On Losing a Daughter . . . . to College

It should be easier, to send child number two to college. Reverse separation anxiety, child leaving parents, not vice versa. This should have worked itself out of my system, shouldn’t it?

            I should rejoice that she is departing for her life’s grand adventure, especially since she wasn’t the easiest child to parent. There was sass, a season of dishonesty. A lack of enthusiasm for chores, a regular pile of clothing to press. Much chauffeuring.

            And yet, she’s not just my daughter; she’s my friend. She adores art and music and fashion and theater. Me too. We can talk for hours on those things or the mysteries of human behavior. I enjoy her. I can’t imagine her not here.

~~~~~

Half a lifetime ago I didn’t even think I wanted children, maybe not even a husband. I thought I was New York City-bound, an advertising executive to be. Surely someone would pay me scads of money upon graduation, based on my cleverness and lively personality.

            I was wrong. As they say, first comes love, then comes marriage (Who wouldn’t marry their best friend if the best friend asked?), then comes the pushing of the baby carriage.

            Children were never my plan. I figured I could talk the husband, who wanted six babies, out of his madness. Instead I found myself consenting to have one, just one, “for you.” I wonder if he was devastated by that word: one. Or did he know there’d be no way I could stop there?

~~~~~

I try to imagine life with only the boy child here. The money we were paying for her voice lessons can go into his college fund. I won’t have to buy tiny tubs of hummus for her lunches. There will be no more driving her six blocks down the hill to high school at seven in the morning because, “I’m wearing heels, Madre.”

            There won’t be any more sitting beside her at the kitchen table as she methodically dices avocados, bell peppers, and onions, cilantro and jalapenos for her fabulous guacamole. No more trips to the consignment shop where she tells me I bring her luck. No more listening to her belt, “I Dreamed a Dream” over and over in the shower for thirty minutes or more.

            When a child leaves home, life may become easier, but it will also be harder.

Daughter Dearest

The phone in the kitchen demands attention.

            I sprint to answer it, holler through the house as I run. “I got it.” I grab the mustard receiver from its wall mount and press it to my ear. “Hello?”

            “Hey. What’re you doing?” It’s Karen, my best friend. She only lives a block away but it’s too cold and too late on a school night to meet on the corner to yack. I stretch the phone cord taut and huddle, legs criss-crossed-applesauce, in a corner of the dining room. 

             I cover my mouth so Mom can’t hear me. “Algebra, but it can wait. What’re you doing?”

            Karen and I chat for over an hour. Even though supper was ages ago, Mom doesn’t leave the kitchen. At one point I hear her announce to no one in particular, “Think I’ll make Toll House cookies.”

             More than once I spy her shadow as she hovers near the doorway. I twist myself even closer to the china cabinet, tuck the phone between me and the wall. 

~~~~~~~       

One day during my lunch hour in downtown Cincinnati (I lived and worked there in the 80s), I was walking toward Fountain Square and these two gals—mother and daughter—came at me, arm in arm. The younger woman’s grin was the spitting image of her mom’s.   When I stepped in front of them, they stopped walking and talking, their limbs suddenly stiff, their eyes wide.

            The mom gathered her girl close. “Yes?”

            “You all don’t know how lucky you are,” I said. I swatted my hand at their togetherness. “I wish— I wish me and my mom were like you two.” I blinked away the burn of close tears.

            In that moment, they seemed to melt. The mother reached out tentatively, rested her manicured hand on my forearm.

            “Why, you should tell her that, honey. Surely she wants the same.”

            I bit my lip and shook my head. “Nah, we’ll never be like you two. Enjoy what you have.” Before they could say anything else, I ducked inside Lazarus Department Store.

~~~~~~~

A couple years back, I got to thinking about the Ten Commandments, the one that says honor your father and mother.  I did okay with Dad but Mom was different. We were never  close but that afternoon as I puttered around the house, I thought maybe, just maybe, things'd be better if I came up with a list of good stuff I remember instead of . . .  

            I arranged myself, my journal, and fountain pen at the dining room table, cradled a mug of coffee, drew its hazelnut steam into my nostrils. Seconds then minutes passed as I tapped my pen on my front teeth, crinkled my forehead, and waited for good stuff to arrive. Then all of a sudden, there it was: good stuff.

            I like scallops, but Mom loved them first.

            My mother adores stories. I do too.     

            Mom used to take me shopping and in between Stone and Thomas and Nassar's, at McCrory’s five and dime, we'd order club sandwiches, wavy Lay's potato chips, and made-in-front-of-you cherry Cokes.

            "This'll pick us up," Mom always said.

            In the evenings, we’d sit side by side on the sofa and she’d teach me how to embroider. My French knots never got as good as hers.

            My mother was a nurse. I never told her but I thought that was pretty cool. She got so freaked out when my brothers beat each other up, it was hard to believe she could stomach blood and guts. From the hallway outside her bedroom, I used to watch her bobby pin her stiff and quirky nurse’s cap into her dark curls. No one told me how much I resembled her, not till years later.

            Sometimes we'd dress up and drive downtown to the Elephant Room in the Hotel Frederick for lunch. I’d clutch the armrests of my chair as the sweet, super old waiter with shiny mahogany skin scooted my chair in. I’d peek under the snowy table cloth to watch my patent leather Mary Jane shoes dangle above the plush, crimson carpet.

            When the waiter asked for our drink orders I’d cross my gloved hands in my lap and peer up at him.

            "May I have a Shirley Temple, please? With two maraschino cherries on a pink plastic sword?"

            Every year, out in our backyard when the weather warmed, Mom showed me how to grow lilies of the valley, zinnias, and Shasta daisies.

            "Poke your finger inside there," she'd say as we crouched beside a clump of snapdragons. "It's like a tiny mouth, don't you think?”          

            On summer mornings our Keds sneakers would leave green trails in the silver dew as we made our way to the pussy willow bush on our property’s edge. Mom would smile as she stroked the furry catkins.

            "Don't they feel like kitten paws?"

            I don't remember Mom saying no much.

            "Since I'm in fourth grade now, can I have my birthday party at the roller rink?” I asked her that one night as I sliced green olives for the salad.

            “That sounds fun.”

            One evening as we watered the garden I presented her with my heart’s desire.

            "Can I take horseback riding lessons with Karen? I checked, a half hour lesson costs ten bucks."

            “I think we can manage that.”

            “I’ve had my driver’s license a month now. Is it okay if I take the car tonight?”

            “Ask your father.”

            “Can I go to Myrtle Beach with Suzy, Stretch, and Natalie after graduation?”

            “Is it okay with their folks?”

            Mom did tell me no once, after she found Suzy's Eve cigarettes in my room, in a drawer, under my undies.

            "Do not ever, ever smoke cigarettes,” Mom said. Her mouth was a thin, coral-colored line. “You'll die of cancer. My best friend from high school's husband had to get a talk box put in his throat because of cigarettes."

            “But you smoke.”

            “That’s beside the point.” I whimpered as she gripped my wrist hard and marched me into the bathroom.          

            "But Mom, they're not mine. Suz— This girl I know asked me to hold them for her and I forgot to give ’em back. I swear."

            She pursed her lips and squinted. "Nice try. Now flush them this instant. I mean it.”

~~~~~~~

For the past few years, from time to time, I’ve been sending her my stories, some of them real, some not. I fold then crease them, tuck the pages into the stamped and addressed envelopes and hand them to the mailman. It’s wonderful to get real mail these days, not just bills. I wonder if Mom feels like she’s getting a present when she opens her mailbox and sees a letter from me?    

            When the phone rings these days I squint at the caller I.D. screen. Is it her? What’d she think of the last story I sent? Did she think I did good?

            “I liked your latest story,” she told me just the other day. “You’re getting better, you know.”

            Now here I sit with this one. And a stamped addressed envelope. It’s almost Mother’s Day. To send or not to . . . 

Afraid Again . . . Naturally

I am afraid. Again. An ordinary woman with extra ordinary concerns, surely more than the average female.

            The fear comes to greet me each time a child prepares to fly-be-free. Anxiety bids me to taste it and I obey, cannot resist though I know the flavor hasn’t changed, has not improved one whit since the last time.

            Afraid’s mouthfeel is that of rust, peat moss, a scab slicked by a child’s tongue then dried by the wind. Burnt Sienna Crayon flaked on a box grater. A crushed cigarette eaten with no water to wash it down.

            Is all fear—of life, not death—like this? Suffocating, strangling? Causing one to quake like corn kernels in a heated and covered pot, skittering frenetically in order to avoid death by drowning in high temperature olive oil (not canola oil as it is really RAPEseed oil).

            Surely death, or considerable damage at the very least, is inevitable if I grant my fists permission to unfurl. Instead I clutch my balled hands in my lap, relocate them after a time to beneath my thighs so as to prevent their becoming manacles around her delicate wrists, the means by which I hold her here, close to my heart, gasping for breath.

            All I want is one person to acknowledge my angst, recognize it as a higher form of love. I need someone to watch me cup my hand over my mouth to silence my sobs, my keening. Will someone please applaud as I murmur, “You can be anything, accomplish whatever you set your mind to. I’m sure of it.”

            For eighteen years I’ve known this was coming, the severance of a second umbilical cord, this one invisible—a rope of me, her, her papa, and God—encased in a gleaming moist sheath which is love. It thrums with the possibility that each goodbye may be the last. Unseen hands tug the strand from “gone forever” to “wildly successful and full of joy.”

            Someone please fetch that box over there, the one lacquered almost black with open heart pink satin lining. Inside I’ll arrange the grayed strips of paper which when ordered correctly read: I can take better care of her than she can, He can.

            Now I need a brick, a hammer, or a gun so I can obliterate the square in one fluid WHAM! Next I’ll locate a sheet of diaphanous yet metallic vellum and a pen with silver ink. At the dining room table I’ll make loops and swirls on scratch paper to guarantee flow then I’ll form calligraphy letters big as baby fingers: I TRUST. After I trim the statement, the affirmation, I’ll fold it again and again till it’s the size of a vein, a whisper.

            Where is the wee velvet box my husband snapped open on a pier over the ocean two decades plus ago? I’ll tuck my trust wisp into its white satin cleft, let the lid bite shut then nestle it at the bottom of a fireproof chest hidden in the secret place. Surely it, she, will be safe then . . . 

*Tamper Resistant*

I woke up early today. Tiptoed downstairs. Rattled scoops of dry food into pet bowls. Slurped yogurt and crunched toast. After that I headed for the calendar, knowing I shouldn't. I couldn't help it though. The days and weeks seem to possess some crazy gravitational power. In my defense, I did white-knuckle-grip the kitchen table but in the end, the calendar won. I counted the squares—27. Collapsed onto a kitchen chair. Pressed a cloth handkerchief to my nose. Lately I've made sure there's one in every room.
            In 27 days you, my oldest daughter, will make like John Denver and leave on a jet plane. Fly halfway around the world. For three whole months. To do good things. You'll come back for 30 or 40 days then off you'll go again. For another long, long time.
            I feel as if I've been diagnosed with something awful.
            "It's bad," the doctor in my mind says. "We're going to have to cut out a third of your heart. The other two thirds are fine. For now. They won't have to come out for, let's see . . . three years and seven, respectively."

After lunch I climbed the stairs. Squinted when I passed your little brother's room. He was flopped on his bed, dressed, a pillow over his face. I went to him, laid my hand on his shin. He peeked out, his eyes small and red.
            "What's up, bud?"
            "They wouldn't let me play Capture the Flag," he said.
            I sat beside him and twirled one of his silver-blonde curls around my finger.
            "I'm sorry."
            He rubbed his nose with his palm. "It's not so much they wouldn't let me play," he said. "It's more that— She'll be leaving soon and . . ."  His voice trailed off.
            "It's what's supposed to happen," I told him (and me) as I stroked his lightly furred, 10-year old limbs. "Kids grow up. They start hanging out more with friends than family. Then they go away."
            He buried his face in my side. I scrunched his hair with my berry-colored fingernails.
            "It's normal but that doesn't make it easier, does it?"
            I felt his no against my ribs. We lingered there for a minute. Silent. He pillowed his face again. I patted his leg and stood.
            Out in the hall my nose burned, then my eyes. It didn't take long for them to give up the tears that seem always ready these days. I know I hurt, but my little guy does too?  That feels somehow heavier. My sadness plus his grief equal more.
           

"When you left for college, your dad got depressed."
            I'd smiled when Mom told me that a few years back. "Really?"
            That is so sweet. I'd put my hand over my heart. Imagined his light blue eyes. The way they almost disappeared into the nearby crowsfeet when he smiled. He loved me that much?  Awww.
            Now it’s happening to me. I suppose it's that whole what-goes-around-comes-around thing. I thought about it as I made my latte after lunch. I pressed hard on the tamper. "Apply approximately 30 pounds of pressure," the espresso machine directions said.
            “I'd have to apply way more pressure than 30 pounds to tamp down all the stuff inside me right now,” I told the kitchen. “I'd need to practically put my whole weight to it. To hide it.”

            See, I don't want you to notice how close to the surface my tears are. My fears are. Thing is, this is your time. This is the biggest, best thing you've ever done. Going south of the equator? To teach English to golden children with glossy, no moon night hair? You're looking as forward to your adventure as I am dreading it. I don't want you to worry about me. To feel guilty that I'm such a wreck.
            Sometimes I step into the dining room. Gaze into the mirror over the mantle and smile. Well, I try.

            "I toured Europe for a summer when I was 22," I say. "Now it's your turn." 
            I stand there, mouth hitched up on one side until I think of something else.

            "And your cousin, Rachel?  She's been a nanny in England and Spain. Spent a year in Buenos Aires too. If she can do it, so can you." 
            I came up with another one yesterday. "In eight months all your travelling will be done and you'll be home for good." I cupped both sides of my face and grinned. A minute later I had another thought and my shoulders sagged.
            "But then you'll be off to college," I said. "At least there you'll only be four hours away instead of half a world."
            Half a world away. Where I can't fix you supper, pet your Pantene-scented curls, take care of you if you get sick. What if you get sick, baby?
             Then there were tears. Again. I'd dug my fingertips into my wet eyelids and hissed.

            "I'm not going to drink any more water. Ever. Then you'll go away. Dry up. Right?"

Tonight after supper, I phoned my best friend from high school. She has a grown up girl of her own. I hadn’t planned on sobbing but I did.

            “She'll be fine," my friend said. "She’s a good girl. Super smart. She’ll do fine.”

            I sniffed, nodded, hung up. So she wouldn’t hear my crying hiccups. I decided weeping’s like Advil when I have the flu. It helps for about four hours then the symptoms—tears, runny nose, urge to clutch at my heart—return. When I’m heartsick, the tears are always there, simmering, just below the surface. Threatening to uncurl my eyelashes and wend little creeks through my blush.
            Oh, heaven’s. Look at the time. It's after midnight now. You know what that means, don't you?  Just 26 more days.

What If?

How can this be commonplace? The giving away of my child to other countries, other cultures, another mother even, on the other side of the world.

            It seems to get easier each time but really, it just takes me longer to arrive at what if. What if . . . What if this is the last time I see you? Ever.

            Why do you never glance back after you pass through the metal detector? From that far away you can’t see how damp my face is or hear my sobs. Besides, I’ve gotten to where I can cry almost noiselessly. Really.

            Between the security queue and your email saying, “I’m here,” I hold my breath. My lungs become shiny with pressure, I’m sure of it. When I glimpse at last your Skype smile, I unclench. Sag. Exhale. Turn away for a few seconds to press my shirttail to my tears.

+++++++

Does she offer you coffee in the morning? Your host mother? Or perhaps she already discovered your predilection for cocoa. Has she reached across the table to twirl the gleam of one of your Popsicle curls? Or run her finger pads over the inside of your arm—to check if North American skin feels the same as South American?

            I wonder if she will ask about me? Or Papa? Has she inquired if you have siblings? Perhaps you’ll accompany her to a quaint, open-air café in a square that looks out on a centuries-old, stone-cobbled thoroughfare. You’ll open your compact pink computer and display us, your home, your life.

            Let her see the picture of you and me, silly at two in the morning the night before that one Thanksgiving. Counters and floor littered with saged croutons. Grins smeared with brown sugared sweet potatoes. You know, the shot you won’t show anyone because it makes your left eye seem slightly squinty. I love that photo. I look young. And so in love. With you.

+++++++

What if you meet him there? The love of your life. You could come face to face with him any day now. Maybe waiting in line to pay for a mug of boiling milk and a chocolate bar to melt into it.

            We’d have to wait, let’s see, fifty some days to meet him. Or you could Skype us with him beside you. The blush of your cheek would rest against the wide-open friendliness of his face. And maybe he’d pick up your hand and press it to his lips or heart. Papa and I would grip each other’s legs under the computer desk, where you couldn’t see. I’d try very hard not to say anything to embarrass you in front of him.

            Really, it could happen. Just last week Grandma said, “She’s going to come back with a husband. Just you wait.” Sometimes those random odd things she spouts come to pass.

+++++++

I’ve noticed lately that when you come home, it’s to visit, not to live. Not anymore. It’s as if we, your family, dwell in a prison of the ordinary. This house, this street, this town. There’s no mystery here. Just the constraint of familiarity. Fast food joints, banks, and carwashes. Mountains like hills when compared. Here there’s no four-mile wide waterfall or beach a morning’s stroll away.

            It’s odd and uncomfortable, the feeling of your life eclipsing mine. Forgive me, daughter, for I have sinned. I covet your every-day-is-different, fascinating life. I long to be the exotic minority—with fair skin and light eyes—not the mundane majority. I want to sample things new and savory—ruby and emerald sauces, dissolve-on-the-tongue protein sources (Don’t tell me what it is. Please don’t. Shhhh!). I want to caress handpainted creations in the marketplace and say, “¿Cuánto?” Instead, I purchase toilet paper, write out the mortgage check, and load the dishwasher.

           

+++++++

The fact of the matter is that this giving away of children is commonplace. Every day young men and women leave their parents to make their way in the world.  Even so, at each major point of departure I don’t think I’ll ever stop my almost noiseless weeping. Or my asking of what if.

Then I Saw Her Face

“Hey lady, did I yank you away from a hot date?”

            That's what I wanted to ask the nurse midwife. She was supposed to be rubbing my back. Spooning ice chips into my mouth. Instead, she leaned against the wall in her periwinkle scrubs. Kept snapping her gum.

            "For crying out loud,” I said. “I’m almost all the way dilated. Think you can get over here and break my water or something? So we can get this party started?"

            She uncrossed her arms and shrugged. "Sure."

            The long crochet hook-looking instrument felt cold against my thigh. The urgent rush of fluids almost burned me. Within moments, hard labor ensued and I wished I hadn't been so eager for the party.

            The tears came. Then the cussing. I gripped the bedside rails. Spoke through the fence of my teeth.

            "I know I said I didn’t want an epidural,” I told Frosty the Snow Midwife, “but on second thought, I do. ’Cause this feels like I'm pooping out a globe."

            My husband petted my hair. "There, there. Won't be long now."

            I heaved myself up on my forearms. Flung eye knives and words in his direction.

            "Get your face out of mine. You're stealing my breath."

            Twenty minutes later, twenty minutes after Mother’s Day 1995 was over in fact, you slipped into the world. Looked like a mini golden buddah. Except you weren't bald. You had heaps of black hair that stood on end once they wiped you dry.

            Later, when I was alone with you, I plucked off your pink pompommed baby cap and twisted your hair into little Billy Idol, standup spikes. Whispered into your wee and warm, almost purple ear.

            “I have no idea what you’re gonna be when you grow up, Flower Doll, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be awesome.”

           

For some reason, when you hit six months, you stopped growing.

            "Is there a history of growth disorders in your family?” The young doctor asked me that. Didn't rest her hand on my shoulder, pat my knee, or anything.

            I lifted you off the exam table. Clutched you close to my heart.

            "I'll ask around,” I said, “and get back to you."

            Thing was, you were such a mellow baby. You never yelled. You didn’t pitch fits. Not for a diaper change. Not because you were hungry. I just fed you whenever I remembered.

            After that appointment though, I did everything everyone told me. Drank fennugreek tea. Set an alarm for every three hours to nurse you. Guzzled a shot of Guinness Stout every day. Bit by bit, you grew. Not a lot, but enough to smooth out the ditches in the young pediatrician's forehead.

           

When you were two, you wore a dress every day. And a high ponytail. That's the way it had to be. And those red glitter Mary Jane shoes from WalMart? You wore them out because you loved Dorothy. And her little dog too.

            You didn't talk much until you hit three and then it was like your mouth was a river and someone released the locks and dam. There was no way we could stop the words from gushing. Sometimes we sat you in the dining room while we ate. To give our ears a rest.

            Right before you started kindergarten, I cut your hair. I couldn't get a brush through it without you needing a timeout, so I located my big, blue sewing scissors and sheared off six inches of brunette shine. I still have it. In a jar, on a shelf, in the TV room.

            When you were in first grade, you let me know where babies come from. Some ornery boy had told you all about it on the school bus. Right after he kissed you, French style. I heard that and thought, "Oh, so this is why some people homeschool."

            I remember your first sleepover. “She’s so funny,” the mom said when I picked you up. “We videotaped her. In case cable ever goes out."

            You’d informed her of your plans to adopt a Chinese baby girl someday.

            "'Cause I know where babies come from, and no sperm’s getting in this body!"

 For five years you wanted to be a marine biologist. "I’ll take my pet rat down in my sumbarine every day and I'll live with you and Daddy forever."

            "Sub-marine,” I said as I tucked the covers under your chin. “And just so you know, sweetheart, there's no ocean in West Virginia."

            "I don't care."

            One day you didn't want to be a marine biologist anymore.

            "Drama's my thing," you assured us.

            That didn’t surprise us one bit, but five years and a dozen plays later, you squirmed out of the grip the stage had on you.

            “I’ve decided to get a PhD in history,” you announced one night at the supper table, “with an emphasis on World War II, specifically The Holocaust. I’m going to be a history professor.”

            My gaze met your dad's and we grinned. I leaned toward you. Secured a hank of your brunette shine and twirled it around my pointer finger.

            “Whatever you end up doing, Flower Doll, making history or teaching it, I’m pretty sure you’ll be awesome.”

          

*Fast Dogs* Part III

"Are you praying for them to come home, Daddy?" Middle Child asked my husband at dinner that night. He glared at her. She twisted in her chair to face me.
            "Are you praying for the dogs to come back, Mommy?"
            I didn't look up from my pork chop. "Sort of."

            All three kids gawked at me. "Sort of?”  
            “What kind of answer is 'sort of''?" Middle Child said.
            I took my time answering. "You know how God knows everything?"
            The kids nodded.
            "Well, I reckon he knows part of me is worn out. Worn down. Doesn't necessarily wanna keep doing this forever. If I pray for them to come back, it's kinda like a lie, so why bother?"
            Middle Child's eyes were shiny, her voice all quivery. "You really don't want 'em to come back?"
            A tear dropped off one of her tarantula leg eyelashes.

            "How can you say that? What if they get hit by a car? What if they get picked up by some weirdo, freaky animal testing lab that wants to try out hair dye on 'em?"
            I huffed. "Oh, the drama of it all! I'm just being honest here! You know what I'd like? I'd love for them to be found by someone with a big ole farm where they could run all day, every day. That's what I'm thinking . . . Hoping."
            Middle Child Drama Girl slapped the table with both hands. We all jumped.
            "I've got it!" she said. She stabbed her chest with her pointer finger. "I'm going to fast!"
            My mouth fell open. My husband's too. Drama Girl nodded, her eyes wide.         
            "Fasting is what people did in the Bible when they really wanted to get God's attention, so that's what I'm gonna do."
            My husband's fork clanked as it hit the glass table top. He picked it up and pointed at her with it. 

             "You, little missy, are too young and small to fast. Who knows how long they'll be gone? What if they never come back? You could starve."
            Drama Girl crossed her arms and blew air out her nose. "I'm not going to fast eating, Daddy," she said. "I'm going to fast TV. I'm not going to watch another show until the dogs come back. So there."
            That night she stayed in her room reading while the rest of us watched High School Musical on the Disney channel.
            I lay in bed that night, squinting at the ceiling. "God, you know my heart. You know I'm so tired of those long-legged, Beagle howling, slut puppies and their gosh darn running away. You are fully aware I'd only be a little sad if I never saw them again."
            I sighed before I went on. "But the kids, God . . . The kids want them to come home. For their sake, could you please bring the doggies back? Please? Amen."

After school the next day, the kids and all their neighborhood buddies combed the nearby streets and yards. They returned after an hour.
            "Any luck?" I said, as I arranged a bowl of pretzels and cups of lemonade on the kitchen table.
            They all shook their heads and looked at their laps.
            A little while later, the kids were donning their jackets to leave when one of the oldest kids peeked out the kitchen door window.
            "Hey! Hey, you guys! Little Paint's home! She's on your back porch.”
            I cracked the back door and there she was, what was left of her anyway. The once stout and strong brown dog seemed to have lost at least fifteen pounds. Her fur looked like someone had blown their nose in it. She was panting, her tongue hanging out like a strip of raw bacon. Her tail wagging made her body sway side to side.
            When I opened the screen door, she stumbled in.  As soon as she plopped down on her blanket, she was covered with almost a dozen kids—a dog pile, for real.
            "Careful," I said, wrinkling my nose. "She may have rolled in cow poo."
            They didn't care. They petted and kissed and stroked every inch of her.
            I phoned my husband at work. "You're never gonna guess what just happened."
.           "They didn't."
            "Little Paint did."
            "No way."
            "Way," I said. "Guess Drama Girl's fasting got God's attention after all."
            "Guess so," my husband said. "Wonder what happened to Daisy May?"

The next morning, I discovered Daisy on the back porch. Curled in a tight ball, nose under her tail. I drummed my fingers on the window. She looked up and blinked a couple times. Her tail started thumping. Slow at first, then faster.
            When I opened the door, she stepped in gingerly. "Did the pavement shred your paw pads?" I asked, only a little bit mean.
            I leaned over the baby gate that kept the dogs in the kitchen at night.

            "Kids!" I said, loud enough to reach the third floor. "The other prodigal pup has returned."
            The kids thundered down two flights of stairs, making the artwork on the walls tremble. They flopped on Daisy as they had sprawled on Little Paint the day before. Daisy didn't look quite as bad. I figured she was only five pounds lighter.
            Little Paint glared at the welcome home party from across the kitchen. Seemed she kind of liked being an only dog. A few minutes later though, she made her way to the blanket. She growled at Daisy for a bit before I gave her the evil eye and told her to hush.
            I poured a splash of my good olive oil into a small bowl and handed it to the kids. 
            "Rub this on their paw pads,” I said. I didn't miss the snide look little Miss Drama Girl gave me beneath her substantial lashes.

            Both dogs rolled onto their backs, their legs stiff in the air, as if to offer their paws for pampering.
            My son laid his head on Little Paint's ribcage like it was a pillow.
            "You were right, Mommy."
            "'Bout what, sweetie?"
             "They came back. Just like you said they would."
             "Yep," I said. "They always do. They're like cats, these two. They seem to have nine lives. I'm just worried one of these days their lives are gonna run out."

                                  

Wretched . . . Pitiful



I sat opposite my father. Clamped my lips to stifle the sob working its way up and out. I gripped my ribs and rocked. My smart daddy.

            I glanced at my husband. “He’ll never smile again. Ever.”

            I jumped up. Scraped the tears from my cheeks. Pierced my hair with my fingers. Paced beside Dad’s Geri-Chair.

            “For crying out loud, he’ll never even walk again,” I said. “Look at him, He’s wretched. Pitiful.”

             A skim of tears shone in my husband’s eyes as he studied my father’s blank expression.

            I rattled Dad’s tray. Locked tight to his wheel chair. “Look at this! It’s a prison. On wheels.”

            I laid my hands on my father’s head. Like I was blessing him.

            “His hair is filthy,” I said. “When was the last time he was bathed?”
            Behind me, Tony rested his hands on my shoulders. “He can still hear, you know.”
            I whirled. Glared. “Hear what?” I said. “Blah, blah, blah! That’s all he hears. What good are three degrees now? When he doesn’t even know his own daughter?”
            I knelt before my dad. Gripped the surface where he outlined circles. Over and over.

            “Who am I?” I said. “Who am I, Daddy? Say it! Say my name!”

            My father didn’t move. Didn’t blink. I crumpled beside him. A moment later I scrambled to my knees in front of him. Stilled his pointer fingers with my palms.

            “It’s me, Daddy,” I said. “Remember me? How you used to call me Diane Sue with a Tin Lizzy too?”

            I smeared snot with my sleeve. Snatched the rumpled tissue Tony offered. Honked into it. I reached out and grabbed the sides of my father's stained bib. Yanked hard.

            “No bib!” I spat. “No daddy of mine, and certainly not one with a degree from Harvard, is going to wear a stupid, stinking bib.”

            Tony tapped my shoulder. I turned. Looked up.

            “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll come back next Sunday. Maybe he’ll be better then.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the Trifecta Writing Challenge, you should write a creative response using the given word. You must use the word in your response, and you must use it correctly.  Your response can be no fewer than 33 and no more than 333 words. Your response can be anything—from fiction to poetry and everything in between. We're looking for creativity, thoughtfulness, and attention to detail. That being said, we do not disallow posts for any particular reason. We're not easily offended--you do what you've got to do to get your story told. Be artsy; be creative; stretch yourself. Write until your fingers bleed. We want to see your guts spilled out on the page. Once you have written a response, you must then post it to your blog and enter your blog's url in the linky form on Trifecta's home page. Today's word is WRETCHED.

No-Hell-Boy

I know some think he’s awful. That he’ll probably go to hell. After all, he says there is no such place. Insists there’s no way, no how a loving God would condemn all naysayers to languish in the lake of fire ever more. Proves his point with plucked phrases like "He desires none to perish” and “He’s making all things new.” Etcetera.

            Let me tell you something. God can do anything. Use anyone. For his purposes. For his kingdom. When I listened to no-hell-boy teach the parable of the unmerciful servant, I was pierced. Crushed. For my transgressions. For the lack of forgiveness (and honor) I have shown my own mother.

            After I said I do to the ultimate bridegroom, I went through the world doling out forgiveness to everyone. Like trick-or-treat candy. Freely. With a winsome smile. “Here. Take some more.” To everyone but the woman who groaned me into existence. Gnashed her teeth through my unruly and mean-spirited adolescence. So much almost-black, close to redemption-is-impossible in that house.

            But the God of new mercies daily broke through anyway. Found the crack under the garage door only the pill bugs knew. Ascended to live with us. One at a time. Four down, two to go, except one already went. Away.

            She was last. My mother. My sister in the faith. I extended my left hand to welcome her to God’s family. Grimaced when the fingernails on my right hand bit into my palm. Made a wound there. Which I ignored. I refused to drop the everything-bad-in-my-life-is-because-of-you rock. To the ground.

            For years when the Spirit prompted, “You should—“ I interrupted. “I’m sorry, God. You can’t go into that one room in my heart basement. Seems I misplaced the key.”

            Then no-hell-boy taught what he taught. And I wept. Through blind no more eyes. Fell to the floor. Slow blinked at the ceiling with drenched eyes. I held up my pointer finger.        
           “Give me just a second, Lord. To take off this mask. To wipe away this white paint.”

            I stood. Wobbled. “I need to go downstairs. And outside. So I can hurl this stone. Far, far, away.”

*To Make Her Smile*

Tawny was rolling silverware when the two of them walked in.  Mother and daughter.  She'd watched their white Honda Civic circle the diner three times, looking for the door.  She rolled her eyes.
            "Smile, Tawny," Sue Ann said.  "You get way better tips when you smile."
            The mother tapped the point of her big, rainbow-striped umbrella on the floor as she and her daughter walked beside the row of booths.  They didn't sit until they found a clean one.  Tawny kept rolling.
            Sue Ann bumped Tawny with her hip.  "Tawny, they're in your section."
            Tawny winced.  "You want 'em?  It's five minutes to close."
            "Nah.  I gotta do the bathrooms.  Now get on out there."

Tawny tossed two menus on the table.
            "Evening," she said.
            The mother beamed.  "Howdy."
            The girl smiled too.
            "My name's Tawny.  The specials are on the inside front of the menu."
            The mom tilted her head.  "Tawny?  That's a neat name.  I like it."
            Tawny resisted the urge to sneer.  "What can I get you to drink?"
            "Do you all have sweet tea?" the mom said.
            Dumb question.  Tawny clenched her teeth and nodded.
            "Oh, boy!  You know you're in the south when you can get sweet tea."
            Tawny turned to the girl.
            "Water, please." 

Tawny headed back to the kitchen.  Tawny's a neat name?  No, it's not.  A long time ago she'd looked it up.  It meant a light brown to brownish orange.  Nothing about her was tawny.  Her hair and eyes were the same color as the used coffee grounds she dumped out of the Bunn coffee maker umpteen times a day.
            She filled red plastic glasses with ice.  Let the tea and water overflow.  I should tell them how I got my name, my whole name.  Tawny wished she didn't know.  Wished her mom had never told her.  Her mom had seen "Tawny Port" on a bottle at the liquor store and that's how Tawny Port Blevins came to be. 
            Tawny went to the library a few years back and checked out a baby name book.  Someday when she got the time, she planned to change her middle name to Portia.  Tawny Portia Blevins.  Sounds classy.  Like a movie star.
           

Tawny took her order pad out of her apron pocket and headed back out.  The mom and girl were leaning across the table.  Their foreheads almost touched. Tawny cleared her throat.
            "You ready?"
            The mom looked at the girl.  The girl shook her head. 
            "Give us a minute, Tawny," the mom said.
            Tawny huffed and returned to the kitchen.  She grabbed a bus pan, rag, and the bleach water spray bottle.  She walked back out.
            "Country ham or pot roast?" the mom was saying.  "I can't decide."
            "Me either," the daughter said.
            Tawny folded the rag in half twice.  She sprayed and wiped a two top and its chairs.  You rich chicks are killing me.  If I'm not home by nine o'clock, Mr. Skoal Bandits, spearmint-flavored, will have my butt in a sling.  She refolded the rag.  Sprayed and wiped again.
            --Do you know how beautiful you are?--
            Tawny stopped wiping.  She let go of the rag and held her hand up to her mouth.  Again?
            --Do you know how I dread each day coming and going?  Knowing it makes the day you'll be gone forever come faster?--
            Tawny looked at the two of them from under her lashes.  The girl didn't answer.  Tawny knew why.  The mom hadn't spoken out loud. 
            It was the one thing special about Tawny--her ability to sometimes hear people's thoughts.  She couldn't do it until two years ago.  Until Randy drove his fist into her right ear.
            Everything had felt slow motion as she crumpled to the floor.  The room seemed tunnel-like.  The lights far away and small.  The noises all echoey.
            --You're nothing special.  Never will be.  I'd treat a good woman better.  But you're not, so I won't.--
            Tawny had struggled to prop herself up on her elbow.  Her head wobbled. 
            "What?"
            "Shut up!  I didn't say nothing.  Get me another Bud."
            Tawny squinted over at her mom.  She didn't look up from her People magazine.  Tawny pulled herself up using the coffee table.  Headed for the fridge.
           

Tawny stood in front of their booth, her pencil an inch from the pad.  The mom grinned and pointed to her selection on the menu.
            "I'd like the pot roast, green beans, and mashed potatoes, please.  I'd also like an order of coleslaw.  I don't care if it's extra.  I love coleslaw."
            Tawny gritted her teeth, nodded, and wrote.
            --I'm sorry you're so sad, Tawny.--
            Tawny didn't look at the mom.  She bit her lip and turned to the girl.
            "Open-faced turkey sandwich please.  Mashed potatoes and gravy.  And mac and cheese.  Thank you."
            The girl looked up at Tawny.  Tawny pursed her lips.
            --Why don't you smile?  Ever?--
            Tawny took their menus and walked back to the kitchen.

"Order in," she said to Hugh.
            She got the coleslaw container out of the walk-in cooler and scooped some into a side dish bowl.  She wiped her nose with her wrist.  I'll tell you why I'm sad, Mrs. Wear All Black and Lots of Rings.  My mom's lived with us ever since the roof on her place sprung a leak back in October.  Do you know how much that woman eats?  And Randy comes over every night 'cause we have cable.  Says he'll leave at eleven, but he never does.
            Tawny spooned macaroni and cheese into another side dish bowl and stuck it under the heat lamp.  He's there beside me at midnight when my daughter comes in to tell me she wet the bed, again.  And he's there in the morning when I wake up.
            Tawny walked along the stainless steel work surface, pulling a washcloth beside her.  And my daughter?  She won't ever go to college like your girl there with her perfect curls and shy smile.  I won't ever hear her say, 'Mom, I'm scared and excited all at once.  I'm gonna miss you a lot, except for your annoying habit of talking way too much to people you don't know.'
            Sue Ann came over and put her arm around Tawny's waist.  Tawny sniffed and pulled away.  She looked to see if Hugh had put their plates in the window yet.  He hadn't.
            She crossed her arms and stood with her back to the dining room.  That'll never happen to me, 'cause my baby, she'll probably have a baby.  Just like me.  Just like my mom.  And they'll all live with me forever, and I'll have what?  Five mouths to feed?
            "Order up," Hugh said.

Tawny unloaded the tray, dish by dish.
            The mom rubbed her hands together.  "Thank you so much," she said.  "It looks delicious."
            Tawny put the empty tray on the booth bench behind them and started spraying and wiping the table.
            "Good food.  Good meat.  Good God, let's eat." 
            Tawny paused her wiping, then resumed.
            "Oh.  And thank you so much that we didn't have to go over the New River Gorge Bridge."
            Tawny fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers.
            "Oh, and a little less rain tomorrow, please?"
            Dang!  She talks to him like she knows him.
            Tawny turned around.  "How's your supper?"
            The mom looked up.  Stopped chewing.  Swallowed.
            "Oh my goodness," she said.  "This is the best pot roast ever.  I don't even need a knife.  You are such a good cook."
            --Will you smile now?--

Tawny went back to the kitchen.  She glanced at her watch.  Won't be long now.  She emptied the coffee pot into a go cup and pressed on a lid.  She walked back onto the floor and over to their table.
            "You all want dessert?"  Please say no.
            The daughter shook her head.  Tawny looked at the mom.
            "Oh, my heavens, no," she said.  "I'm as full as a tick on a bear's back."
            One corner of Tawny's mouth went up.  Ever so slightly.
            --There.  I almost got you.--

Tawny picked up the empty side dish bowls and carried them into the kitchen.  The coleslaw bowl looked like it had been licked clean.  That's when she got the idea.  Maybe I can do it back.  She rested her elbows on the work surface and squinted at the mom across the divide.
            --Your eyes twinkle.  Like the crystal thingy I have hanging on the rearview mirror in my Dodge.  Randy says all the flashing is gonna make someone wreck some day, and they'll sue me.  I don't care.  It makes me happy and well, not a lot does these days.--
            The mom's eyes searched for and found Tawny.  She smiled and the room seemed brighter.  Tawny put her hand over her heart because it felt like it was coming out of her chest.  She pretended to look down, but then she peered at the mom again, from under her bangs.
            --And I wish--  Never mind.--

Tawny walked out and handed the mom the check.  "You can pay at the register."
            The mom's eyes narrowed, but not in a mad way.  "Thank you."
            Tawny gulped and looked at her shoes.
            --Thank you?  For what?  Did you hear me?  When I looked at you?  And thought real hard?--
            She lifted her head slowly and looked at the mom.  "For what?"
            The mom put her mouth on the straw and sucked the dregs of her sweet tea. 
            "For making us such an awesome supper."
            Tawny looked over her shoulder, toward Hugh and the grill.
            "I didn't--"
            "I know," the mom said.  "I'm just teasing."
           

Tawny watched the big, rainbow umbrella protect the mother and daughter as they walked out to their Honda.  She couldn't hear their thoughts through the glass.  When they got in their car, she moved to bus their table.  The tip was twice the bill.  Under the girl's plate was a note.  "You are special, Tawny.  You are."  She'd underlined are both times.  She'd dotted the i with a heart.
            Tawny looked out into the night.  The Honda was there.  Right outside the window.  They were looking in at her.  She put her hand over her mouth.  The mom grinned.  Flashes of light came into the diner, even though it was night.  Even though there was glass between them.
            The mom and girl waved.   Tawny rolled her fingers.  Her eyes filled and spilled over.  Then she smiled.