A cry came from the bathroom. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Footsteps on the stairs, someone was knocking on the door. I lifted my head. The bathroom light was on, I could see it from crack of the door not completely closed. Another cry from the small room. A mumbled question from outside the door. I hear another sound from the bathroom.
"Michelle are you okay?"
"I think my water broke."
**
We drove too fast. Jill, the neighbor from upstairs, was nervous about delivering a baby in the car. The streetlights flashed by like a strobe from the clubs, I really didn't want to see what was happening in the back seat. Michelle was making noises that scared me and worried Jill even more about the seatcovers.
Finally pulling up to the large ER doors, I could see lots of people wandering around, it looked like a full house. I hoped they had an express line like at the grocery store.
**
"I'm sorry you will have to wait here."
"If she can't go in with me, then I will have this baby in the lobby"
Michelle wasn't someone to mess with when she was on a mission. Today's mission? Deliver a happy, healthy baby, with her best friend, roomate, and labor coach by her side (regardless that her friend was only 18 and looked about 12) The nurse took another look at my nervous face and turned around to push the wheelchair. I imagined kicking her in the butt, I hated when people looked down at me because I was young and looked even younger. Just wait 20 years you ol' witch, I'll still look 20 and you'll look over 100.
**
"Push! Okay, stop, now breathe. Now push again!"
Crying. We were all crying. I was crying because I think all of the bones in my hand were broken. Michelle was crying because her body had just done something that defied all laws and was a miracle at the same time. The baby was crying - well he was crying because that's what babies do when they are born. I looked at Michelle just when she looked over at me.
"What did you decide on for a name?" I wondered because she had changed her mind a dozen times.
She started laughing, tears still in her eyes, "I have no idea."
Friday, October 29, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Week #8 Prompts
Horns blare, tires screech - the city is awake even this early in the morning. Lights - green, red, yellow, white, blue - flicker, blink, and glare across the rain slicked streets. Cars rush by, racing to where they need to go. No one is wandering the street, absently thinking of what they want to do today, where they want to go. Everyone is moving with purpose, knowing just where they need to get to and getting there as efficiently as possible.
Sturdy business shoes clomp through the little puddles, high heels skirt the edges, and the rare galoshes ignore them completely. I look down at the puddle by my sneaker-clad feet, there is a leaf floating in it. Small and green, full of life, it floats in the little pool of water. Reminding me of the stream by my old house, where you could sit all day watching the leaves, branches, and flowers floating by. It was quiet there, not like the city with all the hustle and bustle, blinking and crashing, talking and yelling.
Quickly, before the next set of clomping shoes came by, I reached down and picked up the leaf. I put it in my pocket and headed up the street - looking up at the sky wondering if it was going to rain again.
No one was talking. United in solidarity, the three of them sat in complete silence. Largest to smallest down the line, they awaited their sentence. They were a sorry group to look at, splattered with mud.
The first looked bored, sporting a long scratch down the side of his face. It just beginning to redden, dotted slightly with blood. His red hair stood up in random spikes on his head, ends colored dark, like a bad dye job. His clothes were mussed, grass stains evident on both knees of his dark wash jeans. The laces of his untied boots were just grey clumps beside his feet, looking like dead worms.
The next suspect sat motionless, as if any move would trigger a reaction, looking carefully to either side waiting for the danger to pass. Mud slowly oozed down his forehead, dangerously close to his eye. He twitched, not sure if it was safe enough to wipe it away, or just suffer the tickling itch as it moved closer and closer. His red tshirt sported a ragged gape which exposed his thin chest and his thrumming heart, erasing the mask of quiet and calm. He was missing a shoe, the remaining sock was grey with the same mud from his forehead. It didn't matter much, it didn't match his other sock anyway.
The smallest of the three fidgeted, as if to worm her way into the background and escape notice. Her look showed indecision, stand brave or give way to tears in some hope for sympathy and lienency. The glasses perched on her nose were smeared with the mud as well, nearly blocking her vision entirely. Her hair, long and blond, had escaped the elastic holding it away from her face. One long section dripped onto her shoulder, making a dark spot on the only clean section of her once-blue shirt. Her hands were red and chapped, mud and dirt beneath her nails could be clearly seen even through the bright polish. Her bare feet left prints on the floor, each contour of her foot outlined neatly in grey against the white tile in front of her.
I took a deep breath. All eyes snapped to mine, wary and expectant. Sentencing time had come.
No one understood. I watched as the people climbed out of their cars. Women's heels clicked on the pavement, men stood patiently by. Everyone walked in pairs or small groups, one man waited on the edge of the grass. He joined the pair that reached him first, he didn't want to walk up the small hill alone. I stood motionless near the parked cars. It was quiet here, the murmuring of condolences was drowned out by the wind through the trees lining the small road. I wanted to laugh, what a sorry picture this made and what crazy jokes would he have made about this whole production. He would have made me laugh, if he had been here.
Theme Week #8
He called to say he was going to be out of work a little late. That's okay because she was late to start on dinner. Escaping from coloring with her son she noticed the clock and realized she had exactly 20 minutes to make the "home cooked" meal she had promised that morning. They had both agreed that it would be nice to have something that wasn't fresh out of a box with preprinted directions for dinner, and she had forgotten. Groaning, she got up from the floor, promising her son, before he could start complaining, that he could watch Sesame Street until she came back. Heading into the kitchen she mentally ran down the list of things that she could make with the defrosted chicken that could be considered "homemade" without a recipe.
Struck with inspiration, she grabbed a pot, filled it with hot water, and placed it on the stove. Taking the chicken out, she heard the echos of "Sunny Days" coming from the living room. Humming along she sliced the chicken, put it in a bowl and dumped some marinade on it. Then she waited, watching the pot, waiting for it to boil. She dumped the rice in as it began to bubble and got the skillet for the chicken, snagging a bag of veggies from the frezer along the way. She glanced at the clock, he should be home any minute, but the rice will be at least 15. Maybe he will hit traffic on the way. She hated to be rushing around when he got home, when all she wanted to do was relax with him for a few minutes. She heard the car, the rice was boiling along, the chicken was sizzling in the pan, and the veggies were waiting patiently for their turn. Damn, so close to being done, just 5 more minutes.
The cry from the living room distracted her, rushing in, she found no one murdered but that Sesame was over. Turning back to the kitchen she saw the door open and he walked in. Looking past him she could see the rice boiling over and the chicken starting to give off smoke. She smiled at him and started to say how nice it was to see him as she headed toward the stove, but at that same moment he took an ungainly step towards her and kneeled down on one knee - and landed directly on her bare foot. She screeched and jumped back, rescuing her toe from his workboots and glared down at him. With a rather sheepish smile on his face, he held up a box to her, "Should I say I'm sorry or ask you to marry me first?"
Struck with inspiration, she grabbed a pot, filled it with hot water, and placed it on the stove. Taking the chicken out, she heard the echos of "Sunny Days" coming from the living room. Humming along she sliced the chicken, put it in a bowl and dumped some marinade on it. Then she waited, watching the pot, waiting for it to boil. She dumped the rice in as it began to bubble and got the skillet for the chicken, snagging a bag of veggies from the frezer along the way. She glanced at the clock, he should be home any minute, but the rice will be at least 15. Maybe he will hit traffic on the way. She hated to be rushing around when he got home, when all she wanted to do was relax with him for a few minutes. She heard the car, the rice was boiling along, the chicken was sizzling in the pan, and the veggies were waiting patiently for their turn. Damn, so close to being done, just 5 more minutes.
The cry from the living room distracted her, rushing in, she found no one murdered but that Sesame was over. Turning back to the kitchen she saw the door open and he walked in. Looking past him she could see the rice boiling over and the chicken starting to give off smoke. She smiled at him and started to say how nice it was to see him as she headed toward the stove, but at that same moment he took an ungainly step towards her and kneeled down on one knee - and landed directly on her bare foot. She screeched and jumped back, rescuing her toe from his workboots and glared down at him. With a rather sheepish smile on his face, he held up a box to her, "Should I say I'm sorry or ask you to marry me first?"
Monday, October 18, 2010
Theme Week #7
He is all of the cliches - apple of his mommy's eye, a chip off the 'ol block, the spitting image of his dad, a cheerful roly poly kid, poke his tummy and hear him giggle like the Pilsbury doughboy - all of that. But he is more than that - bigger, broader, deeper. He is also a Label. This Label is Autism. The kind of Label that requires a Capital letter, to put that extra Oomph into it.
He walks into the room cheerful enough, humming to the tune that happens to pop into his head or reciting his inventory of tv commercial jingles and catch-phrases. Not looking left or right, he goes to the computer. He looks expectantly at the screen, it's turned off, just a square of black looks back at him - and all hell breaks loose. Knocking over the chair, flopping on the floor, flailing his legs wildly - it's Autism.
Happily chattering away, he pushes the grocery cart down the aisles, steered descretely by Mom holding onto the edge of the handle. Stopping now and then as he sees items that he remembers from the kitchen at home, he grabs a box and carelessly chucks it into the cart, regardless of the fragile eggs or bananas inside. At the next stop Mom takes the box back out and places it on the nearest shelf - sorry Mr. Stockboy, it's Autism.
At the doctor's office there are great new toys to look at. He doesn't play with them because the other kids in the office are over there playing with them, and he doesn't like to play with other kids. He sits and bounces in his seat in the waiting room by his patient little sister. She is reading him a book, he is not interested or paying any attention, but she is determined to keep him "occ-ah-pied" while they wait. Mom reminds him that after they see the doctor they will stop for a juice at the store - doctor's first, then juice at the store. He repeats it like a mantra, "doctor's First! then Juice! at the Store!" The nurse comes out of the special door just for nurses, and calls out a name. Not his name - not his turn - not happy. He yells his disappointment, screams really, and recites (for everyone who wasn't paying attention) "Doctor's FIRST! Then JUICE! At The STORE!" His sister looks at the startled faces of the other kids who stopped playing, and tells them "It's ok, he has Aud-a-tis-um."
He walks into the room cheerful enough, humming to the tune that happens to pop into his head or reciting his inventory of tv commercial jingles and catch-phrases. Not looking left or right, he goes to the computer. He looks expectantly at the screen, it's turned off, just a square of black looks back at him - and all hell breaks loose. Knocking over the chair, flopping on the floor, flailing his legs wildly - it's Autism.
Happily chattering away, he pushes the grocery cart down the aisles, steered descretely by Mom holding onto the edge of the handle. Stopping now and then as he sees items that he remembers from the kitchen at home, he grabs a box and carelessly chucks it into the cart, regardless of the fragile eggs or bananas inside. At the next stop Mom takes the box back out and places it on the nearest shelf - sorry Mr. Stockboy, it's Autism.
At the doctor's office there are great new toys to look at. He doesn't play with them because the other kids in the office are over there playing with them, and he doesn't like to play with other kids. He sits and bounces in his seat in the waiting room by his patient little sister. She is reading him a book, he is not interested or paying any attention, but she is determined to keep him "occ-ah-pied" while they wait. Mom reminds him that after they see the doctor they will stop for a juice at the store - doctor's first, then juice at the store. He repeats it like a mantra, "doctor's First! then Juice! at the Store!" The nurse comes out of the special door just for nurses, and calls out a name. Not his name - not his turn - not happy. He yells his disappointment, screams really, and recites (for everyone who wasn't paying attention) "Doctor's FIRST! Then JUICE! At The STORE!" His sister looks at the startled faces of the other kids who stopped playing, and tells them "It's ok, he has Aud-a-tis-um."
Week #7 Prompts
As I sat flipping through old pictures, I wondered again if I could possibly get all of them organized. A small pile of photo boxes and new albums stood ready by my side should I attempt the impossible. Today I would settle for getting rid of this beaten up shoebox and putting the photos in something sturdier. I saw one last picture, way in the back, stuck in the seam of the box, perhaps trying to hide from me.
I pulled it out carefully so as not to tear the edge or bend the picture. Flipping it over, I saw three faces smiling up at me. I wasn't fooled by the two bland smiles in the background anymore.
The little face in the front with the smile framing two brand new teeth was innocent enough. Drool was just beginning to form at the corner of the upturned mouth. Sparkling blue eyes twinkled as the photographer danced and sang to get his attention. Small children have that gift, they don't have to like what they are looking at to make it look like they do. They are so entranced by anything new that it is wonderous to them. Certainly this face radiated life and promise enough to overshadow the faces behind it.
The other faces, his and hers, both wearing masks with a smile painted on, hovered above the smaller one. They were good masks, but time had made them transparent. The dark wavy hair of his head no longer seemed handsome and carefree - it was pretentious and calculated. The lock hanging over his eyes didn't lend that air of innocence it used to, now it was menacing. The shadow over his eyes almost made it possible to overlook the measuring glare that beamed from them.
Her mask was in place as well, but just as transparent as his. The brassy blond hair tried to look expensive and elegant, but it was just overcolored and overworked, not flattering to her too pale complection. The glint of her earrings didn't make her sparkle, but made her seem even more bland and drained. The wide eyes looked out to pay attention to everything that was going on, to everything that she was supposed to be doing or not doing. There was no smile in those eyes, just a timidness that makes you wonder what she was worried about. The too-red smile was too tense, stretched across her face in response to request, not any actual feeling.
The masks didn't come close to the cheerful caption of "Happy Holidays" across the bottom of the photo. There was no 'Happy' here, it was not a 'Holiday' by any means.
Holding the photo, I looked at the neat stack of pictures destined for the new photo box, where they would be safe and secure. Looking at it one more time, I reached out for the shoebox and carefully, so as not to tear the edge or bend the picture, I put it back where it was before - in the back, stuck in the crease of the worn out shoebox. I slowly placed the lid back on top, leaving the lying masks in the dark.
I have a picture in my mind of a small girl, bouncing down the sidewalk. Her small hand reached up and was swallowed up by a much larger one. Looking up, and up, and up.. she smiled at her granfather's face.
That was me, me and my grampa. I can close my eyes and see a picture of that day, that moment - even though no such picture exists. His face is the first real memory that I can actually sit and remember. I can see the crinkles around his eyes as he smiled down at me. I can feel the leathery skin of his hand surrounding mine, the origin of my thought that warm's color was brown, like his hands. And his strong arms that stretched up and up and up, almost longer than I was tall at the time. He was the opposite to my ivory skin and smooth face - but I wanted to grow up to be just like him.
I'm still short, and I can't get a tan to save my life. But I can close my eyes, and deep down inside, I am still reaching up, holding his hand, wishing to grow up just like him.
Michelle Peters
I wonder where you ended up? How two girls with nothing in common managed to be friends is one of life's mysteries. I thought of you the other day as I sighed - again - about my dead straight hair, and the fights we had about how I thought your unruly curls were much more preferrable. Did you ever really shave your head one frustrated morning?
Kathy Wysocki
Do you know the impression that you made on those young girls? Do you remember the tactful discussions about appropriate wardrobe choices for interviews? Do you remember the girl that wore the strech-pant leggings and t-shirt anyway, and still got the job? You said I was lucky they saw what I was made of on the inside. I remember that everyday, it has gotten me through a lot.
Edwin Hahn III
I kept a teddy bear to remind me of you for years after our friendship faded away. Time and circumstances would have made things turn out very different between the two of us, I think. I'll never forget that waterfall we all hiked to, did you ever go back to find your hat?
Week #6 Prompts
It was a bad day. It was actually one of those days that my mom and I would talk about call a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" (one of my favorite children's books by Judith Viorst). But luckily, I was heading home and I knew that my day would be getting better. When I walked in the house, the stress headache pounding to the rhythm of my steps the kids all yelled "Mom's home." It was nice to get such a great reception by my headache kicked up another notch on the pain scale. I knew exactly what I needed to make this day go away. I headed into the kitchen. Hubby was standing by the stove nervously prodding the contents of the pan. I knew that he hated to cook something outside of the realm of boxes with directions printed on them, but he was gamely giving it a shot. He glanced at me as I walked in the room. The look on my face told the tale of my day, and I suppose that he knew what I was looking for, since he turned down the heat on the stove and walked toward me, arms open wide for me to step into.
The world ceased to exist once his arms closed around me. I felt their warmth through my jacket, soaking into my stress-knotted muscles of my back and shoulders. I leaned my cheek against his t-shirt covered chest, a warm cotton wall in front of my face. The only noise reaching my ears was the steady thump of his heart, a metronome to steady my own racing pulse. Standing here, in his arms, burying my head, there were no phones ringing, no crazy or reckless drivers to avoid, no arguements, bills, kids, worries, cares... just me and him. This was my favorite place, the place where it was just he and I, where the world could not touch us. Where the rhythm of our heartbeats were the only sound.
The tall grass swished against my legs as I walked. Past the barn and down the fenceline I went, to the swimming hole where I spent most of my childhood summer days. The trees leaned to the side right where I remembered and I slipped past the gnarled trunks as I had so many times long ago.
The edge of the stream was lined with smooth rocks still, the sun changing them from brown and black to bronze and gold. The water was still cool and dark though. A startled gasp escaped my lips as I dove in, cutting beneath the surface and popping up near the big old tree. The tree was smaller too, I could almost reach the branches that hung over the water. The branches that shaded the beach from the afternoon heat. Wasn't the beach bigger then? There was the depression in the rocks where we built our campfires, once we were old enough to convince our parents that we could stay out after dark. Maybe that was why I still loved grilled hotdogs, and yet couldn't stand the sight of a boiled one. It's amazing that we didn't give ourselves food poisoning, since anything we could stab with a stick was fair game for campfire dinner.
Jutting out into the stream, just as I remembered, was the long flat rock where we would lay after swimming. How many times has I sat there feeling the sun-warmed granite beneath me? It wasn't quite a big as it used to be, certainly not big enough for me to stretch out completely upon it. Looking upstream and downstream the familiar boughs of much larger trees arched over the stream like a curtain of green. The stream might not even exist past those boundaries, but it was still here, in the same place where I stumbled upon it so many years ago.
It was the one place where I had gone from my childhood that was exactly the same. This was a small bubble of my past, where nothing was new, shiny, or touched in any way by the dirty fingers of progress and modernization.
I didn't want to go to Germany. I didn't want to go because my ex-husband lived there. I didn't want to go because I was taking my oldest son with me to see my ex-husband, his biological father. I didn't want to go because I had not seen or heard from my ex in over 10 years until recently, and that was just fine with me. I didn't want to go because it was a million miles away from my family, my kids, my home. I didn't want to go because it was his home, his place, his territory.
I had heard all about how great it was, how old the buildings were. I had heard all about how nice the people were, since tourists were there all the time, and they didn't hate alll Americans on sight, mostly. I heard how great his house was, where we would be staying (what in the world was I thinking??), and much his wife was looking forward to meeting us.
I did some research, looked at books and websites to figure out a little about where I was going to be for a week. I saw pictures, and learned important phrases like "where is the bathroom" and "do you speak English?" I packed carefully for the weather, proposed to be chilly but without much snow, perfect weather for sight-seeing. I brought along every phone number that I could concievably need including the US Consulate, a couple of friends in Europe, and every country code within a hundred miles or so of Germany, just in case.
We landed just in time, just before I had completely decided to turn around and go back home. We collected our luggage and passed through multiple security and customs checkpoints, declaring again and again that we had nothing to declare. Finally escaping the maze of the international terminal of the airport, we walked out into the bleak cloudy day.
As we stepped outside, the sun peaked out from behind the clouds. The sun bounced off of the rough stone buildings, sparkling with ice. The passing train whooshed by, stirring up whirlwinds of dusty snow. The people chattered with a musical lilt as they passed us by. The open shops in the platz offered the aroma of delicious handmade baked goods and freshly ground coffee.
Looking around I spotted my ex standing near a petite blond woman. She stepped forward and offered her hand.
"I am so glad that you came."
This wasn't going to be at all like I thought.
Theme Week #6
As I opened the door, the fresh air enveloped me, welcoming me, pulling me out the door. As I stepped outside, the concrete was cool and surprisingly pleasant beneath my feet. Stretched before me was a vista of trees, plants, and wildlife - the porch I was standing on was the sideline to this playing field of squirrels and birds. The white columns to either side of the small steps down framed the scene as perfectly as any photographer. I walked quietly over to the end of the porch, navagating as smoothly as I could to avoid spilling my coffee. I skirted around the dog sculpture sitting near the first chair. Many a time had I tripped over the oddly shaped arms and legs, sticking out at strange and random angles. Certainly that must have been its only purpose, since it really only appeared to be an ugly, odd-ball, colored stack of metal straps and pieces - with dog ears and a tail. I moved valiantly onward, safely past the dog.
My favorite chair was sitting near the end of the porch. In the morning light, I could see that a couple of leaves had blown onto the weathered cushion. The fading floral print contrasted nicely with the bright orange and yellow leaves. The chair itself was an old one. No doubt a yard sale find, refurbished and repainted to be brought back to life, and perched here on the porch to invite someone, such as myself, to sit and enjoy a morning cup of coffee. It was some neutral color - tan or beige or perhaps faded white - nothing bright or gaudy like the neighboring dog or the overstuffed cushion. The wicker had broken loose in a few places and stuck out, ready to grab hold of a sleeve or strand of hair if the oppertunity presented itself. You could tell that it was well loved regardless, the paint was worn thin on the wide arms to show the darker color of the original wicker beneath. I brushed the leaves off of the seat, and looked carefully at the spider who was scurrying across the concrete floor near the legs of the chair. It continued safely past the chair and off the side of the porch into the bushes, not showing any sign of coming back and crawling up my own leg. The crinkling sound of the cushion and the creak of the wicker adjusting to my weight was lost in the chorus of birdcalls echoing across the yard.
Sipping my coffee I spied two blue jays chattering to each other, and the world, over their birdfeeder breakfast. A cardinal swooped in, rousing the jays to fly off to the nearby tree to finish their conversation. Small brown birds, swallows perhaps, darted here and there through the branches of the trees. Stopping for a moment at the feeder when the larger birds had flown away, then off to the bird bath for a drink, and then off again to another branch - all the while chirping and singing their own little song. A brave squirrel raced across the fallen leaves, trying once again, to scurry up the pole to the feeder. After an unsuccessful attempt or two, it relented and satisfied itself with the fallen seeds along the ground, then scurried back to the trees to chatter back at the birds. The chorus of nature echoed around me - no cars zooming by, no people talking - just the breeze blowing through the leaves of the tress, creating the background to the small performers on their stage.
My favorite chair was sitting near the end of the porch. In the morning light, I could see that a couple of leaves had blown onto the weathered cushion. The fading floral print contrasted nicely with the bright orange and yellow leaves. The chair itself was an old one. No doubt a yard sale find, refurbished and repainted to be brought back to life, and perched here on the porch to invite someone, such as myself, to sit and enjoy a morning cup of coffee. It was some neutral color - tan or beige or perhaps faded white - nothing bright or gaudy like the neighboring dog or the overstuffed cushion. The wicker had broken loose in a few places and stuck out, ready to grab hold of a sleeve or strand of hair if the oppertunity presented itself. You could tell that it was well loved regardless, the paint was worn thin on the wide arms to show the darker color of the original wicker beneath. I brushed the leaves off of the seat, and looked carefully at the spider who was scurrying across the concrete floor near the legs of the chair. It continued safely past the chair and off the side of the porch into the bushes, not showing any sign of coming back and crawling up my own leg. The crinkling sound of the cushion and the creak of the wicker adjusting to my weight was lost in the chorus of birdcalls echoing across the yard.
Sipping my coffee I spied two blue jays chattering to each other, and the world, over their birdfeeder breakfast. A cardinal swooped in, rousing the jays to fly off to the nearby tree to finish their conversation. Small brown birds, swallows perhaps, darted here and there through the branches of the trees. Stopping for a moment at the feeder when the larger birds had flown away, then off to the bird bath for a drink, and then off again to another branch - all the while chirping and singing their own little song. A brave squirrel raced across the fallen leaves, trying once again, to scurry up the pole to the feeder. After an unsuccessful attempt or two, it relented and satisfied itself with the fallen seeds along the ground, then scurried back to the trees to chatter back at the birds. The chorus of nature echoed around me - no cars zooming by, no people talking - just the breeze blowing through the leaves of the tress, creating the background to the small performers on their stage.
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