Smoke and Lemonade
by AJ Tierney
My grandma and I planned to run away together. We were going to live in a little yellow house, rock back and forth on the front porch in big, white rocking chairs while we sipped lemonade. Grandma wanted to escape Grandpa, and I wanted to escape my mom. After my parents divorced, my mom needed help raising four kids, so Grandma came to live with us. Grandma wasn’t in the best of health so as the oldest girl I got to sleep with her in case she needed anything. This arrangement meant I got to stay up late and watch Cheers and Night Court while Grandma curled my hair.
I smuggled in cartons of Kool 100s and Hostess Sno Balls in brown paper sacks, charged on her account at the pharmacy. After school, we’d play board games and cards. I’d tell her about school and the boys I liked who didn’t like me back. She had few words about boys, “There’s no shortage of ‘em.”
I’d tell her how I was afraid to tell my mom I didn’t want to do pageants or play piano anymore. I wanted to play kickball and read books.
It was during these sessions of playing games, her chomping away on sweets and blowing menthol smoke into the air, that we hatched our plan for a yellow house, rocking chairs, and lemonade. Every time my mom would yell at me or spank me, I held my tongue knowing that soon I would be far away with Grandma in our little yellow house, forever out of my mother’s reach.
But three years later, Grandma’s cough got worse. Doctor’s visits became regular occurrences. She came home with bruises in the crook of her arm and talk of treatment options.
The doctors said, “Radiation. That’s the way to go.”
The day before her first treatment in early April, the doctor drew three purple X’s down the middle of her chest; the places they would beam a magical light into my grandma and cure her. Within days, she was unable to eat. Her esophagus had been burned by the radiation.
The next couple of months, it seemed Grandma got worse by the day. They brought in a special bed for her covered in buttons and buzzers. Two, tiny plastic tubes rested in her nose delivering oxygen. I’d sit with her, but she couldn’t play board games or cards. She’d ask me for Sno Balls and cigarettes even though she could barely raise her arm.
On the 4th of July, Grandpa decided to move Grandma back home to their house. I wasn’t allowed to see her every day. My mom and Grandpa said it was for the best. Each time I visited she was asleep or staring out the window. She was thinner and by the end of August she was never awake, and her skin had turned completely yellow. Only my mom and grandpa were with her when she died.
My mom came home and said, “Grandma’s gone.” Then burst into tears and ran to her room.
I didn’t have any tears, only anger. If Grandma was really gone, then we weren’t going to get our yellow house, or rocking chairs, or lemonade. She left me to fend for myself against my mother.
The doctors said it was lung cancer caused by smoking. I ran to our old bedroom and rummaged through her purse looking for her cigarettes. If she was going to leave me, then I was going to smoke all of her cigarettes and follow her. I stuffed the pack and a book of matches in my pockets and ran outside. I grabbed my scooter and rode away from the house as fast as I could. At the corner, I stopped, looked back at the house and tried striking my first match. Grandma had made it look so easy. After a half dozen tries I got one lit and held it at the end of the cigarette and puffed, and puffed, and puffed until I felt myself about to vomit. Then my mother’s voice screeched through the neighborhood, “Adri-ANNE! Adri-ANNE!”
I threw the cigarette down and hurried home.
Days after the funeral, I’d sit in our old room, curled up in her recliner and hear her house shoes scuff across the hardwood floors for a few seconds then they’d be gone. On the third night, the scuffing started again, but I also smelled her menthol smoke. I saw the orange glow from the tip of her cigarette floating above my head. The glow moved away from me, and I followed it down the hallway and into the kitchen. As I stood in the doorway, I watched it brighten and dim. I wanted to turn on the light and see my grandma sitting on her bar stool at the end of the counter, waiting for me to set up one of our games. Instead, I lay down on the kitchen floor, face pressed against the cool tile, breathing in the faint smell of cigarette smoke, and prayed for the sun to never come up again.
The Destrier’s song
by Sara Whinnery
‘Twas on a blue-skied cloudless morn
My good master, his sword in hand
Showed all his mettle to his band;
Easily was his armor borne,
Eager the heart that faith had sworn.
All peers, all men, in all the land,
Would count their lives as grains of sand,
When sounded him the battle-horn.
The morning had to noon-tide worn,
Our enemies all fled, unmanned,
But our great captain’s life fast waned,
And soon he lay there, dead, forlorn.
The air with hymns of woe was torn,
As they bore him to the bright sea-strand,
From whence he sailed to Avalon.
Envoi
Though stabled here I eat my corn,
‘Tis glad I am that I was born;
Though little aid I gave my land,
I bore my king at his last stand.
Owl on the Side of the Road
by Pamela Chew
It is nearly noon and the sky is clear.
Like a vampire,
You are not to be out in the daylight
So I suspect the worst.
I wish that you were just sleeping
But your perfectly round head is facing me
As I drive toward the horizon.
Patterned feathers do not scatter
But defiantly remain attached
To your lifeless body on the roadside.
Your right wing and the delicate down underneath it
Rise up and gently float like a gauze veil toward your breast
With each passing vehicle.
It appears as if someone softly blows air from behind you.
Each illusory breath seems to fill your chest only to have it fall again.
Over and over,
As steady as the winter traffic
On this country two-lane.
Snowflake Kisses
by Brooke Passmore
A year ago, Jay Lewis moved back to Oklahoma to be closer to his wife, who had left him. But as far as he was concerned, he was still married.
Jay suddenly awoke one morning in bed. His stomach tickled with excited flutters that he couldn’t explain. Still in a twilight state of mind, he licked his mouth, tasting an icy liquid on his lips. When she still lived with him, Sarah told Jay all the time that he drooled when he slept. But this didn’t feel anything like drool. This was something else. It almost felt like he had been kissed by a snowflake.
He wiped the strange residue from his mouth and stretched out in bed, wondering what he would fix himself for breakfast. The thought of bacon and coffee made him forget about the strange way he woke up this morning.
Even though his room didn’t have any lights on, its walls were brightened up by the white shine from the snow’s reflection outside. Jay yawned, looking out the windows at the icicles dangling off the rain gutters. He sat up and lowered his feet to the floor, but he jerked his feet off the carpet when the tips of his toes brushed the floor’s surface. It was all wet.
“Dang it, Bandit!” Jay automatically assumed his dog had peed on the floor. “Bandit, get in here!” He pictured his cute little white dog slowly creeping into the bedroom with his back hunched and his ears sagging low—his classic tell for when he pooped or peed in the house—but Bandit didn’t show up. “Bandit. Come here. Bandit?” His dog always came when Jay called for him. This time he didn’t.
Jay got out of bed and walked over to the mirror to wince at his morning portrait. His bed hair spiked out in so many wacky directions, making him look like a bizarre anime character. As he combed out the mess with his fingers, he froze. His mind was struck with a sharp thought. Jay had forgotten something today. He had no idea what, but it was something important.
Opening and slamming drawers, he tried to find something in his room that could trigger his memory. The idea that he was forgetting something kept nipping at his brain. He closed his eyes and stood still in the middle of the room to think. Nothing was coming to mind. An aching, knotted up feeling burrowed in his gut. Even though he couldn’t put a thumb on what it was, he knew it was something that he shouldn’t have dared forgotten.
When Jay opened his eyes, he noticed a trail of small pools of liquid leading out toward the hallway. They were the same size as the puddle by his bed. “Bandit!” he yelled. “You pissed all over the house!” With another call of his name, Bandit still hadn’t made an appearance.
Jay grabbed a dirty towel that was hanging off the side of his hamper, so he could clean up all the pee. He lowered down to the carpet and, before using the towel to soak everything up, Jay studied the watery pools a bit more. Nothing was yellow like what he thought it would have been. It was all a clear liquid that had soaked into the carpet of his bedroom. The puddles eventually led out onto the hardwood floors in the hall. The hardwood floor showed off their true shape. They looked like footprints.
Jay craned his neck out like a giraffe to see if these watery prints continued down the rest of the hallway. They did. He stood up and followed their course into the kitchen. His eyes soon left the floor when he felt cold air lash at his cheeks. His focus soared toward the back door of the house. It was wide open.
He gulped, firmly remembering that he locked that door last night. If someone robbed his house they either did a crappy or excellent job—nothing looked missing and nothing looked stolen. If Sarah still lived here she would already be clicking the safety off on her handgun that they had hidden underneath their bed. She was the strong and brave one. Now that she had left him, Jay didn’t have a gun in the house anymore. Now he wished he did.
The watery footprints trekked for the door, looking more icy and solidified the closer they were to the winter wonderland outside. Through the open door he saw the most unusual snowfall he had ever seen. The quarter-size flakes looked like hundreds of white fairies waltzing in the air, disappearing like puffs of white smoke as they crashed to the ground.
He looked over the tracks in the snow outside. The footprints he saw were not left by shoes or boots. They were left by bare feet. He could see the distinct curve of the heel and the individual toes indented in the snow. “What crazy person would walk in this snow with no shoes on?” he asked out loud.
The footprints aimed into the woods behind his yard. And there by the tree line, not making a sound and sitting perfectly still, was Bandit. His white dog looked behind his shoulder at Jay, showing off the large black patch of fur that covered his eyes, as if he were wearing a robber’s mask. He soon whimpered that sad sort of dog sound that could easily make any human feel weak.
Grabbing his coat on the couch and stuffing his feet into boots, Jay met up with Bandit by the start of the woods. He kneeled down to rub his head. “Are you okay, Bandit?”
Bandit innocently blinked a few times before slowly starting into the woods along the same path the footprints were going. Jay immediately followed.
The woods sounded eerily still as they followed this secret trail. The snow didn’t even crunch under his boots. They had come to a small embankment when it hit Jay where he was going. His heart panged, wondering if this all was some unnerving coincidence. He didn’t think so.
The trees opened up to a beautiful white field of snow with tombstones perfectly in line with each other. A confused and wonderful feeling came over Jay as he and Bandit started to run to the end of the footprints’ trail. “I know where the footprints are leading us, Bandit!” He then began to laugh, feeling as if he were a kid about to get his first kiss on a Ferris wheel.
His heart was pounding as he approached the last footprints in the snow. Bandit had gotten there first. There it was. The tombstone.
Sarah Lewis
A Beautiful Wife
A Beautiful Person
January 27, 1985 – May 14, 2012
The mystery was unlocked. Today was Sarah’s birthday. It got to be an inside joke between him and his wife about him forgetting her birthday. Jay kneeled down next to Bandit by the headstone. He touched his mouth, remembering the feeling of a snowflake on his lips when he woke up. “She kissed me last night…to remind me that it was her birthday.”
A year ago, Jay Lewis moved back to Oklahoma to be closer to his wife, who had left him. But as far as he was concerned, he was still married.
Pursuit
by Mason Powell
Magic is the poetry I write in my sleep and cannot remember
A thread of words and phrases—incoherent, ambient
Babbling in tongues, caressing the letters we are made of
We talk of Michelangelo as we come and go—forgetful
Walking down an uneven lane
Past the squatting houses
Smoke ascends the cold air
Yellow window light falls
Broken by shadows
Perfection is the supposed frantic shape of nature, intricate
She dreamt in black and white and red
Not in the floral paradise you so often see under sleep
Haunted by her grandmother’s dead siblings—fallen twins from the woods
Her shadow raps her windowpane
I help thee descend
Barefoot we tread in the snow
Leaving behind no footprints
As dead as the ghosts we run from
God is what binds everything together
Filling in the spaces where you claimed there was nothing
You say that dreams are just a taste of death
God evades us as we rouse—extant in our visions
She recites Dante and
Clasps my hand tightly
We hide beneath the streets
Watching them float by
From our grate and gutter
Music is the language of dreams, which we cannot speak in wake
A resonate realm of lost languages we have bastardized
Yes child, Angels sing but Devils too
Their orchestras battling in symphony while we sleep
As the daybreaks
The phantoms dissolve
Vaporously absorbed
We creep back into our bedrooms
Rousing as the sun is cast inside
The Lost Art of Ironing
by Jane Gibson
In 1951, Santa brought my first ironing board. Standing twenty-four inches tall on folding red metal legs, the muslin-covered board was just my size. The red metal iron’s black cloth-covered cord coiled gracefully at its base. Forget the doll, forget the other presents. I plugged in my iron, held my breath, and touched tentative fingertips to the shiny flat surface. Not hot enough to burn tender flesh, but hot enough to smooth a wrinkled doll dress. I was ecstatic. For weeks, my new doll lay in naked abandon as I repeatedly washed, dried, and ironed her tiny garments.
My iron and board eventually migrated to the back of a closet and then disappeared, along with the lonely Old Maid card and the fruitcake tin of broken crayons.
Embedded in my mind’s ear was the thunk-gurgle-splat of a water-filled pop bottle with its aluminum-and-cork sprinkler, shaken over a garment. Mama would put two napkins or handkerchiefs on the kitchen counter, give a couple of shakes, and repeat, until she had a stack of damp cloth pancakes. I begged her to let me sprinkle, please, please.
The moist bundle was folded in half, rolled, and plunked into a laundry basket. Shirts, blouses, and pillowcases soon followed. Moisture wicked into the fabric, marinating the mass to uniform dampness.
The full basket huddled under a tea towel and squatted on top of the deep freeze until morning, when the ironing had to be done, lest the dreaded black dots of mildew appeared. Those would demand the entire load be rewashed, re-dried, and re-sprinkled.
Mama decided I could sprinkle and iron when I was about eleven. I began with napkins, handkerchiefs, and pillowcases. “Flatwork,” my grandmother called it. Ah, but it entailed more than the name implied.
Pillowcases were ironed, folded end-to-end twice, ironed, and folded again in thirds. Daddy’s handkerchiefs folded toward me twice, edges creased with a swath of the hot iron, folded right-to-left, creased, then folded once again. Violá. A dapper look for his pocket. Everyday napkins folded once forward and once to the side. Company dinner napkins—huge squares of damask—were folded and creased into five inches of shiny elegance.
By the time I mastered flatwork and ironed three napkins at a time, Daddy bought Mama an IronRite Mangle. The name alone made me shudder. Set into a metal table, the machine resembled the top half of an old-fashioned clothes wringer, only larger and electric. The heating element was protected by a guard. Mama sat at the mangle next to the freezer and fed flatwork between the heated padded rollers. I wasn’t allowed to use the machine; I might get my fingers caught.
Mama didn’t like the mangle result on shirts and blouses, and continued hand-ironing them, suggesting I learn to iron them as well.
Shirts and blouses elevated my ironing education. Inside yoke, wrong side of collar, right side of collar, sleeves, left front, back and yoke, right front—swing your partner, do-si-do! Mama decided I could handle the mangle, and I gave thanks she didn’t iron sheets and pajamas.
The early ‘60s brought Dacron and spray starch. The ironing load dropped to shirts and an occasional tailored blouse. Daddy hired an “ironing lady” to come every Tuesday and do the shirts that he and my brother needed for the week.
Steam irons eliminated the damp bushel on Mama’s freezer, but she still had a small roll of sprinkled napkins and handkerchiefs in a tea towel. The mangle disappeared while I was away at college.
Today, napkins and pillowcases are folded right out of the dryer. The damask napkins are pressed for holidays. I touch up collars and hang-wrinkles, and iron the occasional white blouse for myself.
We send my husband’s shirts to the cleaners for heavy starch. I taught both daughters to iron, leaving no excuse for not looking presentable. One recently mentioned she needed to get a new iron. The other said she didn’t have anything to wear unless she ironed something. So I guess the art isn’t completely lost. It’s just wandering around waiting to be used.
I looked up my little iron and board on eBay. I should have kept it.
It’s a collectible. I could sell it to pay the cleaners.
Compassionate Acres
by Sarah Wagner
How does time go missing? How does someone we love just vanish without a trace? Living, physical bodies don’t just dematerialize, even if those inhabiting them are internally absent.
It was a bittersweet summer morning the day we had to put Mother in a home. She was only 68, but she’d been diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia and the symptoms were progressing rapidly. One day she’d be normal and the next she would suffer an acute bout of disorientation and confusion, which could last for hours or days. Hallucinations often accompanied these episodes as did frequent falls and drooling. She slipped out unnoticed a few times and wandered the neighborhood, wearing only her nightgown and socks. Once, a Silver Alert was issued. Fortunately, she turned up less than a mile away, but we got a good scolding from the police. It finally got to be too much for my siblings and me and off she went, to Compassionate Acres Health & Rehabilitation Center. We all knew there would be no rehabilitation for Mother, but the center had a four star rating and advertised updated facilities that even included a spa and a beauty salon.
At first, Mother appeared to adjust well to her new living space. Nestled in the lush bosom of the Ozarks, just outside of Hot Springs, Compassionate Acres seemed to have it all. The shiny brochure displayed picturesque shots boasting 23 acres of well-maintained grounds. The mission statement promised a high level of security. There were swimming classes and weekly events that kept her body moving and her mind active. Perhaps we were deluding ourselves. Within seven months, she started having spells more frequently and they were increasing in duration. She accused the staff of trying to poison her. Some of her personal items vanished; her dentures, a ring. She was adamant they had been pilfered by some other inmate, the ‘help’ or maybe an extraterrestrial. She soon developed tremors and urinary incontinence. I visited twice a week, when I could, but this got harder as her memory further declined and she often failed to recognize me, the eldest son.
The personnel at the center kindly assured us that this was normal for someone in her condition. They made her as comfortable as they could and provided a stable routine. It was a gentle environment, the caregivers were well trained. It appeared that she was in a safe place.
But then, early this morning, Mother escaped. She simply walked away.
She disappeared sometime very early in the morning, but it was after 9:00 am when my cell phone rang. It was Compassionate Acres calling to deliver the news that she was missing.
“She’s what?!” I almost barked with consternation, “Missing?” I worked in a cubicle at an accounting firm and I could feel my coworkers watching me. I glanced up to see my boss staring at me quizzically from across the room. I fought to lower my voice as I hissed “But how, for how long?”
“We’re not sure, sir,” the administrator on the other end replied reluctantly, “We’ve been looking. Any ideas where she might be headed? Can you come down here?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I answered with resignation. I hung up as my boss arrived at my desk. “I have to leave, it’s my mother,” I mumbled apologetically as I turned off my computer and reached for my coat. “Just keep me informed,” she said sympathetically. It wasn’t the first time.
Usually I found the drive to Compassionate Acres relaxing. The scenic highway wound its way through the forest, a visually calming landscape. On this morning I found the heaviness of the woodlands oppressively bleak, despite the sporadic greenery of the shortleaf pines. It was almost officially autumn and the bleary grey of the skies seemed to amplify the naked branches of the scrub oaks; a stark and desolate vista. I couldn’t help ruminating about my childhood as I drove the hour trip to Hot Springs. Mother had always been difficult. She held a multitude of grudges -- against the neighbors, the president, and certainly, her children. She had driven away the one man who loved her and this, coupled with her incessant complaints of government conspiracy, had further alienated her immediate family. Sure, we had birthdays and vacations, but growing up with our mother hadn’t exactly been normal. She claimed that as a young girl she had been abducted by aliens. For Mother, this was the seminal point in her life. As she endlessly recounted this tale, her eyes would glow with the fevered evangelism of the true believer. I grew up in the shadow of this delusion. Sour and paranoid, she gradually isolated herself from humanity. Me? I loved her. She was my mother, but I simply couldn’t live with her anymore. Even visiting once or twice a week for an hour, was mentally exhausting.
It was mid-morning before I arrived at the ornately gilded outer gates of Compassionate Acres. I always felt guilty when I came here and I chastised myself as I buzzed in through security. It was my responsibility to take better care of Mother, but life was a difficult balance between home and a paycheck. Even though I made good money as a CPA, the monthly bills for her care were exorbitant. True, part of the reason I paid so much for the luxury of this place was to assuage my conscience for putting her here. I wish she could have stayed with me, but she was estranged from my wife for some past, unknown grievance and she terrified our two children. It wasn’t just her cronish appearance or her persistent forgetfulness; it was the chronic, disquieting tale of her close encounter. She might have forgotten our names, but she remembered that experience like it was yesterday. Dammit! I mused as I pulled my Camry into a parking spot in the front lot, next to an empty Mustang with ‘Police’ emblazoned on its side. How could this happen? What the hell are we paying Compassionate Acres for? Maybe she has been found and this is all a mistake. It all seemed like a bad dream.
The main entrance to the facility was brightly decorated for the coming holidays, in stark contrast to the mounting, black dread of uncertainty I was feeling as I entered. Where are the police? I wondered. The director met me in the lobby and steered me quickly into his office, shutting the door.
“Look,” he said contritely, “We’ll find her. She couldn’t have gotten far. We’ve checked the whole building. We’re still checking the grounds.”
“Have you notified the police?” I asked. “Has a Silver Alert been issued?” I tried to keep my tone optimistic, but I was really starting to worry. I fought the urge to go outside and call for her, but I doubted that she would recognize my voice or even remember her own name.
“A report has been filed, they’re reviewing the security tapes,” he glanced down at his notes. “At 6:39 this morning, she went out the side door by the chapel—“
“But, what about the security doors?” I interrupted, my pulse pounding in agitation.
“Unfortunately, the alarms were turned off, due to a three month routine maintenance check,” he continued smoothly, as if absolved of all blame.
“I was here for a visit barely a week ago—“
“19 days,” He interjected.
“Yes, 19 days,” I responded robotically. 19 days? That couldn’t be right. “She seemed the same,” I covered lamely, “she just kept pleading to go home, but that’s Little Rock, almost 60 miles away. Of course, she was babbling away about alien abduction, as always, but what’s changed since my visit?” I swallowed hard. 19 days? I couldn’t account for it. How does time just disappear? I felt a sharp twinge behind my left eye as if a migraine was coming on. The air was charged with a sharp odor I couldn’t define. I was beginning to feel dizzy with anxiety, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I reviewed her chart,” he continued authoritatively, “She’s had some trouble sleeping and she’s been hoarding food from the dining room. With these cases, it’s hard to predict.”
“What’s next then?” I asked, feeling helpless and bewildered.
“The police, they’ll want to speak with you. This way,” he motioned me out into the hall, “they’re out back, by the pond.”
Our footsteps echoed eerily along the corridor as I followed the director to the side door that led to the back grounds. Mother had been in this same hallway, just hours earlier. I had a vivid sensation of déjà vu that coincided with a sudden metallic clicking in my ears. It stopped just as abruptly as we passed through the security doors, out onto the meticulously kept lawn. In the distance, I could hear people and dogs; the search and rescue team. The dreary gloom of the clouds and the chill wind mirrored my mood. How could Mother have simply disappeared? We hurried toward the throng of S & R volunteers. I was desperate to join in the search.
The highway patrolman in charge was an older guy, with the fatherly demeanor of a country doctor. “With these situations, we usually find them,” he said impassively, “but if it’s been over 24 hours, chances are 50% that they may be injured and most likely dehydrated. The fatality rate is 25%.” He paused to let this fact sink in. “It’s amazing how some endure the experience though,” he continued. “Hell, there was that fellow over in Bentonville last month. Survived for four days in the woods. Alone. When we found him he was buck-naked and eating bark,” he declared incredulously. “They sometimes try to elude us, ya’ know? Passive evasion. ‘Cause they know we’re authority figures, scares ‘em. There’s been cases where they never turn up, but not in Arkansas,” he nodded reassuringly. “We’ll find her.” My heart sank. She had been missing for over five hours.
By the time I joined the search team, it was well after noon and there was still no sign of Mother. The authorities had thoroughly checked the acreage and had expanded the search area into the forest, which bordered the property. As I trudged through the grass and shrubs of the woods, I thought about those 19 days. I usually saw Mother at least every weekend and I was certain that I had set out to visit within the last week. The thing was – I couldn’t remember ever arriving. It was corporate tax season at work, so I’d been under more stress than usual. In fact, I had been working at least 60 to 65 hours a week for the past month. Earlier this week, I had quarreled intensely with my wife. She suspected that I was having an affair because I wouldn’t account for my whereabouts over the past weekend. The terrifying reality was that I couldn’t explain where I’d been. I had laughed in reproach, to cover my fear, pointing out that I was a balding, middle-aged man with a paunch. Who was likely to have an affair with me? The entire argument was preposterous. She was the love of my life! I had simply been visiting my mother and had also put in extra hours at the office. But had I? 19 days…I struggled with my memory, but it was all the explanation that I could muster.
As I wrestled through the cedar and wild blackberry bushes, I suddenly realized that some time had passed and I no longer heard the sounds of the rest of the team. No voices, no dogs bellowing on the scent of a fresh trail, no shrill burst of a whistle to announce she’d been found. Had I become separated? Am I lost? I wondered? Except for my thrashing, it was unnervingly quiet. I pushed on through a thicket and found myself in a clearing. Not even a bird was twittering in the brush.
My nose was bleeding. Had I bumped it against a tree? The silence felt overwhelming, as if it were a force itself. Mother, where are you? I pulled out my phone to check my coordinates on the GPS. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, it showed that I was in Reykjavik and then seconds later, in Islamabad. But I’m in Arkansas! I wanted to shout. The metallic clicking in my ears had returned as had the sharp, undefinable odor I had noticed earlier. Nauseousness rolled over me in shivery waves, making my head spin. My clothing was damp with the cold fog that was coming down off the mountain. The temperature seemed to be dropping rapidly.
“Hello?” I called out, “Hello?” My voiced boomed across the silence of the glade.
And then, this roaring sound of color and ecstasy, pain and compression descended upon me, the weight and the brightness of a jillion tiny lights pressing me down. I screamed and screamed, squeezing my eyes tightly shut against this onslaught of beautiful terror. This did nothing to shield me from the images and memories that assaulted my senses. I flashed back to my childhood, to my mother before I could have known her and these images swirled across my eyelids in a barrage of strange and vibrant impressions.
I don’t know how long this lasted, seconds? Hours? It seemed like forever, but when I opened my eyes Mother was there. She cradled my head in her lap, wiping my tears and blood away on the hem of her nightgown with those strong, compassionate hands I knew from my childhood. Mother, my eyes said. Did you see that? My mind was in a state of rebellion.
“Yes, son,” she answered, as though reading my thoughts. Her grey eyes held mine for a long moment with an unwavering clarity I hadn’t seen in years. She knew me.
“But how?” I asked weakly as I sat up. The normal sounds of the forest washed in gently, birds chirped, the wind rattled the skeletons of the trees. In the distance I heard dogs barking, the sounds of men.
“Shush,” she answered sweetly, soothingly, as she reached for my trembling hands. “They’ll be coming soon.”
The Old Woman Four Rows Ahead
by Jenna Buschmann
We are the daughters of the Amazon
The sisters of Aphrodite and Athena
Warrior’s blood rushes through our veins
The breath of goddesses in our lungs
Our eyelashes hold constellations
Our bones contain galaxies
We are born of fire and sea
We are derived from ancient magic.
Yet I can see from here
How our skin crumbles to dust
An old woman rocking in her pew
Her lips moving back and forth
Shaky and silent with hollow eyes
She, the ancestor of the earth
Whittled away to scraps and slivers
A ghost wrapped in a milky white
Liver-spotted quivering sheet.
We are women full of stardust
We are females forged from iron
But time turns a blind eye to greatness
The clock’s cold hands touch all
Reducing titans to tinder and
Condensing gods to glue.
A Fool's Hopes
by Jennifer Nichols
“Wake up, Caitlyn! We’re ready to go!”
That would be my mom who is waking me at this ungodly hour. I grab my cell phone off my nightstand and check the time: six o’clock. I can’t put this off any longer. Stretching like a cat, I kick off my covers and drag myself out of my warm bed. Don’t my parents understand the value of sleep?
I trudge to the bathroom and begin my morning routine. Brush teeth, comb hair, throw on some clothes. Good enough. My head is already pounding as I make my way to the kitchen to take my pills. I grab a granola bar to eat in the car. Hopefully, it will stay down but it’s always a bit of risk eating this early.
My kid sister skips into the kitchen. She’s nine and I swear she’s like the Energizer Bunny. I try not to be jealous, but I would kill for just half of the energy that girl has.
“Caitlyn! Mom said she’s not gonna wait any longer. Aren’t you ready to go yet?”
“Tell her I just have to get my bag.” My voice is hoarse from using it for the first time today. “On second thought, can you get my bag for me?”
I try to ask as sweetly as possible. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to have to wait on me, either. She’s used to it though, and she only grumbles a little as she runs off toward my room, her long brown ponytail bobbing behind her. My dad enters the kitchen just as I finish swallowing my last pill. He’s still dressed in his pajamas, but his bright eyes and combed hair reveal that he’s been awake for a while.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the car already?” he asks, bristly eyebrows raised.
“I was just heading for the door,” I reply.
He comes closer and gives me a kiss on the cheek, which I return.
“I love you and hope you have a good trip,” he says.
“Thanks. I love you too.”
I know. You’re probably wondering why my dad isn’t coming with us. While my sister and I have the week off for Spring Break, dad still has to work, and, as an accountant, this is the busiest time of the year for him. My mom, on the other hand, works part time as a florist and had no problem taking off from work.
So, I regretfully tell my dad goodbye and join my mom in the car. I stake my claim in the back seat where I can stretch out. Let my sister have the front; I can put my feet up back here. Mom honks the horn impatiently. I know she is eager to go. She doesn’t like to drive at night.
“Come on, Claire,” she mutters to no one in particular.
Like a charm, my sister, Claire, pops out of the house, carrying my over-stuffed duffle bag. She tosses it in the trunk and hops into the passenger’s seat.
I put a pillow behind my head and stuff my ear buds in as my mom puts the car in gear and pulls out of the drive. I pull out my granola bar and eat it slowly, silently praying that it will agree with my stomach. It’s an eight-hour drive to Rochester, Minnesota, and I want it to be as comfortable as possible.
About an hour into the trip, the heartburn starts.
“Mom, do you have any Rolaids?” I call.
“You can check my purse,” she replies without taking her eyes off the road.
“Claire, can you pass me mom’s purse?”
Claire sighs dramatically, like I just asked her for a kidney, but she grabs the large black bag and hands it to me. I rifle through the mess of Kleenex, coin purses, and pill boxes until I find the Rolaids. I pop two in my mouth and chew them quickly. They taste like chalk, but the flavor is a small price to pay if they relieve the excruciating pain in my chest and back. I hand the bag back to my sister and sit up straight. I place my pillow on my stomach and put my feet up on the seat, so that the pillow rests between my stomach and my knees. Only seven hours of the trip to go.
Why are we driving eight hours to Minnesota for Spring Break? I thought you’d never ask. If I was a normal sixteen-year-old girl, I would probably be flying with my friends to Miami or Cancun, or at least to San Antonio. But I’m not a normal sixteen-year-old girl. In fact, much to my family’s dismay, three years ago, I gave up flying all together. So, while I’m sitting here in misery, I may as well share the story.
When I was ten, I caught mononucleosis. And, yes, everyone thought it was clever to make stupid kissing jokes about it. From my experience, there was nothing funny about mono at all. After missing weeks of school, my doctors finally thought I had recovered. Sure, all my tests came back “normal”, but I still felt awful. Since I no longer had a high fever and all the tests came back negative, I was forced to return to school. It was miserable.
I had absolutely no energy. When I wasn’t in school, I was sleeping. When I was in school, I was dizzy, or nauseous, or in pain. I had to give up all of the things I had once loved. No more soccer practice. No more dance recitals.
My doctor recommended a counselor because he thought I was depressed. I found the counseling sessions depressing. What ten-year-old wouldn’t? After months of counseling and no progress, I started getting referrals to all sorts of medical specialists. This one thought maybe I had Lupus. That one thought I might have a thyroid problem. And, gasp, another one thought I could have cancer. Test after test came back negative. I was the picture of good health, except that I was sick.
But last year, things changed. My doctor had had enough. He suggested that my parents take me to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. If they couldn’t find anything wrong, then, once and for all, he could determine that my illness was all in my head.
My parents were desperate; I was desperate, so, despite the heavy bills, we packed our bags and made the long trip to the Mayo Clinic. By the grace of God, I met Dr. Schaeffer, my current neurologist, there. After exhaustive testing, she concluded that I had a commonly missed condition called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, or POTS, for short. It was such a relief to finally know that what I was experiencing was real, that it had a name.
Of course, this was just the start of my journey. Up until then, my family and I had never even heard of POTS. We thought it might be one of those weird, rare conditions. Later, I learned that 1 in 100 American teenagers suffer from it. And even though it isn’t rare, very few people have heard of it, even in the medical field. So, I’ll assume that you are just as clueless about POTS as I was when I was first diagnosed. I have learned so much about it since then that I feel like I could write a book.
Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome is a disorder of the autonomic nervous system, which controls all of the body’s automatic processes. I know, I sound like a textbook. Basically, if you don’t have to think about it, your autonomic nervous system does it for you: breathing, heart beating, digesting. In POTS, this system becomes out of balance. The body no longer knows how to properly respond to its environment. One of the defining features of POTS is that the patient’s heart rate increases by at least thirty beats per minute when moving from lying down to standing.
Dr. Schaeffer described it to me by saying that my body acted like I was running a marathon every time I stood up. This made sense to me, as most of the time I felt like I had just finished a marathon. I can hardly begin to explain how miserable and how scary POTS can be. However, Dr. Schaeffer assures me that it is not life threatening.
Currently, she is working to find medications that help my symptoms. I also have an exercise regimen that I am supposed to follow, though I honestly don’t follow it as closely as I should. I drink so much water and Powerade that I can hardly go an hour without peeing, and I pour salt on everything I eat. The POTS diet is weird, and a little gross, but I find it easier to follow than the exercising.
I also gave up flying when I was thirteen. The air is so dry on airplanes and I dehydrate very easily. Also, drastic changes in elevation make my head spin. Every time I have a follow up in Minnesota, my parents try to convince me to fly, but my last plane trip was so miserable that I’m terrified to try again.
That brings me back to the present. I’m the reason why we are spending Spring Break driving in the car for eight hours to go to a doctor’s appointment. During the last visit, Dr. Schaeffer prescribed a beta-blocker for me to try. I guess it’s okay. But I’m really hoping she has something new for me to try.
See, I did something sort of stupid last week. While I was sitting in Spanish class and pretending to concentrate on conjugating verbs (though I was really just focusing on keeping my eyes open), the cute senior who sits behind me tapped me on the shoulder and invited me to the Spring Fling. Like a lovesick idiot, I said yes. I mean, this guy is gorgeous. He’s also sweet and funny. I’ve kind of thought he had his eye on me for a while now, but I’ve tried to discourage it. Seriously, the last thing I need is a boyfriend. I have enough on my shoulders between POTS and school. So, like I said, I idiotically agreed to go to the Spring Fling with this wonderful guy. I can hardly stand up for five minutes. How am I supposed to go to a dance?
My parents think it’s cute. They want me to go. I want to go. I’m just not sure how I’m going to explain to my date why I am spending the whole evening chugging water and walking like a drunk back and forth to the bathroom. And that is the best-case scenario. More likely, the night of Spring Fling I will be so exhausted from school that I will crash before I can even slip into my dress.
Ugh. Dress shopping. I forgot about that. I used to love shopping; now I dread and loathe it. Why are there so few benches in the mall? This whole Spring Fling thing is really a nightmare. Yet, I really want to go. It’s something a normal person would do, and I desperately want to be normal.
So, all my hopes are riding on this appointment. I need some answers. I need a new medication, a new treatment, something that will help me make it to the dance. Or maybe, even better, something that will give me back my old life.
“Can I turn on the radio?”
Claire’s squeaky voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“No,” I say weakly.
My head is still throbbing and I feel like my granola bar is creeping up my esophagus. The radio will just make me sick.
Claire starts to whine, but, thankfully, my mom finds a solution.
“Can you lend your sister your ear buds?” she asks me.
I toss them to Claire and she settles down.
“How are you holding up?” my mom asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
She knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t say anything.
The hours pass slowly, but after eating a small cup of soup for lunch, I finally fall asleep in the car. When I awake, we are pulling into the hotel parking lot. I wait in the car while my mom and sister check in. When they come back for the luggage, I follow them in the building. It’s not the greatest hotel, but it’s no Motel 6. There’s a plate of chocolate chip cookies on a table in the entry. I snag one. Maybe I’ll feel like eating it later.
We stop in front of the elevator. Unfortunately, our room is on the third floor. I don’t like elevators. They always seem to make my dizziness worse. The doors slide open. I walk to the back and tightly grab the rail. The ride ends quickly and the dizziness fades as I follow my mom to our room.
The minute the door opens I find the remote and flop onto the nearest bed. While Claire and my mom freshen up and make dinner plans, I flip through the channels.
“Are you going to dinner with us?” Mom asks.
“No,” I reply. “Can you bring me back some chicken strips from McDonald’s please?
“All right,” Mom says.
I know. I should go to dinner with my family. But I’m tired. The bed and TV are telling me not to leave the room for the rest of the night. Besides, now my mom and sister can eat wherever they want without having to think about my dietary restrictions or how long I can be out.
I give them hugs when they leave and cuddle up on the bed, excited about the rom-com that is just starting. When it’s over, I pull out my phone and check my social media. I can waste hours on the Internet, so it’s not surprising that I’m still messing with my phone when my family returns.
I’m not very hungry, but I eat the chicken strips anyway. I learned a long time ago to eat even when I don’t feel like it. After I finish, I pull some pajamas out of my bag and reluctantly walk to the shower. My appointment is tomorrow and I want to be presentable. I sit in the bathtub while I wash to conserve my energy. I gave up morning showers years ago. I found them too exhausting.
When I’m done, I wrap my hair in a towel and throw myself back on the hotel bed. Mom and Claire are watching some Disney movie. I might find it amusing if I wasn’t so tired. I set the alarm on my phone for 7:30. My appointment is at nine o’clock and I want to have time to eat breakfast first. I don’t know why, but I love hotel breakfasts. I’m pretty sure the eggs aren’t real and the pancakes always taste a bit like plastic, but I love them anyway.
I’m so tired that I fall asleep to the sound of talking animals on the television. I sleep hard from the long day of driving. I wake to the sounds of my sister and mom rustling around the room. Stuffing my pillow over my head, I fall back asleep, only to be woken what feels like seconds later by my alarm. It doesn’t matter how long I spend sleeping; I always wake up tired.
I take my time getting ready. Even though I usually feel awful, I don’t want to look that way when I’m in public. I spend extra time curling my hair and applying makeup so that I look the part of a normal, healthy teenager. Claire is hungry and impatient, so mom takes her to breakfast. I’ll catch up soon.
Once I’m happy with my appearance, I grab the spare key card that’s sitting on the table and head out the door. I find that I’m faced with taking the elevator by myself. Taking a deep breath, I step inside. I remind myself not to act like a baby about this. Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean I can avoid it. The elevator ride doesn’t take long, but the short time in motion is miserable just the same.
The doors open and I step into the lobby. Tables, chairs, and a long counter of food are set up opposite of the check-in counter. As I make my way to the short line of people waiting for the buffet, Claire waves at me from one of the tables, and I nod back. It’s a complimentary breakfast, so it’s nothing too fancy. However, I’m still happy to see a dish of cheese “omelets.” I scoop two onto my paper plate then proceed to add a couple slices of bacon, a blueberry muffin, and a strawberry yogurt. I grab one of those cardboard cartons of low-fat milk, like they serve in elementary schools out of the mini-fridge, and join my family at their table.
“You’d better eat fast,” Claire says as she fills her mouth with a large spoonful of Cheerios.
She is bossy sometimes. I think she’s trying to act like she’s my mom. It can be really annoying, but I kind of understand it. She certainly picks up a lot of my slack when I’m too sick to do anything. She probably feels a bit responsible for me.
I ignore her comment and focus on the delicious, cheap food piled in front of me. The omelet tastes like it was made with that cheese-in-a-can stuff. I know it sounds gross, but these eggs are like a drug to me. When I’m about halfway done, my mom raises her eyebrows and gestures to the saltshaker. I roll my eyes and continue to eat.
“Caitlyn,” she says, warningly.
I pretend like I don’t hear her. I shovel a large piece of egg in my mouth and chase it with a big bite of bacon.
“Just use the salt,” Claire mutters.
She picks up the saltshaker and shoves it at me. I stick out my tongue at her.
“I saw that,” my mom says. “You know what Dr. Schaeffer says. You need to increase your salt intake. There is no point in driving all the way up here if you don’t listen to what she tells you to do.”
I sigh and grab the salt. I make a show of pouring it over all of my food. I even include a little bit in my yogurt, even though I know I will probably regret it. My mom looks aggravated, but she doesn’t say anything. That’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t respond well to a lecture right now.
I’m not trying to be a pain. It’s just that it’s not very often that I feel hungry, or that food tastes good to me. So, it would be nice if, for once, I could just enjoy my meal without piling gobs of salt all over it. I dig my fork back into my eggs and force myself to eat the rest of the salty mess. The yogurt is pretty gross, but I make myself eat it anyways. I’m being a baby and I know it. I didn’t need as much salt as I poured on my food, but I did it anyways. When am I going to grow up?
When I finish my super salty breakfast, we clear our plates and return to our room. We’re running behind schedule, so there’s little time for talk as we scurry around grabbing whatever we think we need and making last minute stops in the bathroom. I grab my side bag and fill it with a water bottle, a Powerade, some pretzels, a book, my cell phone, and my ear buds.
I feel like I’m packing for vacation, not a visit to the doctor. However, experience has taught me to always come prepared for appointments. If an appointment is scheduled for nine o’clock, you may see the doctor at 9:15, or you could be waiting until eleven. And that’s just the initial wait. If any tests are scheduled, a quick doctor’s visit can turn into a whole day of sitting in waiting rooms and getting poked and prodded like a test monkey. Books help stave off the boredom, but snacks and drinks are absolutely crucial.
Mom checks her bag one last time and escorts Claire and me out of the room. The elevator ride and car ride pass quickly as mom grills me on the purpose of our visit to Dr. Schaeffer. It may sound overboard, but when you just traveled for eight hours to see a doctor, you want to have a clear game plan. I’m used to this routine, and I only feel a bit nervous as we pull into the Mayo Clinic.
I can never get over how huge the complex is. My mom navigates us to the right floor of the right building. It was a long walk to get to Dr. Schaeffer’s office and I’m feeling lightheaded. I ask my mom to sign me in while I find a chair.
I’m great at scouting out chairs. I’m like a hound dog that can sniff out all the chairs within a three-mile radius. Of course, there are lots of empty seats in the waiting room, but I find the prime seats. With prowess worthy of Sherlock Holmes, I claim seats that are far enough from the TV to not be irritated by the daytime soaps, out of the way of foot traffic coming in and out of the office, near enough to the restrooms so that I don’t feel like I’m hiking when I inevitably have to pee, and, most ideally of all, have a coffee table filled with magazines standing directly in front of them. I push the magazines to one side and use the empty space as a footrest. I recline—as much as a waiting room chair will allow—and revel in the comfort of sitting.
Claire soon joins me, putting her feet up in imitation of me.
“Mom’s still waiting to sign you in,” she says.
It’s kind of a pointless statement as I can see my mom waiting in line, but I let it slide. Claire pulls out her 3DS and starts playing Mario or one of those other games. I’ve never cared for video games and as much as Claire has tried to explain them to me, I just don’t get the point. Give me a good book over a video game any day of the week.
Mom comes over and joins us. She watches Claire play her video game for a while then she pulls out her phone and starts checking emails. I start to get bored, so I rifle through my bag and find my book.
Time ticks by slowly in the waiting room. Even though my appointment was scheduled to be one of the first of the day, it’s nearly eleven before the nurse swings open a side door and calls my name. I put away my book, pick up my bag, and make my way to the nurse.
“Good morning!” she says cheerily.
She smiles and nods at my mom and sister. They follow me into the narrow hallway beyond the door.
“First, we’re going to check your weight.”
I stand on the scale. Then I submit to the rest of the routine. Height, blood pressure, pulse, temperature: all of these are checked before the nurse leads me to a room. I obediently lie on the table while she runs an EKG. She asks a few basic questions, before slipping out of the room.
“Dr. Schaeffer will be in, in a moment,” she says.
Mom and Claire make themselves comfortable in their chairs. There are only two, so I have to wait on the table. I decide to lie down. What’s the point of being upright if I don’t have to be?
After another twenty minutes of waiting, a knock comes on the door. It swings open and Dr. Schaeffer comes in, apologizing for the long wait.
I’m going to skip telling you about the next portion of the visit. I’m not sure how much I’m supposed to discuss, thanks to HIPAA and privacy policies and all that stuff. You don’t need to know every detail of my visit, anyway.
What you do need to know is that an hour later, tears are streaming down my face as I ride in the car to find something for lunch. I don’t cry easily, but sometimes I get so frustrated I can’t help but cry.
“I didn’t think it went that badly, Caitlyn,” Mom says after taking her eyes off the road to turn and look at me.
I’m in the passenger seat now and Claire is in the back. It’s kind of customary for us to switch seats after an appointment, so that it’s easier for me to talk to Mom.
“You already knew that there is no magic cure for this. I think she had some helpful advice.”
I choke back a sob.
“I’m just so frustrated,” I manage to say. “I wanted her to have something to help me. I wish I was normal.”
“I know, but wishing isn’t going to help you. You heard what she said. You really need to work on exercising more. I know you don’t feel like it, but she said that it would help. You just have to do it anyways, whether you feel like it or not.”
“I know.”
I’m starting to get an attitude, and I know it. I try to bite my tongue, and I wipe the tears from my eyes.
“Where are we going for lunch?” I ask.
My mom knows I’m trying to change the subject and she doesn’t humor me.
“If you really want to feel better, you have to start doing the things that Dr. Schaeffer tells you to do. When we get home, I want to see you step up and do your exercises at least three days a week. And, I know you don’t want to hear it, but she said that cutting out dairy could really help your digestion. I’ll help you find some dairy free foods, but you need to decide if you are serious about getting healthy or not. I can’t do it for you.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I exercise five days a week,” Claire chimes in. “I have basketball three days and swimming the other two.”
“Shut up, Claire.”
“Mom!”
“Caitlyn,” Mom says warningly.
I stare out the window for the rest of the car ride. I can’t help feeling disappointed that we drove eight hours just to hear that I need to exercise more and cut out dairy. I guess I’m not sure what I expected. Of course, my mom is right. There is no magic cure for this. Any hopes that I built up about this visit being some life-altering experience were a fool’s hopes.
I have POTS. Dr. Schaeffer says there’s a good chance that I will always have POTS. I have to learn how to cope with the symptoms. Then, when I’m comfortable with those symptoms, I have to relearn how to cope when new ones arise.
This is my life. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish every day for my health to be restored to what it once was. But I can’t spend my whole life wishing for something that will never happen.
All I can do is take things one day at a time.
We pull into the parking lot of Wendy’s. My mom and sister are quick to hop out. I put on a small smile as I open the car door. Today, I am going to enjoy a hamburger, sans cheese, and a medium Dr. Pepper. And, maybe, just maybe, in a few weeks, I’ll be enjoying a dance with that cute guy from Spanish class.
The Conservationist
by JENNA BUSCHMANN
I’m his son. I’m ashamed to say that over the past decade of my life, that fact has been both an honor and a burden. This is the way it always is with our children. They grow up, seeing us as something magical. Then as they age, they see us for what we really are. . . imperfect. . . and the shock makes all the adoration they had turn into outrage. As time goes by, the emotion simmers into a slight annoyance, until it’s finally buffed out and smoothed over into respect. But most times, as it is with my father, Howl Richards, the realization of how much you admire them comes too late.
My father, to be described in one word, was eclectic. He was a collector, not a hoarder, as many neighborhood kids would have you believe. The difference between a hoarder and a collector lies in the attitude. A hoarder is greedy, a hoarder is frantic, a hoarder is impatient. My father, well, he was none of these things. My father was a conservationist. My father was careful. My father was measured. In all the things my father did, art was created, beauty was preserved, and life was enriched. It is a pity and a disgust that his legacy was marred by the sloppy image outsiders built for him. What’s even worse and more deplorable is that his own son saw him in that image as well.
Everything my father loved was something from a past life. His clothes were rummaged out of lost-and-found boxes at business complexes he never worked in. When he collected whatever had been left behind, he not only took in tossed-aside materials, but tossed-aside humans. If you ask any janitor in this city who Howl Richards was, a smile will spread across their face and they’ll have a story that will put a smile on yours.
Even his children were somewhat reincarnated, repurposed. When my mother was pregnant, my father loved to take her on walks. He felt like the love of the outdoor would absorb through her belly and into our hearts, and to a point, maybe it did. One of the places that he and my mother loved to walk was the cemetery. How morbid, that a woman and a man celebrating the life they’re bringing into the world, would walk among the monuments set up for the lives that were left behind.
But my father saw beauty in the darkest of places. His favorite place in the cemetery was where the children’s graves were. Little tiny headstones above little tiny children who couldn’t take walks with their mommas and papas anymore. My father would tug at the weeds and brush off the dirt. My mother left flowers and my dad left little racecars, marbles, and dolls. And my parents would leave with a name in their hearts and on their lips. One name was Lucas. One name was Marcy. One name was Andie. The names of children who never grew into them became the names my siblings and I carried throughout our lives. My dad was a big believer in second chances.
I was blind to that for a long time. I was ashamed because of the fleeting, petty comments I heard all my life growing up. How ridiculous it is that the things that don’t matter destroy the things that matter most. My father was ridiculed by so many people. Hobo Howl they called him. They looked at his beard, long and scruffy with bright shiny beads and colorful strings woven through the hairs, and they saw a bum. They looked at his tie-dyed shirts and his patched up jeans and they saw a hippie. They watched him riding his bike through town, stopping at the oddest of places, and they saw a madman. And for the longest time, I saw my father through the same eyes as they.
That beard is a legend unto itself. My mother says that when they first met, it was nothing but a few scraggly hairs on his chin, and over time it grew into the beautiful thing everyone is familiar with. My father would often comment that his beard was a symbol for their love, and usually at that my mother would laugh and blush, much to my father’s delight.
For the longest time, I couldn’t see what my mother saw in my father. It’s awful, I know, to admit that, but it’s true. My mother was so clean and so proper; how she ended up with a ragtag man like Howl Richards I could never comprehend. But if you see the way she looked at him, with her eyes lit up like diamonds and her lips suppressing a proud smile, you would have no doubt that her heart belonged to him.
They met at school. And when I say met at school, I mean she was in school and he was bumming free seminars at the lecture hall dressed as a different student every day so not to attract attention. She was studying anthropology, and I think that made her notice him. Here was this bizarre human being coming in uninvited, dressed bizarrely and trying so hard not to be noticed that it was impossible not to notice him. And I think it was her love of people that made her ignore the shy nervousness she usually had and walk up to this funny looking man with a five o’clock shadow and talk to him. But that is where my logic ends as to why my mother would be married to such a man for thirty-five years.
My father used to dye his shirts when holes appeared. I remember waking up early in the morning to the smell of coffee and tip toeing out of my room to peek on him. He would be there with his buckets of hot dye, shirt bunched up and severed off in every which way. Color would stain his skin, little rivers of red and blue settling into the cracks of his palms. His glasses would be sliding down the slope of his nose as he delicately baptized each shirt into the colored water. And when he finished, he would celebrate in the quiet light of the dawn breaking and sip the cup of coffee that my mother had made him, still hot and black. He was art and she adored watching him create and show himself. She was perfect and he was so imperfect that she had no choice but to love him with all she had.
Marcy and I used to drive up to the edges of highways on the weekends to pick up trash with our dad. It was during these eco-friendly romps that I learned to hate my father. The air was always too cold or too hot, my legs always ached and cramped, and the trash was disgusting. If any child of mine ever tosses a bottle full of pee out of my car window, I swear to Christ they will land wherever that bottle does. I was disgusted by the waste people created, but I was also enraged that I, an innocent, had to clean up after their mistakes. My dad was a big believer in second chances.
Day after day we would spend on those damn highway shoulders, looking like convicts with our skinny silver sticks poking at Coke cans and soggy McDonald’s fries and picking up every cigarette butt and shard of glass that speckled the grass. For me, it was hell. Marcy was too young to really know how to properly complain and my father thought of the whole experience as a treasure hunt.
He would call me over, waving his arm frantically for me to hurry up and look. I would heft my bulging, smelly trash bag over my shoulder and trudge over to see what the hell the old man found this time. Most times, I was unimpressed. Sometimes it was a robin’s egg, held with reverence in my father’s multicolored fingers. Sometimes it was a particularly colorful glass bottle that he would stuff with wildflowers to present to Mom when we got home. But once in awhile, it was something just for me. Like my father had conjured it up, right there on I-44, to show me. A G.I. Joe with an arm missing, making him look even more tough and war-savvy. Or, one time, he found a bracelet woven with my name on it in orange letters—my favorite. I’m wearing it now, even.
But out of all these things, the thing that my father found that I treasure more than anything else was something so normal and commonplace that people laugh. It was a brass key, small and heavy in my ten-year-old hands. He waved me over as usual and when I got to him, he looked at me, his lips pressed tight but his eyes twinkling.
“I have something for you, Lucas.”
“Dad, I already have enough bottles, can we just go—”
“Lucas. This is important. This isn’t a bottle or a Hot Wheel or a Lincoln Log. This is something that’s not a toy. It’s something you’ve got to keep for the rest of your life.”
With that, my attention was grabbed. He solemnly took my hand, opened it, and dropped the key. I looked up at him, confused.
“You are the one who holds the key. The key to your happiness, the key to your sadness. The key to your triumph and the key to your failure. You open all the doors, Lucas, and you must have the wisdom to know which doors you must also lock.”
And before I could make some smartass remark that would likely haunt me to this day, he turned away to Marcy, handing her a pink plastic Barbie shoe, and that was that.
Andrew never went to our romps because Mom worried he would run out in traffic. In a way, he was lucky. The sweat never rolled down his back, stinging his sunburns. He never had his friends drive by and ask later if you were a criminal. He never had trash thrown at him from a passing car and he never had to hear the rollicking laughter zoom by. But he missed a part of my dad that no one really gave notice to. The part that saw things that were worth so much and yet seemed to matter so little.
It sickens me to know that I wasn’t there but I could have been. Hindsight is twenty-twenty but my God I feel so blind. He called me, you know? He called me up when I was taking my daughter Lucy out of her crib. I answered, cradling the phone with my neck, hefting her up clumsily. He wanted to know if I wanted to go Highway Scavenging, as he affectionately called it. I had time. My wife was going to be home any minute. I hadn’t seen him in a month or so. I had time.
But I was embarrassed. People at work saw my dad riding his bicycle nearby. They knew he came in asking for the lost-and-found bin. They didn’t know who he was to me. They called him the Bike Bum. Someone muttered the name Hobo Howl. And I laughed beside them, in my immaculate suit with no holes, drinking my sugared-up cup of coffee in a mug that had no cracks. I stood beside the people who knew nothing about my father and I laughed with them.
So I told him no, I couldn’t come. I had Lucy to babysit because Jess wasn’t coming home for another three hours. I asked him had he called Marcy? Maybe Andrew? He said he wanted to ask me first, that he missed me, and to give his love to my daughter and my wife. And that was the last time I spoke to Howl Richards, my father. I hung up, feeling guilty, but relieved.
He was hit by a truck, bending over to pick up a pink glass bottle for my mother. The trucker was texting while driving, swerved, and that was that. He’s fine. Incredibly depressed. But fine.
If I was there, I could have saved him. I could have called to him, waving my arms frantically for him to come over. But instead, I was home, rinsing out a coffee cup and listening to the game play in the next room. I could have saved him.
I know that my father would have wanted me to move on from this. To lock the door of guilt in my life and to open the doors of forgiveness and progress. But how I ache for him. How I yearn to tell him that I saw the beauty in him even when I kept tossing him aside. I know we’re all filled with regrets when people pass. It’s as if my lungs are crowded with words I’ve held back for thirty years. I suppose I can walk to the cemetery with Lucy, clear the weeds from his headstone, and leave little treasures I find. My only hope is to instill my father’s love for the little things that matter in my own child, even if she hates me or is embarrassed of me. I want her to open doors to discovery and purpose. I want to start fresh with her, because, well, my father was always a big believer in second chances.