do in the army Ma'am?” Ralph asked Katherine one day. “He flew airplanes.” “ Really ma'am? “ Yes Ralph.” She said. “He was very good at it too.” She said. “ Mrs Katherine, did I ever tell you that I used to work on airplanes?” He asked. “ Yes you mentioned it.” She laughed. “Well I am saving my money to get me some lessons to fly and sometimes me and Hobo go to the airport and we watch the airplanes.” “ I worked on airplanes back home in Kentucky, when I first married Peggy.” He said. “That man at the airport says I can get lessons with a regular drivers license. He told her excitedly. Katherine walked to the kitchen retrieving her left over bread crusts and showed Ralph to the door. “ I am sure you will fly one day Ralph - you can let Hobo out of the car to stretch his legs.” She said. “ Yes Ma’am and thank you Ma’am!” “You can call me Katherine.” She said. “Yes Ma’am, Mrs Katherine.”
Ralph let Hobo out and of the car and he ran toward the field, running free. He soon came back when Ralph called. Katherine offered the bread to Hobo - who gently took it from her hand and gobbled it up, then turning back toward Katherines outstretched hand for her to nuzzle the soft fur on his face. “Tell Mrs Katherine thank you, Hobo.” Ralph said. The weeks turned to months and then a year. Ralph made regular trips to the old Victorian home with a never ending list of things to fix. Katherine saved all her bread crusts for Hobo and Ralph continued to tell her everything he loved about airplanes and his Peggy. She relived the past telling him her stories of life with Charlie.
One day Willy called and told Ralph that his aunt wouldn’t need his services anymore. He hung up before Ralph could ask him why. Ralph took Hobo and drove his old thunderbird the familiar route to the farm. He found the rocking chair empty and the house locked. He drove home confused and worried. Later, the phone rang and a nurse told him to come to the hospital. Ralph was alarmed to see Katherine in the hospital bed. A stroke had left her body weak and her mouth twisted. “You came.” She sputtered. “Of course I came, Mrs Katherine.” I am here; how can I help you Ma’am,?” “You look real sick.” He said. “Can I do anything for you, Mrs Katherine?” “I will bring you anything you need, you name it.” He said. “I don’t need a thing Ralph, I didn’t want you to worry.” Katherine said. “ You are the only friend I have and I wanted to see you, I knew you would worry. ” “ Yes ma’am, I have been worried about you since Willy called me Ma’am.”
“I have something for you Ralph,” She managed to say. “Something I want you to have.” “Now, I can’t go and take nothing from you, Mrs Katherine.” He said. “ No, Ralph, I want you to have it.” Ralph chocked up and said “Well, when you get better and come home; you can give it to me then Ma'am.”
Four months went by and Ralph kept his visits to Katherine in rehab, until she finally came home. He built a wheelchair ramp for Katherine. “Wheel me out on the land Ralph; I want to see the farm.” He wheeled her out and she asked him to go further back to the old barn. He wheeled her back and when they managed to make it to the barn, she told him to open the door. He pulled open the old weather- worn wooden door and saw an dry rotting black tarp and peeled it back. The magnificent Cessna
airplane was in perfect condition. The name ‘Margaret’ was on the side of the door with “ Little Peg” hand painted in pink underneath. Katherine had never seen Ralph rendered speechless. She saw his chin quiver and a tear fall down his cheek.” It’s yours, Ralph” . “ But, but how?” He managed to whisper, his voice trailing off. “It was Charlie’s little Cessna.””Our baby Margaret died at birth.” “After she died, He bought this and fixed it up.” “He just never got the chance to fly again before he died.”
Ralph did learn to fly and Hobo flew too! The first place he went was over Mrs Katherine’s porch, waving to her below. Mrs Katherine, tea cup in hand, whispered “Fly high, Charlie. Fly High Little Peg. Fly High Ralph and Hobo. Fly High!”
Look at the floor. Hug the wall. Don’t step on that tile. Pencil! Don't step on it, you will slip. I glance up, locking eyes with another student. Eyes down. My chest tightens, deep breaths. What did Dr. Lisa say to do when I start panicking? Inhale. Hold. One, two, three, four. Release. Through your nose! Hold. Another four seconds. Inhale. Just keep doing that. Someone brushes against my shoulder. Hug the wall! The bell rings. Walk faster, we can’t be late. We won't get a seat in the back. I sit down in the back of the class, closest to the door. Perfect, in case anything happens, we can leave at any moment without any trouble. I watch everyone sit in their normal seats. John isn't in his seat. Probably in the hall with Cliff. Miss Beth drags one of the extra desks and places it between me and the door. No, no, no! My escape!
“Miss Beth, umm, why are you moving the extra desk?” My heartbeat picks up pace. I can feel it through my body. My chest, my stomach, my head. Even my teeth.
Miss Beth smiles warmly, “We have a new student. I figured since you had the best grades in the class, he would have the best chance catching up with the class with your help.” I nod. My throat dries up, and I feel my stomach start to turn. It will be fine. We’ve helped kids before. Just cause they were all under six doesn't mean we can’t do it. I see someone walk in from the corner of my eye. Finally, John’s here. He is always late. By always, I mean always. Then another guy walks in. Black hair. Black clothes, his bicep shows through his jacket. He’s strong. We need to be extra careful with interacting.
“Rumor…” Miss Beth brings me out of my head.
“Y-yes Miss Beth?” Inhale, holding for four.
She gives me a smile that's supposed to be warm. Exhale. Hold. To others, it would be, but not to me, “This is Zade. The student I told you about. Zade this is Rumor. She will be helping you with all of your assignments till you’re on your feet.”
Zade’s eyes lock with mine. His eyes are beautiful. Emerald green with a hint of blue near his pupil. I break eye contact. Eyes down. I hear him slide into the seat next to me
“Hey, I’m Zade,” His voice is deep and raspy, but soft at the same time.
“Rumor.” I keep my voice low. Speak low, less attention. Less attention, fewer chances of eyes on me.
He gently laughs. "Rumor? As in a lie spreading like wildfire?" I nod. "Not much of a talker are you?"
I look him in the eyes, “I talk when I’m comfortable.” Eyes down.
I look down at my desk and start bouncing my leg, ready for class to be over. Miss Beth explains what we are doing today. Luckily, we are just reading, so I don’t need to talk to Zade more.
An hour passes and a folded piece of paper gets tossed on my desk from the left. I look at Zade. He nods his head towards the paper. I pick it up and unfold it. You need to chill with bouncing your leg. I immediately stop my leg and refold the note, tucking it in my pencil pag. Five minutes pass and another note. Leg. I look down, without realizing it, I was bouncing my leg. I stop it again. I feel Zade tap my shoulder. I jump. He hands me his phone. I take it and see that it's open to a new contact portfolio. Don’t give him your number. He will give it to his friends. They won’t leave you alone. Next thing I know, my number is in his phone, and I'm handing it back to him. I focus back down on the book. My phone buzzes. I pull it out.
"Why do you keep bouncing your leg?"
I roll my eyes and reply, "None of your business."
"Too bad. Anxiety right? Which one? Social? Panic? OCD?"
"....OCD."
"Going to a therapist?"
"Yepppppp."
"I have OCD too."
I look up from my phone and look at him. I start typing again, "Do you use box breathing?"
"Eh, not really. Doesn’t work for me. I just focus on one person that I'm comfortable with. I think about them when walking, I look at them during presentations, I pretend I'm talking to them when talking to someone else."
"But you're new here, so what are you going to do now?"
"Well, I didn't have a plan until this class. But now I got a person in mind."
"Who?"
"Secret."
I roll my eyes and put my phone away as the bell rings. I pack my things and wait for everyone else to leave. A text pops down on my phone, "Let me guess, waiting for everyone to leave so that no one is behind you?"
I look up at him with widened eyes, "HOW DID YOU KNOW?!"
"Cause I did it too. Well until I tried the technique I told you about."
"Imma have to try it."
"Watch this."
Zade stands up and walks out of the classroom, with two people behind him! My jaw internally drops. I swallow the lump in my throat and stand up. I grab my backpack and walk into the hallway. Hug the wall. Eyes down. Think. Who’s a person who is here that I’m comfortable with? Zade. No, we just met him. But he is comfortable. “Zade, Zade, Zade…" I walk down the hallway. "Zade, Zade, Zade." I feel a pencil under my heel. "Zade, Zade, Zade." I watch my foot as it falls down on the cracks in the tiles. "Zade, Zade, Zade." Someone bumps me into the wall. "Zade, Zade, Zade, Zade." I take a deep breath. "Eyes straight ahead. Zade, Zade, Zade."
After four years, I finally have a friend.
In the dawnings of time, a little before civilization was born, three gods came into existence. Thoth, Osiris, and Nephthys. They governed the universe in peace. That is, until Nephthys traveled to Earth in search for a proper suitor so that she could expand her lineage.
Nephthys found the man she had sought out for, and eventually had a child with him. A half-human, half-god child. His name was Meso. Meso was absolutely adored by the other gods, so much so that the other two gods gave him a piece of their abilities.
Thoth gave him the gift of writing and truth.
Osiris gave him the gift of the afterlife, weather and climate.
Nephthys, however, began to grow resentful, for the father of Meso had died abruptly after she gave birth and left her with the utmost responsibility of motherhood. Grief grew warm within her, building up until she could no longer stand the sight of her own son.
This hatred was evident.
The half-child was no more than three years of age when Nephthys casted him out of the universe, damning him to Earth.
“He will not survive,” she surely thought, for what did he know of human life? What could he learn?
The other gods wept and felt sorry for Meso, negotiating.
“Please, please!” They cried, “Allow the child to last one human lifetime on Earth, and then return to us with all power after his natural death!”
Begrudgingly, Nephthys agreed.
Meso was placed on Earth without instruction. The people of the Earth marveled at his beauty, bathed in the freshness of experience that exceeded their own quality of life.
He realized that these people were created within chaos just as him, were weeping upon the exposed bodies of their deceased loved ones, and were killing and maiming each other without remorse. Meso made it his ultimate goal to mend their distasteful actions, and to create a sense of community among the world.
Often, Thoth would walk along the sunrise and sunset. During one of these walks he gazed upon Earth, his thoughts occupied with Meso’s well-being that he saw something almost unbelievable: Movement.
The people of the Earth were banding together and chanting, were upheaving social contracts, and even- my, could this be? Dancing together! Thoth almost began to cry, for this is what the gods wanted for their small world! Unity!
It was true that Meso’s power was growing, he was becoming more influential. He gave the people water in the barren desert land, he casted the light of agriculture, and he taught early humans how to navigate their environment. Temples were erected all over the land, statues were built, lines of beautiful limestone walkways were built so that Meso never had to walk on the bare ground again. He began to grow out of the mold his own mother shaped for him!
And if the climate would prove too dry and too warm? Meso called upon the rain, and gave the floods of life to the people, ensuring a bountiful harvest each year. He preached and spoke about death and the afterlife, providing people guidance and instruction on how to manage not only themselves but their souls. Meso was, of course, fair and made the people of the Earth aware of other gods of his nature. For he was only half as powerful as them.
Ceremonies were held in place of worship for Meso. Singing, dancing, chanting, the “resurrection” of all the souls lost before them! These ceremonies made such a noise that it shook the Earth at least twice per night, one universal vibration for each of the gods that blessed Meso with the power of his people. It caught the attention of the gods, made them smile down upon Earth and even sometimes enticed them so very much that Osiris would come down, Thoth walking close behind to record the happenings of history.
Nephthys’ spine shook with fury as she awaited the arrival of the third shake, signaling to her, calling her down from her universal home. She waited for hours upon hours whenever the ceremonies took place, but the third shake of the world never came. She was left out, forgotten upon the gods that she was supposed to rule equally with.
It was on a night that one of the biggest ceremonies yet took place, where Thoth would read out the charts of the divine and Osiris would himself guide those dying into a peaceful slumber, that Nephthys could no longer handle the white hot ball of rage buried deep under her ribcage.
Nephthys screamed, banged her fists against the oceans of the world and called out to the people, “Misfortune! Agony! Your half-god is the son of mine! And he hath kept you from me!”
But the people could not hear her, they could not see.
Nephthys once again screamed, but this time she cupped the water from the oceans into her nimble hands and spilled it on all the lands of the world.
Chaos regulated itself throughout civilization. Multitudes of homes and governmental institutions were wiped out. Children drowned and fathers weeped, cats held fast and bits of personal belongings floated in the narrow streets of the early cities. Thoth and Osiris fled from the Earth in fear of Nephthys’ rage, for they wanted no part of her material destruction!
Nephthys made her away over to Meso and stood directly in front of him so that he could not escape her. Conjuring forth all the rage within her, she held up her left hand innermost connected with her heart and said:
“A BRUTAL DEATH WILL SHOW ITS FACE TO YOU WHEN YOU REACH THE HUMAN ADULTHOOD, FOR YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE, YOUR PEOPLE WILL FORGET AND THEIR SUN WILL REVOLVE AROUND ME.”
Breathy gasps came from both the universe and the world, for who could wish upon their son as such? Fear globbed in every mortal and god’s throat: Meso was merely seventeen, and had naught but two weeks until he was deemed an age of human maturity.
Nephthys left the world in shambles. The people weeped for Meso and put in plans to make his last piece of reign on Earth plentiful for him. But Meso stopped them and said, “I do not seek your material possession nor your excess worship. Listen carefully and we will construct a plan to rebuild. I want to leave this world seeing the smiles on your faces.”
Henceforth, the reconstruction began, rebuilding all that Nephthys had destroyed with the ocean’s water, which had also been put back in its place.
Slowly, the day of death came, and sadly took Meso with the dying sun in the sky, the moon representing his absence. The people of the Earth buried him one-hundred and fifty feet within the ground, so he could be one with his world. They wept, so loudly and so whole-heartedly that it shook the Earth twice more, inviting the gods to Meso’s funeral.
Nephthys waited for the third shake, her invitation, but it never came.
“No longer will I be unknown to them,” she said, immediately beginning her Earthly rule.
The world became a dark place quite quickly, clouds riddled the sky and the smell of smoke infected the lungs of the people. Death and the afterlife no longer was an extension of life, but an oracle of despair and torture. Disease spread across the land, for there was no natural medicine sprouting along the banks of the rivers, and more graves were needed than were able to be dug.
The people of the Earth wept so heavily that their tears soaked the Earth’s surface. Which, unbeknownst to them, had watered the body of Meso. And, after years of tyrannical rule, a shifting began deep below the ground.
Movement swelled unto the Earth’s surface:
shake shake shake shake
This caught the attention of Thoth and Osiris. Pieces of earth imploded as the ground began twisting and turning, uncovering a form of pure light. First a hand, then an eye, then a face- Meso was awakening once more, this time a fully procured god.
The people cried in joy and shouted out, “Our true king! Our only true king!”
Meso held his shoulders high, his piercing eyes burning through every soul he looked at, and made his way to Nephthys who had a permanent horror etched across her face. Mortals and Gods alike stood securely behind Meso as he raised his left hand as she did all those years ago and shunned Nephthys for her acts of discretion and hatred towards something that benefited their world as a whole, for her unforgivable sin of jealousy and throwing her only son away!
“Dearest mother, turned foul, you’ve wished for my destruction. You’ve threatened the livelihood of my people, my world. I will no longer tolerate your jealousy, will no longer curate under your overarching shadow of false prophecies!”
Nephthys screamed, screamed again as she had all those years ago and tried cupping the waters of the Earth into her palms of destruction but- she couldn’t. She had been stripped of her god-like abilities and her skin started to turn transparent, turning into merely nothing.
The people cried out to Meso, begging for his rule! He looked back at Thoth and Osiris for approval, to which they gently nodded their heads.
Meso soared into his power, immediately healing the world with simple divine touches.
Order had been restored.
Most days, Melanie was able to push her grief aside and focus her thoughts on her tasks. On other days, she felt like the whole world was crashing down on her and felt as if nothing mattered. Today was a day resembling the latter illustration.
Melanie’s thoughts couldn’t seem to shy away from her daughter, and tears formed in her eyes as she recollected back on the years of sunshine that her daughter, Ella, gave to her. She would have cherished those moments of joy far more than she had if she’d known of the short amount of time she had left with Ella.
Sometimes, selfishly, Melanie wished that her daughter could have lived with cancer for a longer period of time. At nine years old, Ella was diagnosed with a type of cancer that was likely to be fatal. During the dreadful months of waiting to see if the treatments were working, Melanie over-educated herself on Ella’s condition, learning that some lived for years after treatment. Ella’s period of suffering was short, however, for she lived only a few months after the diagnosis before passing away.
After a stressful 12-hour work shift at the hospital, Melanie was exhausted. Her husband, Paul, worked long shifts as well, often staying late and leaving for work early in the morning. Both of them were aware that the other worked long and exhausting hours because being at home for long periods was unbearable. Being inside their home, which had once been a haven for the busy family, now seemed like a prison to the lonely couple.
Though Melanie wanted nothing more than to lie down on her bed and fall into a sleep in which she would be blissfully unaware of her worldly troubles, her feet took her down the hall, into Ella’s old bedroom. Melanie had made a point to keep the room exactly as Ella had left it, not daring to move anything from where Ella had placed it. Unwanted advice told her that keeping her daughter’s room as it was before she died was harmful to the act of moving on. Melanie didn’t understand them…she didn’t want to move on. She didn’t want to forget her daughter, even though every thought of her sweet daughter resulted in a sharp saddening sensation.
The room always made Melanie think of a snow globe, excluding the snow. Just a static moment, frozen in history, never changing. Melanie took a seat on the rug in the middle of the floor, remembering when Ella helped her choose it for the room, claiming that she liked the sun-shaped rug because it reminded her of happiness. The memory now only made Melanie feel hopeless. Melanie was too tired for tears, though she willed them to come so that she could be relieved of some of her pain. It was several months after her daughter’s passing and she still felt the loss freshly.
Melanie picked up the doll, the only toy of Ella’s that she dared move. It had been Ella’s hospital companion, accompanying her to each new hospital and into every surgery. When chemotherapy began to take Ella’s hair, she was gifted with a crocheted doll that, like her, had no hair. Ella had adored the doll, who she named Dory. Melanie often took the doll, holding and crying over it as if it were her sweet Ella, and she did just that now.
The door downstairs opened and closed, and Melanie understood that her husband was home. If having a child makes a couple grow closer, losing one makes them drift apart, thought Melanie. She doubted that Paul felt the loss of their child as deeply as she did, and she thus became closed off, believing that nobody had the capability of really knowing how deeply she felt Ella’s loss. She never caught Paul crying over Ella, or speaking of his sweet daughter. He hadn’t even set foot in his daughter’s room since she’d died, Melanie thought. What she didn’t know was that Paul spent his lunch break every day walking down to the cemetery where Ella was buried. Sometimes, he sat by her grave in silence and other times, he would speak to her about anything; he almost always brought her flowers.
Paul passed silently by Ella’s open door, a deep grief consuming him as he witnessed his wife sitting in the middle of the room, crying, with the doll clutched to her chest. He’d tried to alleviate her pain, but at each attempt, she just shrunk into her grief more and more, so much so that he stopped trying to help her. Though Paul had become somewhat frustrated with Melanie, he still loved her deeply and was afraid for her and for their marriage.
Today, though, he decided, would be different. He couldn’t keep ignoring her, trusting that she would heal her pain herself. He could feel the impending force on their marriage. If they kept avoiding each other, conversing as little as possible, he could foresee a separation. When Ella first got sick, he told his wife that they would get through it. The thing is, they both had hope that Ella would get better. Neither of them had been prepared for the reality of what had come. The woman Melanie was while Ella was alive varied greatly from the broken woman Paul now observed. With no daughter to appear strong for, Melanie had long since ceased to act it.
They had both rejoiced over the positive pregnancy test and had watched Ella grow in Melanie’s belly for months. When Melanie delivered the baby, neither parent would have been able to describe the intense amount of joy they both felt. On the day before each of Ella’s birthdays, Melanie wrote a letter to her little sunshine, all of which were meant to be opened on her daughter’s eighteenth birthday; now, their fate would be to sit in their box, never to be read by a bright young adolescent as they were meant to be. Paul watched Melanie suck in a long sobbing breath. All at once, he was overcome with powerful compassion for his wife, who had lost the little human who she had made so many plans and dreams for.
Though Paul normally came home from work exhausted, showered, and went straight to bed, he realized that he never should have stopped being there for his wife, who needed love more than ever now. He entered the room, which had honestly frightened him more than he wished to tell anyone. Melanie felt his footsteps against the floorboards and froze. She couldn’t believe that her husband had finally entered the room that he’d avoided for so many months. Paul hesitantly crouched down and wrapped his arms around Melanie, hoping and praying that she would not withdraw this time.
Melanie let out another sob, pain overcoming her whole being, and stiffened at the feel of her husband’s arms around her trembling body. A hug was something that she had been used to and had even loved prior to Ella’s death. Right after Ella died, the simple gesture of affection had seemed wrong. Now, however, it felt right. A realization came over her mind at that moment. She needed him, and couldn’t fight through the pain on her own. She relaxed, turned around, and wrapped her arms around her husband. A feeling of peace came over both of them.
“I’m sorry,” Melanie whispered. Such words had not formed in her lips since she’d said them to Ella on her deathbed. But now Melanie believed them a necessity.
“We’ll get through it,” said Paul. “Together.”
Melanie had rarely thought of that possibility. Of living on happily without Ella. Before this moment, she felt like it would be wrong to go on with a vital part of their lives, their daughter, gone. She hadn’t wanted to move on because she thought that it would mean forgetting Ella. Now, though, she felt like “getting through it” was the only way to honor her daughter’s life.
Though she didn’t fully understand it at that moment, Melanie would go on to find happiness again. Though it was happiness tainted with her previous sorrow, the memory of a grief so heavy that she had almost allowed it to overtake her made her grateful for every day that she was given. There came a time when Melanie allowed herself to look back at the time Ella walked the earth with a thankful heart. There came a time when Melanie and Paul were able to speak of their daughter again, and when two more little blessings came into their lives. Somehow, they had gotten through it. Together, Melanie recollected, years later.
I don’t know where I am. I’m lost. Trees, stars, water, cold, alone, scared. My mind exhausted like my body tries to search for something. Phone? Dead. Yell? Nobody’s here. Keep looking? Tired.
Way too tired. I sit down with my back against scratchy wood. I know it should hurt, but I feel numb. Too tired to feel anything. I just want to go into my bed and fall asleep. Oh wait, I don't have a bed anymore. Mother dearest kicked me out after my dad died.
My dad died. I feel hollow inside. My heart breaks little by little as I run the course of events from the past two days.
I got a call from the hospital two days ago. My father had a heart attack. He didn’t make it. I cried, and no one else was there, not my brother nor my mother. He was someone I looked up to. We had a complicated relationship, but we loved each other.
My mother hated me. I was a burden on both of them, she said. Charlie, my brother hated me too. Or so he claimed. I don’t believe it, I believe that he doesn’t know why our parents acted how they did. I am only 16 and my mother kicked me out the second she heard that my dad died.
Things were going bad for the marriage ever since I can remember. Fighting 24/7. Well I only remember 6 and up. Everything before that is locked is what the doctor said. He said it might be my brain trying to forget something traumatic. Anyways, they had Charlie when I was 4. Mom claimed him, dad claimed me. They danced around each other, pretending the other didn’t exist.
My dad found out she cheated and had Charlie, but he stayed with her and raised him as his own. Though my dad did stuff from afar with him. Keeping their unspoken rule that I was his and Charlie was moms.
Well after my dad died I got a call saying that my mom was claiming everything I owned and kicked me out the house. She said because she didn’t want to see me I could keep the clothes on my back and my phone.
She inherited everything of my dads stuff, the mansion, the paintings, and the hundreds of millions of dollars.
My dad didn’t have a will since he was healthy and was only 37. I know we didn’t get along, but with the millions she had after he passed away you would think she would give her only daughter some money to at least get an apartment. I was being chased by paparazzi and so I went to my hiding spot in the woods, but got lost when I heard a wolf too close for closure. I’m by a creek and it’s raining and all you can see is trees.
I’m aware of a voice, but I’m too tired to register it. I doze off and I have a crazy dream about wizards and dragons like when I was 6. I was convinced they were real.
I wake up and it’s hot. Way too hot. Like I’m burning, but it isn’t painful. I open my eyes, but everything it’s too dizzy to see anything. Finally my vision clears. There are so many people Wait is that a dragon?!
I must be hallucinating. I rub my eyes. Nope still there. I know I’m not dreaming because the burning pain in my back is pretty real. I figured out that it’s hot because there was a dragon above me breathing its hot air. Glad it wasn't fire though.
I look around in awe. At close examination I notice how some have long ears and I mean long. Elves I presume. I see staffs and people floating around. Flying cars, some people going as fast as cars, someone just kicked a tree down for god’s sake.
This is a dream come true for 6 year old me. I don’t know where I am. Might seem crazy, but it feels familiar. I mean I’m obviously not in Washington DC. I’m outside and it’s light out so I assume it is day time or maybe the sun is always out, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing here for sure. There are people bustling around. Looks like a market you would see in a fantasy world.
Nothing looks familiar. I was under a cliff where the dragon slept. I got up and wandered around. I could read the writing and understand the language, but I knew that was not English. I passed a mirror and noticed for the first time that I was wearing something really pretty. I noticed I was in different clothes, but not what I was in. It is a white flowy dress that matches my white shoes. The dress stops above my knees and the straps of the dress tie like cute bows on my shoulder. I look tan and my cheeks are tinted pink. My long chestnut hair comes spilling down my back. I blink a couple of times wondering why I actually look… nice? I hear someone call my name.
“Iris,” someone shouts. A guy, I note. Should I turn around? I know that I have never heard that voice before. Or have I? He’s not familiar. Or is he? I should run away. And yet for some reason when I heard that voice I wanted to run towards it, not away from it. Who is he?
He grabs my wrist, his hand wrapping around it completely. How big is his hand? “Iris,” he sounds relieved, “I found you.” He tries to pull me into a hug. Instead I stumble into him, but push away before he can hug me.
“Do I know you?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t talk to strangers, but he doesn’t feel like one.
“You don’t remember me?” He sounds…hurt?
“No?”
“It’s me Luke.” He says, like I should know him. Should I know him? He knows me.
“Wow, they were right,” he mumbles to himself where I barely catch it.
“Who was right? What’s going on, what is this place?” I ask a little more panicky than I would have liked. I never liked showing that I was anything but calm. It’s a weakness. Something someone can use against you.
“Nevermind, follow me.” I didn’t know him, but I trusted him. Why? What is going on? We arrived at a huge castle, and walked inside.
The castle. A man. Scared. Running. Falling. Stairs. So many stairs. Hurts. It hurts so much.
I fall to my knees because my head is pounding with intruding memories/ “Iris! Iris what’s wrong! MOM, DAD!!” I heard a bunch of people, a lot of noise, someone was crying. Oh wait, maybe it was me. I don’t know.
I fell unconscious.
Dark, so dark. Where is everybody? Wait, where am I? I hear laughing. I turn around and see kids playing, a little girl and boy. It changes before I can tell who they are. What is this? There’s a man. “Someone, someone help her. He’s chasing her!” I run at them, but I’m not getting anywhere. He cornered her in the castle. “Wait! The stairs! You're going to–” she falls. He tries to run away; someone catches him. And then it ends. I woke up.
A bunch of people crowd me. I recognize them. Mom, dad. Luke. How did I forget him? How could I forget my real parents?
I remember this place. This room, this castle, my home. Luke is holding my hand asleep and my parents are discussing with someone familiar. Is that Dr. Cullins? I met him a lot because I was always getting hurt when I was little.
“Iris?” My parents say in unison.
“Mom, dad,” I'm tearing up. I’m with my real parents, with Luke, my best friend. They tell me what happened after that man tried to hurt me. They say they had to give me up to protect me because I forgot everything. They say they gave them their hundreds of millions, so I could live a good life until it was time to bring me back. Told me that my mother who didn’t like me, Amy, had a grudge because after becoming rich my ‘dad’ changed. It all makes sense now. Why she didn’t like me, why he chose me, why Charlie didn’t like me. Because my ‘dad’ didn’t pay as much attention to him openly, like me. They said my dad wasn’t as great as he seemed. That he did love me, but because of the money. Everything was built off a lie. However, I don’t seem to care. I’m back where I was meant to be. I ask about Charlie and they say everyone back home forgot me. That my place is here, and I agree. I’m happy here and they are happy there. That’s all I wanted. A home. A family. A friend.
Stella always wanted to fall in love with her “male lead.” Ruth always wanted to have a career she loved and others would envy. Both my best friends had their expectations and they both were on their path to it. Stella had an amazing boyfriend and Ruth already had multiple jobs wanting her.
While I remain stuck. Yeah, maybe I can get a job that I’m good at and get a boyfriend that will support me, but that’s not what I want. I want to feel alive. I just don’t know how to do that.
“Get out of the way Hazel,” Chase said.
“What?” I responded. I never liked Chase. We are next door neighbors, and always have the same classes. I swear the universe hated me. “Maybe you shouldn’t be in my way,” I retorted. He’s so cocky like everyone will bend over backwards for him.
“Okay, Hazel Brown.” Yep. My name is Hazel Brown. Not to mention I have straight hazel brown hair and eyes. I don’t know why my mom thought Oh let’s name her Hazel, so everyone, especially Chase, can make fun of her. “You’re in my parking space. Wait, were you waiting for me?” he said, sounding way too smug. I swear his ego is bigger than him. All 6’1 of him. He towers over me. I'm 5’6 myself.
Chase has golden hair, and hazel brown eyes. Which is annoying when people make the connection between us because there should be no connection between us. None. “This is not your parking spot. I don’t see your name on it,” I said, but he smirked in reply. Wait, he wouldn’t put his name on it would he?
“Well, you're actually standing on my name. So if we are going by that logic, it’s mine. Which means I would like you to go unless you have something to say.” Vandalizing? What is his problem? He could get in trouble for this, but he acts like this all is a game.
I lift my foot and instead of seeing his name I see… absolutely nothing. Then he bursts out laughing like I’m a complete moron. His curly golden hair shakes with every movement. “Di-Did you really think-” He laughs, cutting himself off. “Did you seriously think that my name would be there? That I would risk getting charged just for this situation.” He asked, looking at me in the eyes, while he wiped his tears.
He parked and got out of the car after I had moved.
“Yes I did. However, I was honestly surprised that you weren’t dumb enough to do that. Either way this parking spot isn’t yours also I did come here to talk to you.” I said, matter of factly. I don’t remember him getting this close, I take a step back, needing to separate myself from him.
“Wow, what a surprise. Let me guess, here to do work. It’s literally Sunday, the day of rest. You never come here to have fun.” He said, like we were friends. A jerk like him wouldn’t understand me or my problems. He took a step forward.
“Not everyone can waste their time fooling around. I need to do well on this paper. It's worth half our grade. I can do your work because I don’t trust you to not mess up. You can go fool around while I work and it’s a win-win.” He can’t say no to that it’s a free A. I took a step back.
“Well, maybe I don’t trust you to not sabotage me. We can do it together, later.” He said while I backed up into a building, beside the parking spot and he stepped closer to me, where he was right in my face. He smelled like a forest with a lingering smell of rain.
“Why would I sabotage you? It would only make me suffer. I don’t have time later because I have a job. Some people have responsibilities. So just let me do it.” I sounded nothing like myself. But that’s what I was when I was with him: Not myself.
“Okay fine.” Faster than I would have thought. Thank god, now I can just- “But there’s something you have to do. Then we can do it together, today.
“What, why? What would I even need to do?” If I don’t do it I’ll fail and then I won’t get into the college I want, since it is literally half our ELA grade.
“Calm down,” he replied, like it was no big deal to him. “All we are going to do is go out. It wouldn’t hurt to smile. You used to do it all the time. And we’ll get it done tonight. Promise.” Okay. Fine. I’ll just get it done with.
I don’t know what happened, all I said was “Okay. Fine.” Now I’m spending time with people in the town, helping out. Is this his fun? I thought it would be extreme like I don’t know, parties, vandalizing stuff, and maybe stealing stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying myself. No standards. No worries. I feel free.
“Come here darling,” Chase said, calling me darling after all the elders thought we were dating. He said What, you wanna break their hearts? I didn’t know what to do. But I’m surprised he was okay with it. I’m finding out about this new side of me (and him). This is honestly the happiest I’ve been in a while.
“What?” I asked, dragging the word out. I have a genuine smile which is an old, familiar feeling. Of course I smile around my friends and I know how to joke around. But in the back of my mind I’m always thinking about what to do, never enjoying the moment, but right now I’m here. In the moment, and it feels great.
“Are you feeling better? You seem to be smiling a lot more now.” Yes, I feel great. This is what I needed.
“Thank you,” I said in a hushed whisper, almost like I was scared he’d hear me. “What was that?” A smug expression plastered across his face. I never noticed how real he was. Yeah he’s got an ego, but I think it’s all just an act. Waiting for someone to see through it, like he saw through me.
“You heard me. Let's go, we still have to do the paper for ELA.” I said while walking towards him and the truck, but I tripped over the gravel and fell into his arms. “Oh..uh thanks,” I said, trying to get out of his arms and not touch the muscles on his chest and arms. Which was impossible.
“Can you… let go of me?” I said my heart was sounding louder and louder like it was trying to announce its presence to the world.
“I can hear your heartbeat. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I was, like, worried, you know? About falling. It would hurt.” I was completely mortified at how much of a moron I was.
“Yeah, well you're okay. Hop in,” He said as he went to the other side of the car and got in.
When we arrived at my house I realized how much time went by. My mom expected me to be home in 30 minutes.
“Well, I already did almost all of it yesterday, and you did yours, so we just got to add them together,” he said, like it was no big deal.
“You got it done? Why didn’t you tell me?” I was willing myself to be mad, but I wasn’t, and he knew that.
“Well, that would be no fun would it.” He had a smile on his face that gave me butterflies. Butterflies? For Chase? No, no way.
“Why don’t we go in, so we can finish it up real quick.”
I was supposed to be home at 9:30.
My mom called me the night of the project. Or should I say spammed called me. 8 calls and 4 texts. I fell asleep after doing the project. Chase answered the phone and explained what happened. Being as though my mom and his mom were best friends, she didn’t care. No, more like she was so happy because she practically wants me to marry him and have three kids with him.
That was a whole month ago, now I’m in Chase’s car.
Ever since that night he’s taken me to work and school because my car broke down. Luck is never on my side. We’ve gotten really close like we were always friends. I’m not gonna lie and say that I don’t feel butterflies when I’m with him because I do.
Major. Big. Butterflies.
I once thought that Chase made me act like someone I’m not, but it’s the opposite. He makes me feel like me. Someone I forgot about. Someone I didn’t recognize. And she is so much happier than the shell of myself I was. Now I’m actually living, and not just going through the motions.
“Water was running rapidly. Mom, Dad, Han, and I were smiling. Cool breeze, night time. It was the absolute perfect night. Not just the night, it was the perfect time period, when life was worryless without loss, pain, and grief. The things I would do to go back to that time are endless. Endless, and impossible. As I live in the dreadful presence, I reminisce on the good times. Reminiscing though, brings hatred. Hatred to my mother for tearing our family apart over a human. As a vampire, our emotions are strongly heightened. So every time my mother, Loreli, would try to re-enter mine and Han’s life she was denied. As I look back at the many times I refused my mother’s plead I now feel guilt. Why? Is a good question. Which I don’t know. Maybe it's because I'm friends with him, maybe it's because I know we have good times together. Or maybe, I love a human as well as my mother did.
My circle is small and tight. My biggest fear is loss, and not only have I entered the trail of loss, I’m still walking it. Not to make it seem like my life is a depression hole, but I think the worst of every situation. Do I like him, or do I love him? I don't know. It doesn't matter either. No matter what, I can't open up. I can't hurt what's left of my family. I can’t let anyone else in. And I especially cannot become my mother, just for a human.
In Dawnstar where I was born and raised, the scenery is small and peaceful. Until you run into a clan of vampires that suck your blood dry. It's a wonder the town council has yet to discover Dawnstar is run by vampires, and has been for as long as anyone can remember. So not only can I not accept my love for a human, but I also can't reveal my identity to anyone. That's where my mother went wrong, she loved so hard she got herself killed. She opened up about what she really was, and it led to her being nothing at all. Immortality is a gift to all vampires, but it can be taken away by the human cure or getting daggered with an original Morthal stick. Anyways, that's my rant after the beginning of my junior year.” -August 17th, 1978
It’s currently dark so I’m sure my brother and aunt are wide awake. Since I’m supposed to act as “human”, I try to have a normal sleep schedule. My brother on the other hand doesn’t care. I love him, and I love my aunt, but they're so careless when it comes to anyone but themselves. Obviously they do care about me and their family, but sometimes in our house I feel like I’m not even here. I miss my father. He always made my presence feel worthy, like I was his everything. His whole world. I feel like I was his whole world at one point, along with my mom and brother. Until she left, he stopped caring, and I stayed. When she left my dad felt like his whole world was brought down, taking me and Han along with it. It sucks knowing our mother was the foundation to this family. Now knowing my dad tries to fill the void with other heartless vampires that he’ll never really love, just vibe along with his time until he loses his interest. It also sucks knowing I wasn’t enough to keep my dad to stay here in Dawnstar.
“As time has passed, I’ve begun to understand my mother. I know it doesn't make sense. It was like once upon a time she was my mother who I adored, then she became the person I despised, and now she is the person that I’m becoming. I feel like a hypocrite. I am a hypocrite. I know the difference between right and wrong, knowing the decisions I’m choosing aren’t the right ones. But somewhere, within the dark, cold heart I have, it feels right. Him and I have encountered some, we’ve even gotten to know each other a lot in a short amount of time. My presence to my family is becoming less, which they don’t notice. So I guess it doesn’t matter.
I think maybe my mom left because she feels the same as I do now. Invisible. He makes me feel seen. I just don’t understand why my mother would have felt like that around her own children and considering my father also adored her. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Or maybe it was enough, but she had the chance to have more. And sometimes, the uncertainty of ‘more’ pushes away any resistance. Anyways, that’s my jumbled emotions for now.” -September 6th, 1978
“As day’s pass, my feelings increase. They increase in different directions. I know my choices and my consequences, I know the risks. But, honestly, I don’t care what I’m risking. I’m going to choose myself this one time. I’ll just leave my family if they don’t approve, making my existence a little less visible. It’s not like they’ll notice.” - January 18th, 1979
“January 18th, 1979. Man. What a beginning of a year that was. The day my human was killed. A little backstory, on my way to make my decision and choose a guy over my family, my father got there first. He made my decision for me, by killing the human I thought I was intensely loved by. Turns out my father had come home and read my diary when I wasn’t near. He did some spying, and found out the human I was going to reveal my identity to wasn’t the person I thought he was at all. He was a part of a werewolf pack, knowing what I was, trying to lure me in to kill me and receive my vampire blood. I was heartbroken for a while, then processed the most valuable lesson I will now forever live by: Choose your family over anyone else. The fact I almost jeopardized my family's existence over someone I hardly even knew haunts me every time I choose to make a decision.
My dad, Han, and I are now tighter than ever. We moved away from Dawnstar, leaving my aunt to rule there. We travel the world around us, making new memories. I thought I’d never be able to cherish another happy memory, but I am, and I do almost everyday. So, to my future self that will read this, remember family is the greatest gift, and never become your mother.” -June 27th, 1999

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