Catholic Blog Fiction

"Tale of Manaeth"

2010-02-05T17:26:00.000-08:00

This is an excerpt from Ch. 5 of "Tale of Manaeth" by Philip Campbell. Find out more at http://www.taleofmanaeth.com.

At morn upon the rising of the golden sun, the five lords of Elabaea, Naross of Asylia, Arrax of Paros, Amyntas of Kerion, Hadrior, son-in-law of Ioclus and Garba of Cadarasia sent for a herald and said, "Go and fetch the lady Manaeth and bring her hither. Tell her maidens to wash and anoint her and have her made beautiful, and have her bring with her the shield and spear of Ioclus." The herald went unto the tent of Manaeth and told her maidens, "The lords summon Manaeth to their counsel, but first let her be bathed, anointed and made beautiful, for something great is about to happen." The maids did as they were commanded, and waking lady Manaeth they bathed, cleansed and anointed her with oil. Then Manaeth arrayed herself in a splendid gown of green and was wrapped in a white cloak of ermine, and on her head she wore a silver tiara that was delicate and finely wrought. In one hand she clasped the mighty spear of Ioclus her father, and upon her back she slung his great shield of beaten bronze. Then she came forth from her tent, and her train of maidens with her, and walked through the camp to the meeting place of the five lords. And as she walked, the men of Elabaea emerged from their tents as well, and followed behind her, so that all the company of Elabaea was gathered together about her.

When she approached the meeting place of the five lords, she greeted them pleasantly and would have made familiar with them, but they rose and stood before her solemnly, and she perceived that something was amiss and said, "What is this my lords? Is there more grave news?" But Naross spoke boldly and said, "Lady Manaeth, thou blessed among women of Asylia, come and claim the throne of thy father. Take up his scepter and rule this land in might against our cruel foes. Be our queen in peace and war, and we will pledge troth to thee, to fight for thee and serve thee all thy days as our queen and rightful heir to the house of Ioclus." Then all the men of war gathered around her shouted their assent and clashed their spears and shields.

When Manaeth understood that they purposed to make her queen, her knees trembled and she pleaded with the lords with great cries, begging that she was not worthy for such an undertaking, that as recently as two days ago she had been lost hopelessly in the wilderness, that she had left her family alone and been allowed to live while they suffered death. With many such sayings and a great many tears she protested, but Naross said, "Lady Manaeth, these things were all by providence, that you should be given to us as our ruler in this dire hour. Resign yourself to your fate." When Naross had said this, Manaeth ceased her weeping and assented to all that they proposed and consented to be made Queen of Asylia.

Then horns were blown and all of the men of war assembled on the hill, near where Manaeth and the lords stood. Then seven of the stongest men were brought forth, and they bore Manaeth aloft, sitting her upon the shield of Ioclus her father. Naross took the spear of Ioclus in hand, and began a procession from that spot up to the Stone of Cruachan, which crested the hill about five hundred paces from where they stood. Behind Naross processed Arrax, then Hadrior, then Garba and lastly Amyntas, who walked before Manaeth. Then was carried Manaeth, daughter of Ioclus and heir to the rulership of Asylia. Before her came maidens of great beauty who danced and sung sweet melodies of Asylia in the spring, and behind her marched a solemn column of a thousand warriors, all battle hardened and keen with spear and sword. As they approached the hill, the men began to chant one of the solemn hymns of Asylia, ancient and sonorous, praising the virtues of just lordship and invoking the blessing of heaven upon the young queen...

When the procession reached the Stone of Cruachan, Manaeth removed her shoes and stepped forth from the shield, standing aloft upon the stone, so that she was above all the other lords and men upon the hill top. Then Naross came forth and recited in verse all of the great deeds of the house of Manaeth, from the very beginning unto that day, and all the assembly stood silent with great reverence. And what did Naross sing of that autumn morn? First he sung of the wanderings of Laban in the ancient days, he who came forth out of the east with his kin and established a kingdom in the west, in Elabaea, which is named from Laban. The whole genealogy was recited, how Laban begat four sons who scattered and settled the west, and how it was his grandson, Anrothan, who wed the beautiful maiden Cyréa, and brought forth the Asylian people... Finally the song came down to Manaeth's own day, and of the glories of Ioclus her father in war and peace, how he had slain many Epidymians and killed the great boar of Gihon. When Naross reached the end of his song, he added a new verse, praising the valor of Manaeth and her slaying of the traitor Gygas atop the slopes of Lissus. When the song had ended, everybody stood silent.

Then Manaeth was handed the spear of Ioclus and the mighty shield which she had been born upon, and she took these up in her hands and held them aloft to the winds, invoking their aid in battle. After this she said, "Men of Asylia, never has it been known in the days of our fathers unto our most distant ancestors that a queen has ruled the people of our land. What the lords have done this day in proclaiming me is something new in Asylia, but something that will confound our enemies and bring crashing victory to our cause, though it come at the cost of much spilt blood." Then she decreed that henceforth she should no longer be known as Manaeth, but by the name Manissa, which means "Maid of Asylia." Then all of the men there assembled clashed their spears to their shields and cried out as one, "Hail Manissa, Queen of Asylia! We will serve thee forever!" As they cried, Manissa stood tall upon the stone and seemed to grow in stature and grandeur, so that even Arrax was fearful of her might. And the sun fell and lighted upon her, so that she seemed at that moment to become exceedingly beautiful and glorious, like one of the Mighty Ones of old. And many of the men there bowed their faces to the ground and said, "The beauty of Orianna and Osseia lives in Manissa, and the might of Manx and Orix her forebears!" Never had Manissa appeared so fearsome or beautiful as that day she stood upon the Stone of Cruachan when the Asylians proclaimed her queen.

After all this, Manissa came down from the stone and the whole assembly, lords and common soldiers, had a great feast in honor of the young queen. Then as night fell, Manissa retired to her tent to speak of stratagems with the five lords. And on that night it was decided by them to continue in the plans of Ioclus and make savage war upon Maruda, to utterly drive the men of Caeylon from the land and destroy the oppressive stronghold of Danath Hered. When they had resolved upon this course they drank and made many oaths of loyalty and then retired late after darkness fell. And the shrill winds of autumn night were upon the land.

The Gift of the Tree

2009-12-20T18:14:00.000-08:00

An evergreen sapling stood in the crowded wood, a gentle layer of snow caressing its branches. It was much smaller than the tall stately firs that surrounded it and felt well-protected by their presence. It was safe there; it knew no harm would come to it. The small tree gladly welcomed the birds that would rest on its branches and the woodland animals that sought shelter beneath its boughs. It was a good life.

One day, strangers came into the forest. “Who are they?” the young tree queried an elder fir standing nearby.

“They are a family. They come here each year in the midst of winter to choose one of us.”

“Choose one of us? For what?” The tree was puzzled.

“It is Christmas, my child.”

“Christmas?”

“I will tell you the story, the same way I heard it when I was only a sapling.”

The petite tree could hardly imagine the giant fir being little like itself! It listened intently.

“Many, many years ago, a small child was born in a stable in Bethlehem. It was an amazing night. The angels sang and there was the brightest star ever seen in the night sky. The animals were there and they shared the story with all the other wildlife. This was no ordinary child. This was the Son of God, the God that made us all and this wonderful world we live in. God sent his Son to bring salvation to the world. Each year, the humans commemorate His birthday, the day that tiny baby came into the world. One way they celebrate is by decorating an evergreen tree.”

At that moment, the sound of an ax striking wood resounded through the forest.

“What is that?” the small tree asked, frightened.

“Ahh. The tree has been chosen.”

“Chosen! But they are hurting it! They are killing it!”

“Yes, but it is a great honor to be chosen! To give one’s life to celebrate the One who gave us all life – what could be greater than that? I would have gladly given my life.” The elder tree sighed. “Unfortunately, I am now too old and much too big. It is the younger ones that are chosen – the ones in the prime of their lives.”

The young tree shuddered as the family dragged the chosen one away. “I don’t want to be chosen! I like it here. I don’t want to die!”

“You don’t need to worry about it now! You are still very young.”

The years went by and the small tree had grown into a beautiful fir. Each year, it filled with fear as the family would come. “Please don’t pick me,” it would whisper. Each year, it filled with relief as another was chosen and dragged away.

Another winter came to the forest. This time when the family came, there was a small girl with them. She saw the tree and fell in love. “This one, Daddy!” she cried with enthusiasm as she threw her arms around it. The tree was so scared as the father came over. It could see the gleaming metal of the blade carried over his shoulder.

“Not me. Please, not me,” the tree begged. “Choose another. There are others more beautiful than I. There are others more worthy! There are others who want the job!” But then the tree saw the small girl’s eyes which were so full of excitement and love, and it remembered the words of the wise old tree – to give one’s life for the One who made us all is an honor. The tree took a deep breath. “I can do it,” it thought. “I can be brave.” It felt a sharp pain as the metal crashed powerfully against its trunk. The next thing it heard was the appreciative murmurs of the other trees as it was pulled across the snow. Yes, this year, it was the chosen one.

It was brought to the family’s home. The smiling faces hung ornaments and lights on its boughs. The family sang songs and put wrapped packages underneath its branches. The little girl was lifted up in her father’s strong arms and placed a star on its top. A star – like the one the ancient tree had told him about! The tree had never imagined anything as wonderful as this! It never dreamed it would give such joy! Then, they told the story – the same story of the child’s birth it had been told so many years before.

The tree was filled with warmth and love. Yes, this was an honor. This was its crowning moment. Like all those who give all for the One who made them, the tree was rewarded beyond measure.

by Patrice Fagnant-MacArthur
http://spiritualwomanthoughts.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 13

2009-11-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 13

“So, how is your job search coming?” Mike asked a couple weeks later as we settled in to eating our salads. He had taken me to a cozy restaurant in downtown Springfield.

“Not good. I went and saw Rachel at the library at the other day. She was happy to see me, but unfortunately, my job was filled and there aren't any other openings now. She did say that she would be glad to give me a recommendation. That's something, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I've met your replacement. She seems pretty nice. She isn't you, though.”
“Well, thank you. Yeah, I met her, too. I'm sure she'll work out fine. I'm just not sure what I'm going to do, though. Maybe I should see if this place is hiring. It's not like I don't have waitressing experience.”

“Yeah, but you hate waitressing. You don't want to go back to doing that.”

“No, I don't, but I have to pay the bills somehow. The money I have saved isn't going to last forever.”

“You could publish your novel and become a best-selling author and never have to worry about money again!”

“Hmm, that would be nice. I don't think that I'll hold my breath on that one, however.”

“Well, how about this then?” he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“The college library is hiring?”

“Yeah, I pulled that off the job board when I was there yesterday. I know it's not a children's library so you wouldn't get to do story times or anything and it is just an entry-level job, but there's lots of old books and I know the head librarian really well and you could use my name as a reference. . .”

“Oh, thank you! This is wonderful. Oh, I'm so excited . . .I'll send out a resume first thing in the morning. Working in a college . . .that would be so great.”

“One of the nice perks, too, is after you work there for a year, you can take classes for free, so if you ever wanted to finish your degree . . .”

“Wow, that would be something, wouldn't it? I'm not sure how I would do in the classroom – it has been a few years.”

“You'd do fine. I teach people older than you all the time. Maybe you could even take one of my classes.”

“Oh, I don't know if I am up for that!” He threw a small piece of his breadstick at me. It was so nice to be back around him. I had missed him so very much, more than he could possibly realize.

*****

When we got back to my house, I noticed that Mike pulled a wrapped package out of his backseat before coming in.

“What is that?” I asked once we were inside.

“It's a present – a very belated Christmas present. I hope that you like it.” He handed it over to me. He looked so nervous.

“Are you OK? You don't look so good.”

“I'm fine. Just open it.”

I tore open the paper. Inside was a binder full of paper. I opened the front cover and read.

“Mystery in the Stacks by Michael Duncan. Oh my goodness!” I looked up at him in surprise. “This is your book!”

“Yes, I'd like you to read it.”

“But you never let anyone read your stuff!”

“I know. I thought in this case I might make an exception.”

“I'm honored, really! I can't wait to read it!”

“Well, if you hate it, please don't tell me. I don't think I could take it.”
“I'm sure that I'm going to love it.” He still seemed really nervous.
“Are you sure you're alright?” I asked again.

“Actually, could I have a glass of water or something. It seems like it is really hot in here.”

“Sure, coming right up.” I went and fixed a glass for him.

“If you’re that scared about my reading it, I can give it back to you.”

“No, I'll be fine. No, it's something else. Something I want to talk to you about.” He looked so serious.

“Oh, OK.” I sat down next to him.

“I know this is an awful time for you. You have been through so much recently, you really don't need anything else on your plate right now, but I just can't keep this from you anymore.”

“OK . . .” Please, God. Please don't let him tell me he is dying, too.

“Well, the thing is, . . .” He truly looked like he was going to be sick at any moment. “Maybe I shouldn't say anything.”

“No,” I braced myself for whatever bad news was about to befall me. “Please tell me. I can take it.”

“OK. Here it goes. The thing is . . .” he took a deep breath, “that I am in love with you.”

“You're what?” I asked, a bit too loudly.

“See, I knew I shouldn't have told you! This is bad timing. I'm sorry. I'll go.” He went to grab his coat.

“No, don't go,” I said gently as I took his very sweaty hand in mine. “You took me by surprise, that's all. The way you were looking, I thought you were going to give me another piece of bad news. It was just the last thing I expected to come out of your mouth.”

“So, you're not mad?”

“No, I'm not mad. Not at all. That's the best news I've gotten in a very long time.”

“Oh, good! Because I tried to stop myself because you didn't seem ready to care about anyone again, but ever since that first day I saw you at the library, I haven't been able to get you out of my head. I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I was scared to love again, and then you told me about Alan and I knew the timing was bad, and then you had to leave . . .I think about you all the time and dream of you, and well, there are about four more portraits of you up in my studio. I missed you so much when you were gone, and I would come here, and just sit in your house so that I could feel close to you, and I knew you were hurting and there was nothing I could do, and I hated myself because all I wanted to do was hold you in my arms and kiss you, and I understand if you don't love me, but maybe we could date and see how it goes, and maybe eventually you could love me . . .”

“Mike,”

“Yeah?” he looked at me expectantly.

“I already do.”

I pulled him close to me and melted into his kiss. The whole world seemed to simply fade away. There was just Mike and me and an unknown future I was looking forward to discovering. The window had finally opened. Maybe, just maybe, I would get my happy ending after all.

The End

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 12, Part 3

2009-11-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

We ate Christmas dinner in the living room so that we could all be near Mom. Melissa helped Emily open her presents. Admittedly, the baby wasn't much interested in them. She was more excited about the paper and the boxes which she kept trying to eat! She would get good use out of the toys as she got bigger, though. My mom had also had me pick up a pretty porcelain doll for her for when she was much, much older. She wanted it to be a lasting gift, something that she could appreciate and keep for always. Melissa thought it was beautiful.

“I have some things I want to give to each of you,” my mother began, after Emily was done with all of her gifts.

“Oh, Mom, you didn't need to do that!” Bill and I exclaimed, almost in unison.
“Well I couldn't go shopping, obviously, but there are some special things that I have that I want each of you to have for after I'm gone.

“Melissa, you have been part of our family for the shortest time, but you have been a wonderful addition. I know how happy you have made Bill. That is the most important thing a mother can look for in a daughter-in-law. I also see how much you love that little girl. You are a great mother. I don't have too much, but I would like you to have my jewelry. There are a few really nice pieces that I think would look just lovely on you. My jewelry box is upstairs in my room. Pat can get it for you later.”

“Thank you. That's so kind. . . I really don't know what to say,” Melissa stammered.
“Don't say anything. Just wear it and enjoy it and think of me when you do. Maybe one day you can give some of it to that precious little girl of yours.”

“I will,” Melissa promised.

“Now, Bill,” she looked over at my big brother. “I racked my brain to think of what to give you. I didn't think that you would look very good in any of my sweaters,” she laughed, “although you know that you are welcome to anything that I have. In the end, I decided to write you a letter. Don't open it until after I am gone.” She handed him a thin sealed envelope. He grasped it, his hand shaking. I thought I saw a tear in his eye. There were certainly tears in mine.

“And Lucy, last but not least,” she turned her kind eyes toward me. How I would miss her! “You have been such a comfort to me, and don't think I don't realize what you have given up to take care of me. I could never thank you enough.”

“You don't have to, Mom. I've been happy to do it,” I managed to get out through the lump in my throat.

“I wrote you a letter, too,” and she handed me my own thin envelope. “Same conditions as your brother's.” I nodded. “I would also like you to have that chest over there and all its contents.” She pointed to the chest with the secret
compartment. “It's always meant a lot to me, and I know you'll take good care of it.”

“I will, Mom. I promise,” I said, reaching out for her hand. She held it and squeezed.
*****

My mother died the night of December 30th. She died peacefully, in her sleep. My father said that when he awoke in the morning she was gone. Bill and Melissa hadn't gone home yet. I think she wanted to go while they were still here so that they wouldn't need to make another trip. That was my mother, considerate right to the very end.

It was the second time I had lost someone close to me in less than two years. This time, though, there was no anger to sustain me in my grief. There was only emptiness, only pain where my heart should have been. I knew she was happy. I knew she was better off, that her pain was now over. There was no doubt in my mind that she was with the God she loved so deeply. That gave me some comfort, but how was I supposed to go on without her? That was the question that I had no answer to. I knew my life would continue, just as it had after Alan had died. No matter how much I wanted it to stop, the sun would keep coming up every morning, the days would keep moving along. It all seemed like a cruel joke. Bill had Melissa to lean on. My father was stoic. I knew he was hurting, but he had put up a wall around him and nobody was going to get through. I had nobody. I went for long walks with Lady in an attempt to clear my head, but the emptiness just walked right along with me. I briefly considered going out and getting totally, mind-numbingly drunk. In the end, I decided it wouldn't help.

I called Mike the day after the funeral to let him know. I had spoken to him a few times since I had been back home, mainly when I had driven into town and could call him on my cell. The old phone that my parents had in the middle of their kitchen didn't allow for a whole lot of privacy. The sound of his voice always made my heart skip a beat. Our conversations weren't about anything earth-shattering. He let me know that the house was still standing (always good to know), and told me about Sara and the boys and what was going on for their holidays. His parents had come up for a visit, so he talked about them as well. I mostly listened, but I didn't mind. I could have listened to him all day. And so, there I was, sitting in my car in the freezing cold in the parking lot of the grocery store, telling him that my mother was gone. He said he was sorry, and then there was silence. There really wasn't anything to say. I told him that I would be coming back to Springfield in another week or so.

Bill and Melissa headed home to Arizona. He felt bad doing so but he needed to get back to work. We understood. I had considered staying behind to help my father with the farm, but I just couldn't. My father didn't seem to want me to stay, either. The one time I brought it up, he said that my mother would have wanted me to go back to my new life. Honestly, I couldn't imagine staying. There was nothing for me here. Nothing but pain everywhere I looked.

I packed my car to go back to Springfield. My father helped me get the chest in the back seat of my car. It was a tight fit. I had to shove all my other things over and around it. Lady had to sit on top of my suitcase in the front seat, the suitcase which still held the unopened letter from my mother. I hadn't been able to bring myself to read it.

“Goodbye, Dad.” I briefly considered hugging him, but he wasn't really the hugging type. “Let me know if I can help you with anything. You can call anytime.”

“I'll be fine,” he responded.

“I know.”

“Have a safe trip.”
*****

When I reached my house, I was pleasantly surprised that the driveway and walk had been shoveled. It looked like there had been a storm earlier in the week. Mike had obviously taken his house watching duties seriously. I hadn't told him exactly when I was coming back. I wanted to see him, but I didn't want him waiting for me. I wanted to just come back and be in my own house alone for a little while. I would need his help to move that chest out of the back seat of my car, though. I certainly wasn't going to be able to get it in the house on my own. It would just have to wait. I grabbed the suitcase and my laptop and headed in, Lady jumping around me, happy to be able to stretch her legs again. I walked in and collapsed on my couch and went to sleep. I was so very tired. I didn't wake up until the next morning when Lady frantically began licking my face in an effort to tell me that she desperately needed to go out.

“Alright, stop licking. I'm coming.” I staggered out of the chair and headed for the door. I opened it to a loud thud.

“Oh my goodness, are you OK?” Mike had tumbled down the stairs! Lady jumped on top of him, giving him a warm welcome of her own.

“Yeah, I'm fine, I think,” he said as he righted himself and put Lady on her leash.
“I'm sorry. I was half-asleep, I didn't even see you.”

“I was just about to ring your doorbell. I had just come by to check on the house, but then I saw your car was here.”

“I'm sorry,” I said as I realized that we were standing outside in the freezing cold. “Come on in. I'll put some coffee on. What time is it anyway?”

“It's a little after eight. When did you get back?”

“Last night. I'm sorry – I should have told you when I was coming back. You wouldn't have had to make the trip over. I was just so tired last night. I wasn't really up to seeing anyone or talking to anyone.”

“Yeah, sure. No, I understand,” he looked disappointed. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, not at all. Please stay. It is so good to see you.”

“It is good to see you, too.”

“I really appreciate all that you have done, taking care of the house. I was so surprised to see the shoveling done.”

“Well, I couldn't have you come home to a foot of a snow, could I?”

“Well, you could have, but I'm glad that you didn't.”

“So, how are you doing, really?” he asked gently.

“I'm OK. Well, not really. I mean, my mom just died and all.”

“I know. It must be so hard.”

“It is, but she died peacefully. She died the way she wanted to go, just about thirty years too early. It seems so unfair.”

“It is unfair.”

“Yeah . . .” We sat in silence for a moment, then I thought of something. “Hey, can you help me carry something into the house?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“It's out in the car. Grab your coat. My mom gave me a chest to take back with me. There is absolutely no way that I could get it into the house on my own.”

“Well, it is good that I brought my muscles with me this morning.” It took some effort but we were finally able to get it out of the car, up the front steps, and into the house.

“Where do you want this?” he groaned.

“Let's just leave it right here.” We put it near the entryway. “I'll worry about putting it somewhere else later.”

“It's nice,” he said.

“Thanks. It belonged to my grandmother. My great-grandfather made it.”
He took a look at my still packed suitcase. “I should probably get going – let you get settled back in.”

“Yeah. It feels weird to be back.”

“Are you staying this time?”

“I hope so.”

“Good,” he turned to head out the door. “Hey, is it OK if I give you a call later this week? Maybe we can go out to dinner or something.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

It had been so good to see Mike. Admittedly, I wished I hadn't been suffering from bed head and wearing yesterday's clothes when I saw him. The chest by the door was calling me. I opened it and wrapped one of my mother's quilts around me. It still carried her scent. I drank it in like a fine wine. I opened the suitcase and took out my mother's letter, as of yet still unopened. It was time. I sat on the couch, cracked the seal and unfolded the rose-colored paper filled with my mother's small, neat handwriting.

My dearest Lucy,

If you are reading this, I've gone to discover the world that exists on the other side of the veil. Honestly, I'm looking forward to seeing what lies beyond, but I know that I will miss what I am leaving behind. My time with all of you was much too short.

I know that you must be hurting right now. You have every right to hurt and to cry and to be angry. You have had to endure too much pain, too much loss, for someone so young. I beg of you, don't let that pain define you. I've always admired your spirit and your willingness to try new things. As much as I missed you when you were gone, I was so proud of you when you moved away to begin your new life. And your novel is amazing! You have to finish it. If not for you, then do it for me, as a last gift to your mother!

You have courage that I could only dream of having. I'm so sorry that you had to come back to care for me just when you were starting to move forward, although I'm very glad that we had these past few weeks together. I've loved just being with you. It meant so much to me, and to your father (even though he could never find the words to say so.) Try not to worry about him too much. He's a strong man. He'll manage to keep going. Be sure to call him once in a while, though. Let him know that you are OK. Words have never come easy to him, but he does love you. And, while I don't know whether he ever will or not, he has my blessing to get married again. I want him to be happy. If that day comes that he has found someone new to love, I want you to be happy for him, too.

I left you the chest. I hope that you can find a good place for it in your home. I know that you always loved the quilts that are inside, and I know that you will keep the secrets that it holds safe. May that secret remind you of the importance of love, whenever or however you find it. True love does last forever. I believe that you will find love, a love that will heal the pain that lies within you. You are capable of such love. Whoever you choose to love will be so lucky.

Embrace life, drink it in. Enjoy the gift of every day because they all pass by way too quickly. And whenever God does decide to call you home, I will be waiting for you with open arms.

I love you forever.
Until we meet again,
Mom

I reread the letter four times, then folded it back up, wiped away my tears and took out my laptop. “OK, Mom, this is for you.” I whispered to the heavens as I began to write with a renewed sense of purpose.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 12, Part 2

2009-11-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

I was exhausted when I finally pulled into my driveway. I grabbed my suitcase and laptop and let Lady out of the car. She ran to the front door. Home. We were home. In realizing that I would now be leaving it for an unknown amount of time, I came to understand just how much this had come to be my home, my safe haven. I walked in to the sound of the answering machine beeping. It was Mike.

“Hi, Lucy. Hope you got home OK. I tried calling your cell a few times this weekend and sent you some emails. I wasn't stalking you. I was just worried when you didn't respond. I hope you are OK. Please call me when you get this.”

So, maybe he had called, after all. I plugged my cell in to recharge. Sure enough, a few moments later, it was flashing that I had five messages. I took off my coat and dialed Mike's number.

“Lucy, I'm so glad to hear from you. I've been so worried,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“I'm fine. I'm sorry I couldn't respond to your messages. There is no cell phone reception at my parents' farm and then there was this massive storm and the power went out for three days.”

“Oh my goodness. It sounds like an eventful weekend.”

“You have no idea,” I responded.

“Do you want to go out tonight? You can tell me all about it.”

“I do want to see you, but I am exhausted and I have to go to work early tomorrow. Could we get together tomorrow after I get out of work?”

“Umm, there is a big party tomorrow for the writing group. We are going to get together to celebrate the end of NaNoWriMo. Do you want to go?”

“Nah, I'm not really in the mood for a party.”

“Oh, OK,” he sounded disappointed.

“I'm sorry. I really do want to see you. It's just that a lot happened this weekend. I have a lot to tell you. I'm just not up to being around a whole bunch of people right now.”

“I can't blow off the party. I'm the leader of the group.”

“I know. I wasn't asking you to. Can we get together on Tuesday?”

“Yeah, Tuesday would be great. I'll pick you up at work?”

“Sure. I get off at six.”

“OK. See you then.”

*****
Well, at least Mike had been worried about me. That was something, right? I wanted to see him so much. There was no use in denying it. As much as I knew that we had no future together, I missed him horribly. The time was going to drag until Tuesday night, not least of all because I had to go and see Rachel tomorrow and tell her what was going on. I was not looking forward to that. Oh well, there was nothing I could do about it. I crashed on my bed, the painting that Mike had done of me looking down at me, and went into a deep sleep.

The conversation with Rachel was not as bad as I feared. She understood. Unfortunately she couldn't keep my job for me, especially since there was no way of knowing when I would be back. I could see her position - I hadn't been there that long. She would post the opening for the job that very day. I told her that I would finish out the week. I was so sad as I walked around the library, doing my job. I had enjoyed being there so much. I had loved being around all the books. I knew I had to go, but I didn't want to.

When Mike came to pick me up Tuesday night, Rachel saw him.

“It's Mr. Artist Man!” she exclaimed. Why couldn't she ever call him by his name?

“Will you please tell your girlfriend here how much we are all going to miss her? Can't you talk her into staying?” I turned and glared at her, begging her with my eyes to stop talking. I was not Mike's girlfriend and this was not how I wanted to tell Mike.

“Bye, Rachel,” I said as I attempted to physically pull Mike away from the reference desk.

“Leaving? What is she talking about?” Mike asked.

“I told you. I have a lot to tell you.”

“I guess so!” he said a little too loudly. The library patrons were starting to stare.

“Let's go somewhere where we can talk in private.” I whispered. “Please.”

“Alright,” he said more calmly. “I'm just surprised. That wasn't what I expected to hear. Do you want to go back to my house? Sara and the boys are out tonight. The place will be quiet until eight.”

“Sure, that sounds good.” A couple hours would be plenty of time to explain the recent events in my life.

“Why don't you follow me? That way we won't have to come back here later.”

“Um. OK.”

I followed his car, thankful for the chance to collect my thoughts before we had what was evidently going to be a very uncomfortable conversation. I was so mad at Rachel. Why did she have to blurt it out like that? And why was Mike so upset? Ugh. Men were a mystery I would never understand. As I drove past Forest Park, I noticed the line of cars and the holiday lights shining brightly. A huge sign glowed “Welcome to Bright Nights!” Mike had said he had hoped we could go. I guess that was one more thing that wasn't going to happen.

He said nothing when he got out of the car, but strode silently up the walk and up the steps. He did hold the door for me.

“Thank you,” I blurted out weakly.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked as we went into the kitchen.

“That would be great.” He poured me some water. We sat down at the table.

“So, why are you leaving?”

“Wow, you don't waste any time getting to the point, do you?”

“I don't see any point to pussy-footing around,” he answered straightforwardly. “I didn't think you wanted to go back there, to all the memories.”

“I'm sorry. Rachel shouldn't have said anything to you. She had no right – I wanted to tell you myself, but I had to tell her because I have to leave my job.”

“Why are you leaving your job?” he interrupted. “You love your job.”

“Yes, I do love my job. Please. This is hard enough. Just let me get it all out.” He nodded. I went on to tell him of my mother's illness, how no one had told me, of how angry I was, of how I had spent a couple days debating what I was going to do but I that I had come to the decision that I had to take care of her. I had rehearsed the words I was going to say to him a hundred times over the past few days, but I still teared up. Why was I always crying in front of this man?

“I'm so sorry, Lucy. This must be so hard for you,” he finally said, his voice much more gentle. “I'm sorry I got upset. Rachel's news just took me by surprise.”

“I know. I don't want to leave. I like it here. It was really starting to feel like home. And,” I added, “I've been so thankful for your friendship this past month.” Had it really only been a month since I had met him? Funny how I had grown to care for him so much so quickly.

“I've enjoyed getting to know you, too.” He smiled at me and patted my hand. Electricity flew through me at his touch, and oh, how I loved that smile. I briefly reconsidered telling him how I felt, but now there really was no point. I had to go away.

“Will you come back? I mean, after . . .”

“I don't know.” I answered honestly. “I'm not sure how long I'll be gone, and now, well, I have no job to come back to.”

“You could get another job down here.”

“I don't know. I just don't know. I have the house. I haven't decided whether to sell it or not. I have enough money saved to pay for a few months of the mortgage. I guess it was silly of me to buy it. I should have rented something. I really thought I would be here longer than a few months, though. . .”

“Well, is there anything I can do to help?”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you if you would be willing to take care of the house for me while I am gone.”

“Sure, anything you want.”

“Thanks, that's a big relief.”

“When are you leaving?”

“I figure I'll go back up Sunday. My mom doesn't even know I'm coming back. She doesn't want me to. She figures that I gave up enough for her the last time she was sick, but she and my Dad need me. He wants me there. I'm just going to show up so that she can't tell me not to come.”

“What about your brother?”

“Oh, he has his job and his wife and child to think about. He can't give up his life as easily as I can. I did call and tell him what was going on, though. He feels horrible, too, but there is nothing that he can do. He has promised to bring his family home for Christmas. That will mean so much to Mom.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. It began to get rather uncomfortable. I searched for something to say.

“Oh, hey, I saw the lights at Forest Park when I was driving by. They look beautiful.”

“Yeah, they always are. We usually try to wait for there to be some snow before we go see them. That makes them look even better.”

“I wish I could go . . . As for the snow, though, I saw enough this past weekend to last me a while. I can't believe you didn't get any down here.”

“Nope. Just rain. Lots and lots of rain. Lots of flooding. At least snow is pretty.”

“Yeah . . . in small doses.” I ventured to change the subject. “So how did your writing party go?”

“It was all right. A couple of people got really drunk and made fools of themselves. I've never really seen the point in that. Other than that, it was good. Seven people finished their novels.”

“Did you?”

“No. I came up about 5000 words short. Did you?”

“No. I had great intentions of doing a big push this past weekend, but, obviously, that didn't happen. I haven't touched it since I found out about my mom. It just doesn't seem to be very important anymore. Do you think you'll finish yours?”

“I'm really not sure. It depends . . .”

“On what?”

“On the ending. I haven't figured out how the story is supposed to end.”

“Yeah, I can relate. I was having the same issue with my story. I figured it out in the shower.”

“I've taken a lot of showers. The ending still hasn't come.”

“It will. I'm sure of it.”

*****
The rest of the week passed in a blur. I spent my last few days at work, did my last story times, said goodbye to all my favorite patrons. I saw Mike one more time. I gave him the key to my house which made the move seem that much more final. I knew I needed to do this, but it didn't make the sinking feeling in my stomach go away. I hugged him goodbye and hung on a bit too long, drinking in the scent of him. He didn't seem to mind. He pulled away, looking like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He just said goodbye and drove away. I watched the car go all the way down the street. I wondered when I would get to see him again.

I had spoken to my mother on the phone. She wasn't feeling any worse. That was good news, although I wasn't sure if I should take her at her word or not. I still didn't tell her I was coming, though. I didn’t want her to try to talk me out of it. I went through my house trying to sort out what to take and what to leave behind. It made it harder that I didn't know just how long I would be gone. Plus, I was only taking my car up so I could only bring what I could fit. I seriously debated bringing the painting Mike had done of me. I thought my mother would like to see it, and I had grown use to having it as a daily reminder of him. Still, space was at a premium and it would be safer here. I opted to take a photo instead. Hopefully, Mike wouldn't be offended that I had left it behind.

I went to early mass Sunday morning, made one last trip to the house to pick up Lady, and then headed back up north. Had I only been gone a week? It felt like much longer.

“Lucy, what on earth are you doing here?” my mother greeted me, rushing out of the door as soon as my car pulled in the driveway. “Pat, did you know about this?” she asked my father who had just stuck his head out the door. He shrugged noncommittally. I think he knew that I would come.

“Get back in the house, Mom. You don't even have a coat on!” Who was sounding like the mother now?

“I've come to help, Mom.” I said firmly as I gave her a hug once I was inside.
“I don't want your help!” she protested.

“I know, but you are getting it anyway, so you might as well make the best of it.” I really was starting to sound like a mother. She opened her mouth to argue, but then seemed to think better of it. She looked at me and smiled, her whole face lighting up.

“I'm glad that you're here. Thank you for coming.”

*****

It was good that I did come. My mother declined much more quickly than anyone expected. By the time Christmas was approaching, she was feeling very tired and weak and I had pretty much taken over running the house. She couldn't make the trip up the stairs any longer so we set up a bed for her downstairs right near the Christmas tree. She liked it there. Every now and then I would look over to see her fingering the ornaments and I knew that she was lost in her memories. When the chores were done, I would sit near her and we would look at old photo albums together, her telling me stories of all the people in the photos. It was like she was imparting our family history to me, lest it be lost forever. She also liked to have me read to her. And every day we would say our rosary together, just like we did when I was young. When she got too tired to pray aloud, I would pray for her as her fingers gently caressed the beads of her well-worn rosary.

The visiting nurse came a few times a week to check on her and Fr. Flanagan came over whenever he could. My father took up sleeping in the recliner so that he could be near her at night. He said his rightful place was beside her. A couple times I sneaked down in the middle of the night just to check on them and they would be there, sleeping, my father's hand resting ever so gently on my mother's.

Overall, Mom was calm and peaceful. She seemed to have no fear of death, no regrets, no last minute projects that she felt she had to accomplish before she left this earth. I admired her for that.

“Lucy, what ever happened to that story you were writing?” she asked me out of the blue one day.

“Oh, I never finished it.”

“How come? I would think you have plenty of time to write around here at night. It's not like there is that much to do.” She had a point. My social life was non-existent, which, honestly, was OK with me. I was still trying to avoid anyone who would feel compelled to bring up Alan. Plus now, most of the town had heard my mom wasn’t doing well, and I couldn’t stand the looks of pity. The only places I went were to the store and to Church. Still, I hadn't typed a single word.
“I don't know. It wasn't that important.”

“Of course it was,” she protested. “I'd love to hear what you've written.” I cringed.
“Uh, I don't think so, Mom.”

“Please, I've always loved your stories. You used to love to read them to us when you were little.”

“I'm not little anymore.”

“I know, but I bet you’re still a good writer. Please. I'd really like to hear it,” she insisted. How could I say no?

“Alright, let me go get my laptop.”

After I retrieved it, I got as comfortable as I could with it in the chair and began to read. “Once upon a time . . .” I paused. “You know this hasn't been edited or anything, right? It's a really, really rough first draft.” I couldn't emphasize that enough. I was so embarrassed to even read it aloud. I hadn't read it over since I started writing. I had just kept on writing, adding to whatever I had before.
“I know. Stop procrastinating. Read!” she said gently, but firmly.

And so I read. It didn't take me that long to get through the pages of the story I had written. My mother listened quietly. I'm sure she knew the first part was a loosely fictionalized account of what had happened with Alan. I'm not sure what she thought of Anna's impromptu journey to France, but she laughed at the parts that I had intended to be funny and teared up a bit at the parts that were sad, so I considered that a good sign. When I was done, I closed the laptop and hesitantly asked what she thought.

“It's good,” she smiled. “A good first effort.”

“You're my mother – you have to say that!” I protested, but inside I was glowing. She actually had seemed to have liked it. Maybe I wasn't that bad a writer, after all.

“So, how are you going to end the story?” she asked.

“I'm not sure. I had gone back and forth on whether Anna should stay with Jacques or not. I mean, maybe it was just a fling to help her get over her husband. . .”
“Or maybe it was real love, a second chance at happiness that she should hold onto with all her might,” my mom offered.

“Maybe. I'm not sure. What do you think that she should do?”

“I think that she should stay with him; see what happens.”

“I'll take that under advisement. I'm not even sure I'm going to finish the story. I mean, really, what's the point?”

“You have to finish it,” she admonished. “The point is that you will have completed something you didn't think that you were capable of. That's important in and of itself. Unfinished projects have a way of haunting people.”

“Yeah, maybe you're right.”

*****

Bill and Melissa did manage to make it in for Christmas. They came in the 23rd. I could tell that Bill was surprised at how much Mom had changed in such a short time, but he hid it well, and he greeted her with a big smile and a kiss. Their little girl was so beautiful, with her blonde hair and big blue eyes. Emily was eight months old. It was the first time any of us had gotten to see her in person. My mother was so happy to see her. She had sent me to Burlington a few days before with a long list of gifts to buy for her! She knew it was her one chance to spoil her one grandchild, a child who wouldn't even remember her. My mother loved children and had longed for grandchildren for so long. Life just wasn't fair.
There was a light snow falling Christmas morning. It was beautiful. Despite her weakened condition, Mom was bound and determined to make it to Church. My father had been able to rent a wheelchair. I got her dressed and was dismayed to find how loosely her clothes fit. How could she have lost that much weight so quickly? She was literally wasting away. Bill lifted her up and helped her into the chair. She was so happy to be at mass. We wheeled her right up to the front so that she could see everything. Silent tears were rolling down her face during much of the mass. My father reached over and held her hand, his strong calloused hand holding her small, soft, frail one. Tears came to my eyes, too. I think we all knew that it would be the last time she would set foot in the Church she had loved so much.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 12

2009-11-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 12

The power came back on Sunday, just in time for me to have to leave. I went to Church with my parents that morning. It was the first Sunday of Advent, the single lighted purple candle on the Advent wreath reminding us that it was time to prepare our hearts for Christmas. Fr. Farling gave a homily about focusing on the spiritual aspects of Christmas, rather than the material aspects, of taking the time to appreciate the value of waiting for someone special, a baby who had come to save us. I looked over at my mother. She was sitting there, hands folded, listening intently. She had always found such strength in her faith. Even now, she didn't seem scared of dying at all. She was taking it all in stride, like it was all part of God's big plan, and that everything would be OK. All I was feeling was that God's plan stunk. That was probably a really bad thing to be thinking in a church. I wish I had my mother's faith.

We had spent the remainder of the weekend ignoring the elephant in the room. We acted like everything was fine. My mother's diagnosis wasn't even mentioned. We finished hanging the decorations. Everything looked so festive, in direct contrast to the sinking feeling that would not leave the pit of my stomach. I could hardly bear to eat, but I forced the food down because my mother wanted me to. She wanted me to act like all was normal. The only acknowledgement that something was wrong was that my mother spent much of her time resting. I tried to take care of all of the household chores, so she wouldn't need to exert herself.

By the time I left for Springfield, I had made up my mind what I was going to do. There wasn't really any choice. I knew I had to come back to help my mother and father. If I didn't, I knew I would regret it forever and I couldn't live with it. The battery in my cell phone had died during the power outage and I hadn't had the chance to recharge it before I left. There was no way to know whether Mike had called or not. I guess I would just have to wait until I got home to find out.
It was November 30th, the last day of the month. My novel was nowhere near done. I hadn't even touched it during the past three days. It didn't seem very important any more. It had just been something to do, a pleasant diversion. It wasn't worth a hill of beans in the big scheme of things. I wondered if Mike had finished his. He probably had. No doubt he and the other members of the writing group would be going out to celebrate tonight. What was I going to say to him? To think I had actually been considering telling him that I was falling in love with him. It didn't much matter now. I was going to be three-hundred miles away. It didn't matter at all. I did have to tell him I was going, however. There was something I needed him to do.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 11, Part 2

2009-11-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm clock jarred me out of a sound sleep. I whacked it much harder than was necessary to quiet it. The digital read-out said 5:30. Ugh! Even though I was the one who had set the clock, it still came as a cruel shock to the system. I looked out the window. There was a good foot of snow on the ground and it was still falling. Yup, the weathermen had screwed this one up. Why was it so cold in my room? I went to flick on the light so that I could get dressed. Nothing. Maybe the light bulb had burnt out. I opened the door to see into the hallway. All the lights were out, even the one in the bathroom that my parents always left on as a nightlight. Great. The power was out. How did my alarm go off, then? I looked closer at the clock, now reading 5:34. Ah – the battery light was on. It was on back-up power. I lifted up the shade to let in the light from the snow outside. I quickly pulled on some warm clothes and lots of them. I wasn't worried about anyone seeing me get dressed. We were in the middle of nowhere, after all, and apparently, in the midst of a huge winter storm. I felt my way down the stairs, leaving Lady to continue snoozing. There was no reason for both of us to be up at this ridiculously early hour. My father was already downstairs, coat on, flashlight in hand.

“What are you doing up?” he asked.

“I thought I could help with the shoveling. I know that you still have to get to the barn.”

“That's nice of you, but didn't your mom tell you – I actually got a snow blower for this year. It works great! I don't know what made me wait so long to get one.” My father was known for his reluctance to embrace new innovations. He often seemed to pride himself on his manual labor.

“Oh, that's great! But there must be something I can do to help.” I looked around.
“Yeah, well, as you noticed, the power is out. Why don't you light some candles – you know where they are, right?” I nodded. “You can start a fire in the fireplace as well. We are going to need all the heat we can get. Looks like it might be a while before the power comes back on.”

“OK, I'll get right on it.”

He turned to head out the door, then turned back. “Just be sure to help your mother. Make sure she doesn't do too much.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but he seemed to change his mind and simply closed the door behind him as he stepped out into the cold. Was my mom OK? She hadn't mentioned anything about being sick. She would tell me if it was something serious, wouldn't she? I got to work starting the fire. It did feel good to have some warmth in the room. It added some light as well. The candles would help that problem also. How many times had we lost power when I was growing up? My mom had always harped on my dad to get a backup generator but he was stubborn. He always said we could rough it for a couple days. I think he liked to pretend we were pioneers or something. Funny thing is, I did have some good memories of those times. Maybe my father had a point.

My mother came down the stairs a few minutes later, her sweater wrapped tightly around her.

“Good morning, Mom.”

“Good morning. You are up early!”

“Yeah. I wanted to help with the storm and all. I thought I could shovel but Dad said he got a snow blower.”

“Yes, can you believe it? I finally convinced him. It only took me thirty years! I think that he is finally starting to realize that he's not as young as he used to be.” She looked around the room. “It looks like you have been busy down here.”

“Yeah, the fire is nice and warm. Why don't you come and sit by it? I can warm some water over it for coffee. Is there still instant in the cupboard?”

She sat down willingly in the chair by the fire. “Yes – same place as always – saved for emergencies such as this.”

I went to get a kettle to heat up water in and headed back into the living room.

“Are you alright, Mom?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you seemed awfully tired yesterday?”

“Oh, I've just been a little under the weather lately. It's nothing to worry about. I'm just getting old – that's all.”

“You're not old!” I protested.

“Well, thank you for saying so, but my bones say differently. I just can't do as much as I used to.” She smiled reassuringly. For some reason, I wasn't buying it. Something was up and I was going to figure out what.

“Why don't you make some oatmeal with that water as well?” my mom added. “We can have a nice hearty breakfast to warm us up. Your father will like some, too, when he comes in from the cold.”

“Sure thing, Mom.” I went to get the oatmeal and some bowls to put it in.

“Hey, Mom. I wanted to ask you something,” I ventured as I headed back into the living room.

“What's that, dear?

“Well, I was wondering if you ever think about what your life might have been like if you had married Anthony instead of Dad.”

“Oh,” she paused, looking off into the distance. “That's a hard question. Let me think. . . How should I put this?”

“Yes or no is fine. I didn't mean to pry.” I was already beginning to regret that I had asked.

“Oh, no, you deserve more of an answer than that. After all, I'm the one who told you about him. It's just, well, I don't want to give you the wrong idea. I've been very happy with your father. We have certainly had our challenging moments, . . . days, . . . months, . . . years . . .” She gave me a wry smile. “But the good days have always outweighed the bad. I have always believed that your father is the person God wanted me to marry. You and your brother were the children I was meant to have. But, Anthony has always lived on in my memory, preserved forever as the young man who loved me so much. It's easy to go back and think about how wonderful it was. Those are good memories . . .Yes, I have sometimes wondered what life would have been like with him. It's fun to imagine, but the truth is, I don't know if it would have been better or worse. I just know it would have been different. And I like the life that I have had all these years – I wouldn't want to change a thing.”

“Mmm . . . I wish I had your confidence that life always works out the way it’s supposed to. I can't help wondering if my life would be better if I hadn't married Alan.”

“I can see how you would feel that way. You were terribly hurt. Think about it, though, if Alan hadn't cheated on you, or if you hadn't found out, you probably wouldn't have left South Hero. As much as I have hated to have you gone, I know that it has been good for you to get away. It sounds like you are making quite the life for yourself in Springfield. You have a good job and you have met what sounds like a very nice man. None of this would have happened if you hadn't been hurt. There is nothing so bad that God can't bring some good out of it.”

“You're the second person to tell me that. Maybe you are right.”

“I know I am. Besides, what good will it do you to wish you had made a different choice? You can't change what has happened. All you can do is move forward. You have a wonderful inner strength that I have always admired in you. This has only made you stronger.”

“I don't feel very strong,” I countered.

“That may be so, but you are. Don't disagree with your mother. I've known you forever!” Mothers always think that they are right. Would I be that way with my own kids, assuming that I actually had any. Yes, I had to admit. I probably would. If you can't be right with your own kids. who can you be right with? And, of course, they would always think I was wrong.

I noticed that the water was finally boiling and ladled out cupfuls for our tea and cereal. My father came through the door, stamping off the snow. The first rays of daylight were just beginning to come through the windows. Muted though they were, they made the candles somewhat less necessary.

“It's brutal out there,” he said, taking off his boots and massaging his frozen feet.

“Yeah, I'm dreading having to put Lady out. I always feel bad for the animals on days like this.”

“Oh, they are doing OK. It's not too bad inside the barn. I'll check on them again later. Right now, I think I'm going to go sit by the warm fire.”

“Yes, I've made some tea and we can have some oatmeal.”

“Sounds good. Thank you.” My father seemed to be in a fairly good mood this morning, especially considering that he had been out in the freezing cold and we had no power. He had an interesting idea of what constituted a good time.

“I thought we might put up the Christmas decorations today,” my mother said as I sat back down.

“With the power out?” I asked.

“Sure. It's daylight now. It will be bright enough. It will give us something to do. I always like to put up the decorations the day after Thanksgiving. I love how the house looks at Christmastime.”

“I know you do, Mom.” Every year growing up Mom would recruit Bill and me to help her put up the decorations, and there were a lot of them. My mother did not know the meaning of the term “understated.” Last year, I hadn't even put up a tree. I threw away the one Alan and I had bought for our first Christmas, along with all the ornaments. Maybe I should get one this year. I couldn't have Mike thinking that I was the Grinch, could I? I would need to go shopping when I got home.

After we ate, I went up to the attic with my father, flashlights in hand. It was amazing how much stuff was up there, a lifetime of memories stored under the rafters.
“We should really get rid of a lot of this stuff,” my father said as he looked around the room. “Your mother has always liked to hold onto things, just in case.”
“Well, you never know when you might need something.”

“Like mother, like daughter. Come on. Help me carry this stuff down the stairs.” All the Christmas decorations were piled in one corner, several boxes worth, plus the tree which was in several bags. It took us several trips up and down the three flights of stairs to finally get it all in the living room. After the first trip, my mom offered to help but my father wouldn't let her. He told her to sit and rest. Something was definitely not right with this picture. My father was a gentleman, but he always let my mother pull her weight around the house. Of course, she had always insisted on it. Now, she wasn't even attempting a protest. The only time she had acted like this that I could remember was when she was having her cancer treatments. Cancer. Oh no, it couldn't have come back, could it? My heart sank into my stomach. She had said she was OK. I looked over at her. Would she lie to me? Why would she do that?

“Let's see. What should we do first?” My mother's voice broke into my thoughts. She was looking at all the boxes. Do you want to decorate the kitchen or in here?”

“I don't care.” I tried to sound normal, although I'm fairly certain I didn't succeed. My mother didn't seem to notice.

“Well, let's start in here, then. Pat, can you set up the tree for us? Lucy, you and I can start on the garland.”

We worked in relative silence for a while, my mother issuing directions every few moments, my father and I doing our best to comply. Before long, the tree was standing proud, if naked, and garland was up on the stairs and around the large clock on the wall. Then it was time for the ornaments. We always had a rather eclectic look. It definitely wouldn't have made the cover of any home decorating magazine, that's for sure, but it was ours and it was special. I always loved that tree. As we took out each ornament, my mother told the story of each one. She had at least one ornament from each year that she and my father had been married. The first one had been a gift from her grandmother soon after their wedding. Each ornament had such history. Even though I had heard the stories so many times, I could tell that it gave my mother pleasure to retell them. It was like she was reliving the moments of her life as she hung them on the boughs.

“I should really give some of these to you,” she said as she hung a wooden ornament I had painted in first grade. “These are your memories, too.” I thought I detected another tear in her eye. Did I dare broach the subject? I looked over at my father who had completed his mother-appointed tasks and was dozing in the recliner. I took a deep breath.

“Mom, are you OK?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” she answered a tad bit testily. “Yes, of course I'm OK. I'm just emotional. I always have been. You know that!”

“I know, but it seems like there is something else. Your cancer hasn't come back, has it?”

“No, of course not,” she answered hastily, shaking her head. She fumbled with another ornament on the tree – a Santa Claus that Bill had made when he was little.

“Don't lie to the girl!” My father's voice boomed from the other side of the room.

“I'm not lying! My cancer hasn't come back!”

“I won't stand by and let you lie to her. I know I promised I wouldn't tell her, but I won't stand by and watch you lie to her. She deserves to know.”

“What?” I looked back and forth from my mother to my father. “What is it? What do I deserve to know? The cancer has come back, hasn't it?”

My mother sat down sullenly, shooting daggers at my father with her eyes. “I wasn't lying. The breast cancer hasn't come back.”

“No, it hasn't,” my father agreed. He turned to me. “She has brain cancer.” The words echoed in my head.

“Brain cancer? When did you find out? Why didn't you tell me?” The questions poured out of me.

“I found out a couple months ago. I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want you to feel like you needed to come rushing back here, thinking that you needed to take care of me again. I know how much you gave up for me the last time. I won't have you do that again.”

“Maybe she wants to take care of you,” my father interjected. “Maybe she should come back here. I don't know why she wanted to go so far away in the first place. We could use her here, especially now.”

“She has her own life. She is happy where she is. She needed to get away from this place.” I felt like I wasn't even in the room as my parents argued about me. I was still trying to register the information that I had just heard.

“Maybe I should be the one to decide what I am going to do.” I stated angrily. “I can't believe you didn't tell me.” My parents just looked at me. Neither one seemed to have a clue of what to say to me. “Does Bill know?” They shook their heads. Well, at least I wasn't the only one left in the dark. “You should tell him. He should know.”

“You're right. He should,” my father agreed. “I've been telling her that since we first got the news.”

“I just wanted to enjoy these holidays without feeling like the grim reaper was hanging over my head. Is that so bad?”

“Are you dying?” The reality of that hit me like a ton of bricks. She had beat cancer before. I had no doubt she could do it again. “Aren't you getting treatment?
Isn't there something that they can do? Chemo? Radiation? Something?”

“There's nothing that they can do,” my mother said.

“Well, have you gone for a second opinion? There are other doctors.”

“Yes, we've seen other doctors. There is nothing they can do,” my mother repeated. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I looked at my father for confirmation. He nodded sadly.

“How can you two just sit here so calmly? How have you been able to act like everything's OK?”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart.” My mother reached out for me. I pulled away. “I had your best interests at heart. I didn't want to cause you more pain.”

“So, what? Dad was just going to call one day and say that you had died. Was that your plan? You didn't think that that would hurt?” I shouted accusingly.

“You will not speak to your mother in that tone,” my father warned me.

“I have to take the dog out.” I turned on my heels and ran up the stairs. I didn't care if there was a blizzard going on outside. I needed to get out there. I needed air. I scooped Lady up, threw on my coat, ran back down the stairs and out the door.

“Lucy!” I could hear my mother shouting after me. I ignored her. The frosty air assaulted me as I stepped out the door. The snow was falling even harder now. Wasn't it going to ever let up? I knew I couldn't stay outside forever. Lady was shivering terribly. What on earth was I going to do? I couldn't go back in there. I couldn't face my mother again. She was dying? After all that had happened to me, I was going to lose my mother, too. How long did she have, anyway? How ever long it was, it wasn't enough. “God, how can you do this to me?” I yelled up at the stormy sky. Nothing but silence answered me. That figured. God was always silent at times like this, wasn't he? Lady just looked at me. I had to get her out of the storm. I saw the barn in the distance. The path my father had made to it was filled in with snow, but I could still follow it. We headed that way.

I was thankful to reach the barn and get out of the wind. My father was right – it wasn't too bad in there. Lady barked at the cows as we went in. They mooed in reply. It was a regular symphony. I sat on a bale of hay. How many times had I come here when I was growing up? It was always a good place to think, to get away from it all for a while.

What on earth was I going to do? My mother needed me. As angry as I was at her for not telling me, and at my father for going along with it, I knew that she had been trying to protect me. Would I come back here and take care of her? She didn't seem to want me to. My father apparently thought I could be of help, though. What was I going to do? I had just started to feel like I was making a life for myself. I was just starting to heal. Life was just starting to get better. I had a home in Springfield, a job I enjoyed, Mike . . . I wished I could talk to him. I wished I could just stay in the barn forever, make the whole world go away. I wished I could stop the deep ache within my heart.

A few minutes later, the barn door opened and my father came in.

“I thought I might find you in here.” I didn't reply. “Your mother sent me after you. She was worried sick about your being out in this storm.”

“I'm OK. I know enough to get out of a storm,” I said sullenly.

“Lucy,” he paused, apparently searching for the right words. “Lucy,” he began again.

“I wanted her to tell you, but you know how stubborn your mother can be. She seemed to really not want you to know. She doesn't want you to give up that new life you've started.”

“I know, Dad, but shouldn't that be my choice? I'm not a child anymore.”

“No, you're not, but right now you are acting like one.”

“What?” I looked at him with fire in my eyes. How dare he?

“It's the truth. You are out here sulking like a child in the middle of a blizzard. What are you so mad about anyway?”

“I can't believe you!” I shouted back. “In the last hour I just learned that my mother is dying and that nobody thought I needed to know. I am not sulking! I'm trying to figure out just what in the hell I am supposed to do with this information.”

“Listen, Lucy, I know you are upset, but your mother needs you right now. She's up there bawling her eyes out and in her condition she certainly does not need any extra stress. So, you are going to pull yourself together and come back to the house with me and tell her that you are sorry. As for what you are going to do, you don't need to make a decision right now. Just come back to the house.” He turned to go, then turned back at me. “Well, are you coming?” I thought about protesting and just staying put, but I guess that did seem rather childish. He was right. This wasn't about me at all, was it? It was about my mom and my doing whatever I could to make her last days on earth as good as they could be.

“Dad,” I began in a much calmer voice.

“Yeah?”

“How long does she have?”

He shook his head sadly. “The doctors don't know – not for sure. They figure a few months, but it could be more or less. We just don't know.”

“I'm sorry. I know this must be hard on you, too.”

“Yes, it is. Your mother is the only woman I have ever loved. I don't know what I am going to do without her.” Lady and I followed him back to the house.

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"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 11, Part 1

2009-11-07T00:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 11

Thanksgiving dinner went well. Both the Thompkins and Fr. Farling did come. The good Father welcomed me with open arms. My mother was right; he did seem very happy to see me. The conversation was enjoyable and the food was delicious. My mother has always been an excellent cook, yet another thing that I hadn't managed to inherit. We spent most of the afternoon playing cards, and then indulged in my mother's famous pumpkin pie (maple syrup is the secret ingredient). We all ate way too much, but it was all so good. Isn't that what always happens on Thanksgiving?

After our guests left, my father settled himself in the living room to watch football and my mother went upstairs to take a rest. I took care of washing the dishes, fed Lady some leftover turkey (she was very appreciative) then went upstairs to work on my writing. I walked by the empty space where my wedding photo had been hanging just a few hours earlier. Was that only this morning? It seemed like so much had happened since then.

I settled down with my laptop on my old desk. Up in the top corner was a heart I had engraved in the wood with my and Alan's initials. I ran my fingers over the indentation. I was twenty years old when I fell in love with him – too old for such nonsense, but I had put them there just the same. After years of having watched other girls doodle hearts on their notebooks with boys' initials in them, it had felt good to finally have someone's initials to put with mine. I wonder if sandpaper would take that off. I might have to give it a try.

I flipped open the laptop, and tried to access my email. Maybe Mike had written? I knew he was probably busy with Sara and the boys, but maybe? Then I remembered, there was no wireless connection up here, either. Only my mom's computer downstairs could access the internet. Maybe I could ask her later to use it. I was starting to feel very technologically deprived.

Well, nothing to do but write, then. At least my word processing program was still working. I thought about the story my mother had told me. Now, that would make a good novel. In the meantime, however, I was stuck with the one I was working on. I pulled out my travel guide to France and began flipping through the pages. Where were Anna and Jacques going to go today? Hmm, the Emerald Coast in Brittany – that sounds interesting. Maybe they will go there . . .

I lost myself in the story and emerged some three hours and three thousand words later. I also had a very stiff neck. I stood up and stretched, attempting to get the crink out. I was at 42,342 words, but there were only three days left in the month. Would I actually make the deadline? I didn't have a clue. Not only that, but I still wasn't sure how the story was going to end. Would Anna and Jacques go their separate ways? After all, she was from America and he was from France. That was really a long-distance relationship. Would she give up her life in America for him? Would she go back home, better and wiser for the experience? What would she do? This was quite a pressing problem, and I only had a couple days to figure it out.

Lady was lying on the bed, resting. She really did have quite the life. I don't believe in reincarnation, but if I did, I think I would like to come back as a nice cuddly lapdog. They do seem to have it made. Well, except for that part about needing to go outside to relieve themselves. I don't think that I would enjoy that part too much. I knew Lady didn't, that's for sure.

“Come on, pretty girl. It's time to go outside.” She covered her eyes with her paws and buried her head. “Now, you know that's not going to help you. Come on,” I said, lifting her up and heading out the bedroom door. I noticed that the door to my parents' room was still closed. Was my mom still sleeping? She must have been really worn out. I could still hear the sounds of football coming from downstairs. As I descended, I could see my father in his armchair, nursing a beer and munching on chips. How could he eat? I was still so stuffed. He was definitely in his do-not-disturb football mode, a position he took up every Sunday afternoon during football season for as long as I could remember. He worked very hard. I guess it was his way of relaxing. Alan used to do the same thing. Every Sunday he wasn't working, he would be there firmly planted in front of the big screen, occasionally getting up to cheer or scream at the television depending on what the situation called for. “They can't hear you!” I would feel inclined to point out at least once in a while. He said that it didn't matter. It was part of the experience. I didn't mind football, really. I just didn't understand the obsession – the need to spend eight (or more) hours riveted to the television screen. Many Sunday afternoons I would sit on the couch and work on my quilting while it was on. I used to like simply being in the same room with Alan. I had been so happy just to be with him. . . I wonder if someday I could be like my mother and remember him with fondness, rather than anger. I wonder if Mike likes football. I would have to remember to ask him next time I saw him.

I bundled up and headed outside with Lady, who was still giving me dirty looks. I imagine if she could talk, she would be saying very unkind things about me. It had started snowing again. The paper had predicted flurries but these were some mighty big flakes falling. It was a soft, gentle snow that stuck to my clothes and eyelashes. It was so quiet and peaceful. I walked along with Lady, making footprints in the new-fallen snow which were being just as quickly filled in. Would we need to shovel in the morning? The meteorologists had certainly been wrong before and this seemed like it would be much more than just flurries. I made a mental note to set my alarm for early in the morning just in case, so that I could help. If Mom was already that worn out, I didn't want her to exert herself more by shoveling.
I thought about what she had told me about taking risks in love. Maybe I should tell Mike I was falling for him. What is the worst that could happen, really? Well, he could laugh in my face for one thing. Mark James had done that to me in high school when I had asked him to the prom. I cringed at the memory. I certainly didn't want a repeat of that experience. But, Mike was kind. I doubt he had ever laughed in anyone's face. No, he would let me down gently. Something along the lines of telling me that he was flattered, but that he really didn't think of me in that way and that he was sorry if he had led me on because he hadn't meant to - something like that, anyway. He would go on to say that he valued our friendship and would like us to remain friends. And of course, I wouldn't be able to do that because I would be completely and totally mortified and would never be able to look the man in the face again. No, I decided resolutely as I headed back to the house, it was too big a risk. I had so few friends in Springfield – anywhere, actually. The few friends I had grown up with in South Hero had long since moved away. How did best friends forever turn into once-a-year-send-a-Christmas-card sort of friends, anyway? I guess it was just part of life, part of growing up. Everyone's lives just moved in different directions. No, I needed a friend and Mike was a good one. I didn't want to jeopardize that.

Lady and I shook the snow off as we came into the house. “I'll bet you’re glad that's done for the evening,” I said to her. She still wasn't acknowledging me. “Come on. I packed some treats for you. I'll get you one.” We headed back upstairs and I handed her a rawhide stick. She took it appreciatively and began gnawing happily. That should put me back in her good graces.

I took a look at the laptop and briefly considered writing some more, but then thought better of it. I had written a lot already today and I needed to give some thought to what was going to happen next in the story. Besides, my neck still hurt and I needed to get up early in the morning. I peered out the window. The snow was falling very heavily now. I was definitely going to need to help shovel. I might as well go to bed early.

I took a hot shower. The water felt so good, soothing all my muscles. Sometimes, I think that I do my best thinking in the shower. I began to figure out how I was going to resolve my story. I glanced back at my mother's door as I turned to go back to my own room. It was still closed. I wanted to say goodnight but I didn't want to disturb her. I hoped that she was OK. Hopefully, she would feel better tomorrow.

Lady had already claimed her spot on the bed. I curled up under the covers and said a quick night prayer and gave thanks for the day. It had been a good one. I would have so much to tell Mike when I got back.

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"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 10, Part 3

2009-11-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

“I think I've got a photo around here somewhere.” She went over to an old chest that they used to keep blankets in the living room. One could never have too many blankets in Vermont. I think a couple of my first quilting attempts were still in there, serving their intended purpose alongside my mother’s much more accomplished handiwork. She reached down deep under the pile. “Your father would never dig this deep in the chest,” she explained. “He always grabs the blanket on the top. Even if he did, he probably wouldn't notice this secret compartment.” She reached into the corner and lifted up the bottom piece. “This chest used to belong to my mother. Her father made it for her when she was a little girl,” she continued. “This half of the chest has a false bottom. He told her that a girl would have secrets and that she should have a place to keep them.”

When she opened up the compartment I could see a stack of letters tied together with some green ribbon and a faded photograph, along with what appeared to be a diamond ring.

“What is all this, Mom?”

“That's what I am about to tell you,” she said, taking the things and settling into her chair. “This is Anthony and me.”

Two teenage faces smiled out at me from the photograph. They were both dressed up for a special occasion. My mom, as always, looked beautiful. The young man standing next to her was drop-dead gorgeous.

“My, he was handsome, wasn't he?” I said.

“Yes, he was. I could look at that face all day and never get bored. He was smart, too! We used to always argue about everything. He would take the opposite side of whatever I said. I think that he used to do it just for fun. Truth was, though, I enjoyed it, too.” My mom looked away, lost in a memory, but she was simply glowing at the thought of it. “Anyway, we met when we were very young. I was thirteen, he was fifteen. We fell hopelessly in love. My mom thought it was 'puppy love.' She thought it would pass. I've never really understood why people say that about teenagers in love. It seems to me like that is some of the strongest love you ever feel – that first time when you are young and it is so new and wonderful . . .It leaves a permanent imprint, that's for sure.”

“So, what happened?

“Well, your grandma was content to just let things be. She figured if she didn't pay too much attention to it, our romance would simply burn itself out. My father, on the other hand, hated him, and definitely did not want him hanging around his daughter. He made that clear in no uncertain terms. I don't think he had anything against him personally, but he was Italian. That was enough.”

“Ah . . .” Now I understood. Even at the end of his life, my pure-blood Irish grandfather never had anything good to say about anyone or anything associated with Italy, except, possibly, the Pope. For him, he was willing to make an exception.

“Anyway, we didn't care. My mom managed to keep your grandpa from going after him with his shotgun. Come to think of it, I don't imagine that was an easy feat. And, we continued seeing each other every chance we could. When I turned seventeen, he asked me to marry him. He gave me this ring.” She held it up for me to see.

“It's beautiful.” It was a small diamond but it still glimmered in the light.

“I was so happy! I threw my arms around him and said 'Yes.' I was so excited. I rushed home to tell my parents and show my mom the ring. I knew my father wasn't going to be happy, but I figured he must have expected it. After all, we had been dating for two years. I was not ready for his reaction. He was so furious. You remember your grandfather's temper, don't you?”

“Oh yes, I remember it well.” In fact, it was legendary.

“He demanded that I break off our engagement. He told me that no daughter of his was going to marry a boy like that as long as he was living on this earth. I'm almost ashamed to admit this, but for a moment there, I actually hoped God would send a well-placed bolt of lightening and strike him down. He told me I was grounded permanently, that I was never to see Anthony again.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn't know what to do. He was so angry. I knew no amount of begging and pleading on my part was going to change anything. My mom wasn't as opposed, but she felt I was too young to be getting married. She had been married at sixteen and I think she always wished she had been a bit older, had a chance to experience more of the world. I think she wanted more for me. She tried to calm both me and Dad down, but it was no use.

“I snuck out after I knew my father was sleeping and went to find Anthony. We made plans to elope. His friend knew a Justice of the Peace in the next town who wasn't too particular about birth certificates, as I would need to fudge my age a bit. I felt horrible about not getting married in a Church wedding, but I felt like I had no choice. I knew my father wasn't going to change his mind. I hoped that God would understand. We made plans to get married the following weekend. We were supposed to meet at the park late at night. I only packed a couple changes of clothes to bring with me – I had to be able to climb out the window, after all. I knew we would be starting life with nothing, but I didn't care. I loved him. I wanted to be with him. That was enough. When I got to the park, though, Anthony wasn't there. He had sent his best friend Patrick to meet me instead.”

“Not Dad?” I asked, not believing my ears.

“Yes, the one and the same. I didn't know him all that well then, though. We had only met a few times. He had a letter for me from Anthony.”

“What did it say?”

“I have it right here.” She took the top letter from under the green ribbon, unfolded the well-worn sheet of paper and began to read.

My darling Colleen,

I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you this in person, but I know if I saw you, I would never have the strength to leave. You know I love you. I love you more than I ever have, or ever will, love anyone on this earth, but that is why I must go. I can't take you away from your family, your friends, everything you know and love. I know that you love me and are willing to give it all up. That means more to me than you'll ever know. That thought alone will keep me warm for 10,000 nights. But I know that in time you would resent me for it. When we had children and you couldn't bring them to your parents, or when your parents were dying and you couldn't visit – the day would come when you would hate me for it, and I cannot bear the thought of that. Your father is a proud, stubborn man. He won't change his mind. You and I both know that. I know you will be angry at me for this. I don't blame you, but I am doing what I must do, for both our sakes. Please don't try to find me. I will always remember you, always dream of you, always love you. I hope someday that you will forgive me and think of me with the same fondness.
Yours forever,
Anthony

Tears were in my mother's eyes. Mine, too. “That's beautiful, Mom.”

“Yes. I've read this letter so many times. I know it by heart. It's so silly that I still cry after all these years.”

“What did you do after you got it?”

“Your father walked me home. We walked in silence. I don’t think he had any idea what to say to me. I climbed back up to my window, unpacked my things, put the letter and my engagement ring in this chest, and cried myself to sleep. The next day, I acted like everything was fine, and I never mentioned Anthony's name again in my house. My father just thought I was finally being an obedient daughter. My mother was a bit more suspicious, I think, but I never said anything to her, either.”

“Didn't you try to find him?”

“Yes, I did, but he hadn't told Patrick or his parents where he was going. His parents were as upset as I was, although they didn't know I was the reason he had left. He had written them a letter saying he needed to find himself. I thought of him everyday, though, and cried myself to sleep every night for months. I’m ashamed to admit this, but on most days, I still think of him. Part of me will always belong to him,” she admitted. “Several years later, I read in the paper that he had been killed in Vietnam. They shipped his body home. They found this photo of the two of us in his pocket. Your father and I went to his funeral.”

“Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry.”

“We lost too many young men to that war,” she stated firmly, then continued with her story. “But, back here at home, Patrick kind of took it as his responsibility to look after me. I don't know whether Anthony asked him to or not, but as he had lost his best friend and I had lost my boyfriend, we both were rather lonely and began to spend quite a bit of time together. He was a good, solid man, and not too hard on the eyes, either,” she added with a smile. “We needed each other. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Wow. I can't believe this. All those years when you said that the two of you met through a mutual friend, this is not what I had in mind.”

“I know. You won't tell your father I told you?”

“No, I promise. Your secret is safe with me. You won't tell him about Alan?”

“No. It would only raise his blood pressure. Do you know why I told you about Anthony?”

“No, why did you? Why now?”

“Because I wanted you to know that I know what it is to be hurt by someone you love. We all get hurt by love at some point in our lives, often more than once.” She took my face in her hands, and looked steadfastly into my eyes and spoke with great determination. “Like I told you, I don't want to see you get hurt again, because I know getting your heart broken hurts like hell, but falling in love is still worth it.” She paused, still looking me in the eye. “It is a great risk to love, but it is a greater risk not to.

“Oh my goodness, look at the time. I need to get ready for our guests.” She hurriedly put away the letters and her ring, piled the blankets back on top and closed the chest. I would never look at that chest in the same way! “Would you mind setting the table, and checking on the vegetables while I go get dressed?”

“Sure thing, Mom.” I went to go get the good china out of the cabinet and our thanksgiving tablecloth out of the dining room hutch. I was still a little stunned by what my mother had shared with me. I can't believe I never knew about such an important part of my mother's past. She almost married someone else? If that had happened, I wouldn't be here at all. My parents went together so well. I mean, I guess I knew that they must have dated other people, but I had never given it much thought. They had always seemed made for each other. Wow! It had been a lot to take in for one morning. And I had thought I was the one with the secrets!

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"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 10, Part 2

2009-11-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

“Well, then come and tell me.” I looked over at her considering whether or not I should. “Come on now. Bring the potatoes over here. You are murdering them anyway. I can peel sitting down while we talk.”

As I looked down at the potatoes, I had to admit she was right. “Hey, maybe that can be the headline in the paper tomorrow – 'Angry Woman Murders Thanksgiving Potatoes,'” I joked as I handed her the bowl of potatoes and the peeler, my anger subsiding a little.

“Now, now. We don't want the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Vegetables on our doorstep,” she gave me a wry smile. “Now, dear, tell me what happened.”

Over the next few minutes, I poured out the story, tears once again flowing out. One would think I would eventually be able to get through this chapter in my life without blubbering like a baby. At least this time it was my mother. It wasn't as embarrassing as crying in front of Mike. She listened quietly as I told her about finding the emails and his girlfriend showing up at the funeral and trying to pretend to be the grieving widow when all I really was an angry widow. When I was done and stopped to blow my nose, she looked at me sadly.

“Why didn't you tell me?” she asked.

“I don't know, Mom. He died, and everyone was so sad – even you and Dad. In a lot of ways, it was easier to just go along with what everybody thought was true. It was easier to be thought of as the unfortunate widow than as the woman whose husband didn't love her. Besides, what good was it going to do to trample on Alan's memory? Everyone thought of him as the hero who saved those kids. Which, whether I actually wanted to focus on that or not, he was.” I blew my nose again. “Eventually though, I just couldn't take the way people looked at me anymore. By then, it was far too late to tell the truth. Who would've believed me anyway? I just had to get away.”

My mom put down the potato she was holding, and threw her arms around me in a big hug. “I'm so sorry. You should have told me. I would have understood.”

“I know, Mom,” I muffled into her shoulder. “I just couldn't. I couldn't tell anybody. I just had to get away.”

“I know,” she said, sitting back down. “I thought you had to get away because being here hurt too much – all the memories of Alan, but I had no idea just how bad those memories were.”

All of a sudden, she got up and headed to the stairs.

“Where are you going, Mom?”

“I'm going to take down your wedding picture that I have in the stairway.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” she stated emphatically. “I had gone back and forth with myself about taking it down before you came because I didn't know whether it would make you sad, or whether you would be angry and think I was pretending you had never been married. I honestly didn't know what to do, but now I do and I am going to take care of it right now.” I heard her climb up the stairs, remove the photo and walk into her bedroom. Then, she headed back down.

“There, now that's taken care of,” she said as she resumed her place at the table. I had started peeling the potatoes again in her absence.

“Are you sure that potato is safe with you?” she asked.

“Yes, I feel better now,” I laughed. “How many people are you having over, anyway? This is an awful lot of food for just the three of us.”

“Oh, I invited the Thompkins over. Their children are grown and gone, also, and they were going to be all alone. I couldn't let that happen. Besides, we have been friends for years and years. It will be nice to have them share our Thanksgiving meal with us. I also invited Fr. Farling to stop by,” she said hesitantly, then quickly added, “I don't know if he will or not, though. I know you stopped going to Church. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but he is our friend and I work with him so often at the Church . . .”

“It's OK, Mom. Don't worry about it. It's not like I have it out for every priest out there. Fr. Farling has always been very kind. He tried to do all he could to help me after Alan died. He kept checking on me, trying to make sure I was OK. I just wasn't in any position to take his offers of help, that's all. It was my fault, not his. If anything, I owe him an apology, not the other way around.”

“He's not angry with you, dear. In fact, he's always asking me about how you are doing. The people of St. Mary's are like his family. He cares so much about all of us.”

“I know, Mom. You are lucky to have him.” I decided to give my mom some good news in addition to all the bad news I had been dishing out that morning. “Anyway,” I began. “I've started going to Church again.”

“Oh, that's wonderful!” She clapped her hands in delight and a big smile lit up her face. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said, raising her eyes to heaven. “I've been praying for you for so long to find your way back.”

Well, it looks like your prayers worked. A friend of mine from Springfield invited me to go with him and his family. It's been nice to be back.”

“Him?” she inquired, eyebrows raised. Did I really want to tell her about Mike? And, if so, how much should I tell?

“Yeah, his name is Mike,” I began. “I met him at work – not that he works there. He just comes there often.”

“Ah, a fellow book lover. I see the attraction,” she said knowingly.

“No, it's not like that,” I clarified. “We're just friends.”

“Is he married?” she asked. “You said that you went to Church with him and his family.”

“No, he's not married. He lives with his sister and his nephews. They own this big old Victorian house together that used to belong to his parents.”

“Does his sister have a husband?”

“No. She did, but he left her and the kids. They hardly ever hear from him. It's too bad, too. The kids are great. He's missing a lot not being there for them.”

“Geez, good men are hard to find these days, aren't they?”

“You have no idea . . .”

So, anyway, tell me more about Mike. How did you meet? What does he do?”

“Let's see, how did we meet? He runs a group at the library for people doing National Novel Writing Month. I met him at a meeting for that.”

“What's National Novel Writing Month?” she asked as I plopped the potatoes in the water and turned on the stove.

“Every November a bunch of really crazy people attempt to write the first draft of a novel in one month. The goal is to write 50,000 words.”

“That does sound crazy,” she acknowledged. “Do people actually reach the goal?”

“Yeah, sometimes. The point is just to write and enjoy the process – to see where the story takes you. I'm actually trying it this month.”

“You're kidding?”

“Nope. I've been enjoying it, too. I don't know whether I'll make the goal or not, though. The month is almost done and I still have quite a bit left to go. I brought my laptop in case I had time to write while I was up here.”

“Well, aren't you full of surprises? My daughter, the writer – I like the sound of that.”

“Don't get too excited, Mom. I really don't think that my novel will be the next New York Times best seller. I don't even know if anyone will want to read it, or if I'll let them.”

“I'd love to read what you write! I'm sure it's wonderful. I used to love reading the stories you wrote when you were a girl. You always had such an imagination. I don't know where you got it from. I never had much of one. Maybe your father did when he was a boy, but I don't know – I just can't see it. Your father and I have always been much too practical.”

“Oh, you're too hard on yourself. You've been great. The two of you were, are, good parents. Don't get me wrong – you weren't perfect. There were plenty of times when I was growing up that I wanted to trade you two in for someone else, but I've come to realize that, all things considered, I was pretty lucky.”

“I think everybody wants to trade in their parents when they are a teenager. I thought the same thing about Grandma and Grandpa when I was growing up. I came to realize they weren't so bad, either. They had my best interests at heart, even when I couldn’t see it. It makes me feel good that you came to the same conclusion about us. We did the best we could,” she said with a resigned tone of voice.

“That's all anybody has the right to ask.”

“So, Mike is a writer?” she inquired, changing the subject.

“See, and I thought I was going to get you off topic!” I laughed. “Is Mike a writer?” I mused. “Well, yes and no. He is a writer in the sense that he has completed five of these novels, but he refuses to let anyone read them. He says he writes just for himself, for the experience of it all.”

“That's his prerogative, I suppose.”

“Yeah, but I sure would like to get my hands on one of those stories. I think that they would be fascinating. He is a very interesting person.”

“Uh, uh, but you are just friends?”

“Yes, Mom – just friends.”

“So what does he do for work?”

“He's an artist.”

“Really? Is that steady work? What kind of art does he do?”

“Yeah, it is steady work. He's actually very good, and he will do whatever work comes his way. There is always someone who is wanting to make use of his talents. He's painted murals and done paintings of houses and dogs and flowers – anything really. He also teaches at the museum down there and at a college. He even taught me how to make a bowl in the pottery studio!”

“It sounds like you have been spending quite a bit of time together. Are you sure that you are just friends? The way your eyes light up when you talk about him – it seems like there might be something more there.” I could feel my cheeks starting to blush. My mother notices everything, doesn't she?

“I, well, . . “ I stammered.

“You care for him, don't you?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean, there could be something there. He's so handsome and kind, and he has the bluest eyes that just seem like they are looking right into my soul. I feel so safe when I am with him.”

“Well, those are all good things, aren't they? I mean, they were back in the days when I was in dating.”

“Yeah, they are good things,” I admitted, “but he isn't interested. He has lots of friends that are girls. I'm just one of many. He doesn't care about any of us in that way. He had fallen in love years ago with someone that he really thought was the 'one' if there is such a thing. She left him and married someone else. He's never really gotten over her. I don't think I can even hold a candle to his memory of her.”

“I'm sorry. He doesn't realize what he's missing.”

“Funny, he says the same thing about what Alan did to me. He said that Alan was a fool for what he did, because he didn't realize how special I was.”

“You told him about Alan?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah, one night it just kind of all came out. He's a really good listener. I know, I probably shouldn't have told him, when I hadn't told you, but . . .”

“It's OK,” she said. “I know it's not always easy to tell your mother things. There were lots of things that I didn't tell my mother.”

“He's just really easy to talk to.”

“Well, that's good. I'm glad that you made a friend. Just be careful. It's OK for you to love again, but I would hate for you to get hurt again.”

“I know. I'm not trying to get hurt. It just seems to be turning out that way. I keep trying to keep my guard up. I remind myself our relationship is just platonic every day, and dream of him every night.” I couldn’t believe I was telling her this.

“It sounds like you are a lost cause.”

“I know. I'm pathetic.”

“No, you're not. You're just in love. It happens to the best of us.”

“Yeah, sometimes I think it's God's idea of a cruel joke.”

“It's not always easy, that's for sure. You must have realized that just watching your father and I all these years. There are days I want to hang that man by his toenails,” she said, looking out the window to the barn where he was out working. “But I'm glad that he's been here by my side all this time. I can't imagine life without him. I hope that you find a good man, too. Whether Mike is it or not, I can't tell you, but someday you'll find someone special. I just know it.”

“Thanks, Mom. I wish I had your confidence.”

“Have you been praying about it?”

“About falling in love? No.”
“Well, maybe you should.”

“Yeah, you might be right,” I admitted.

My mom looked off into the distance for a while. “Did I ever tell you about Anthony?”

“No. Who's Anthony?”

“Well, don't tell your father I told you – it's so silly – he still gets jealous after all these years,” she said, shaking her head and grinning from ear to ear.

"Through the Open Window" will be available soon through Amazon.com
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 10, Part 1

2009-11-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 10

It was late when I finally reached South Hero. The roads were so familiar here. How many times in my life had I driven down them? I drove past the home I had shared with Alan. I slowed down to take a closer look. There was a car in the driveway. It was strange to think of someone else living there. I had met the new owners at the real estate closing. They were a young couple, a little older than me, maybe. They were new to the area and had a little girl. They had put a gym set in the back yard. It was good that there was life in that house. Would life have been different for Alan and me if we’d had a child? That question would always remain unanswered.

I was happy to finally turn down the road to my parents' home. They were the only ones who lived on the street. All the land around the house was theirs. I could remember as a child going out to play with my brother and just being able to run and run and still be on our land. I missed that in Springfield. I owned a tiny little postage stamp of land. Oh well, everything in life has its tradeoffs, I suppose. It wasn't like I was going to go outside and run anymore. Walking around my neighborhood suited me just fine. Besides, it was nice to have neighbors close by in case anything ever went wrong. About a mile down the road, I could see the light on the front porch, welcoming me home. I was nervous, and felt silly for being so. After all, I was going home. These were my parents. What was there to be nervous about? Yet, things were different. I had run away from this world. I felt a little bit like the prodigal daughter coming home, even though I hadn't done anything wrong. I pulled into the driveway and took a deep breath. This was it.
My mother came running out of the house before I even had the chance to open the car door.

“Lucy, you're home! It's so good to see you!” she exclaimed as she threw her arms around me in a big bear hug.

“It's good to see you, too, Mom.”

“Pat, get her things out of the car,” she hollered out to my father as he came out the front door.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, as he opened the back door of the car and took out my things.

“Hi, Dad.”

By this time, Lady was awake and making her presence known. “Let me get my dog out before she has a fit.”

“Oh isn't she just adorable?” my mom said as I took her out of the car and she promptly relieved herself on their front yard. “Let’s go inside and get you both settled. You must be tired after your trip.”

I nodded in agreement. I was tired. It had been a long day.

“You look pale,” my mom said concernedly as we stepped into the house. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”

“I'm fine, really. I had the flu last week, but I'm feeling much better.”

“The flu? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't want you to worry.”

“I'm your mom. It's my job to worry.”

“It smells great in here,” I said, attempting to change the subject. When my mom got to worrying about me, she was capable of discussing the subject for days. I just didn't want to go there.

“Oh, I've been busy getting ready for our dinner tomorrow.”

“She's been cooking nonstop. She's so excited to have you here,” my Dad added on his way upstairs.

“I can tell!” I surveyed the kitchen. There were pots and pans everywhere, and it smelled so good. I drank in the scent of pumpkin pie and stuffing. Yum. I was hungry already. “At least let me do the dishes.”

“Oh, good grief! The dishes can wait! You don't even have your coat off yet. Come and sit down and talk to me a bit. I'll get us a cup of tea. It is so good to see your face.”

“It's good to see you, too, Mom.”

Lady followed her around with a hopeful look on her face. “And you? What can I get for you? Let me see.” She rummaged around in the fridge. “How about some leftover ham? Would that work for you.” By the way Lady scarfed it down she seemed to think it was just fine.

“I'm so glad you could get away,” my mom said as she handed me my cup of tea. “It's peppermint with honey – just like you like it.”

“Thanks.”

“It just wouldn't have felt like Thanksgiving with neither of my children here. I know you two had to grow up and live your own lives, but I miss you both so much.”

“How is Bill?” I asked. “I haven't talked to him lately.”

“Oh, you know, busy as ever. He doesn't talk much, that one. Like father, like son, that's for sure! Melissa is good about sending me pictures and updates about the baby, though. You'd be so proud of me – I've actually learned how to use email and download photos and everything.”

“That's great!”

“Look, Melissa just sent me this one of Emily just the other day.” She pulled over a picture frame she had on the counter. “Isn't she beautiful?”

“Yeah, she is,” I agreed.

“She looks a lot like you did when you were a baby. I do wish they lived closer. I finally get a grandchild and she lives 3000 miles away. It just isn't fair,” she said sadly.

“I'm sorry, Mom. Are you OK?” I could see tears starting to form in her eyes.

“Oh, this is silly of me. I'm a grown woman. I've just been missing you both so much.” She wiped away a tear with her finger. “I'm just so glad to have you back home, even if it is only for a few days.”

“I'm glad to be here.” I said. For all my hesitation before the trip, it did feel good to be home.

I climbed up the stairs to my old room. Lady had bounded up ahead of me and was waiting for me at the top. The stairway was filled with photos. There was my parents' wedding photo. My mom looked so beautiful and happy, her red hair up in a perfect French twist (I did inherit her hair). My father looked steady and serious, ready to take on whatever the future might hold. There were baby pictures of Bill and me and photos of us growing up. We got older as I climbed the stairs. Near the top of the stairs was Bill and Melissa's wedding picture along with a couple more photos of Emily. And, I noticed with a grimace, she still had up a photo of Alan and I from our wedding day. The day probably still held happy memories for her. I was nowhere near as pretty as my mom had been in her youth (ironically, my brother seemed to have gotten most of the looks in the family), but I had been happy. Naïve, I guess would be the more accurate word.

I went into my old room and sat on the bed. My mom hadn't changed it much since I had been gone. I knew she used it as a guest room, now, but the wallpaper and curtains were still the same. My old porcelain dolls still stood on an upper shelf. There was also a plaque with a little girl in a veil with my name and the date of my first communion engraved on it. My mom would be so happy I was going back to church. I knew it had broken her heart when I had stopped going. I hadn't told her about my recent foray back into the fold. Doing so would have meant telling her about Mike and I honestly didn't know what to tell her about him. There was a lot to talk about this weekend - if I got up my nerve.

Here in my old room, I felt a little like I had stepped back in time. Maybe if I tried really hard, I could close my eyes and pretend I was only ten years old again. Life was simpler, then, wasn't it? I know it didn't feel that great when I was going through it, but in hindsight it seemed wonderful. In another fifteen years, would I look back and want to be twenty-five again? That was a frightening prospect. Maybe, just maybe, life was a one-way trip for a reason. Otherwise, we would always want to go back and do it over.

I slept soundly with Lady curled up next to me. I woke up early, but my parents were still up before me. Life on a farm meant getting up at the crack of dawn. I didn't really miss that. My dad was already out taking care of the animals and my mom was in the kitchen getting the turkey ready to go in the oven.
“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart,” she greeted me cheerily. I had forgotten just how much of a morning person my mother was. I can't say that I inherited that gene, especially in the winter when it was pitch black outside. I may get up early, but I don't really come alive until at least 9 a.m., or at least until after I have had a cup or two of coffee.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I responded, still in something of a daze. “Do you need help with that?” I gestured toward the turkey.

“No, I'm fine! I've been doing this for thirty years! I enjoy the ritual,” she smiled. “The coffee is ready. Would you like a cup?”

“Yes, please - a large one.” Thankfully, she obliged. Mom also apparently remembered I didn't like to talk too much in the morning because she left me alone to drink my coffee and read the paper.

“Do you want another cup of coffee?” my mom asked as I was finishing reading the comics (I had to keep up with the storylines, after all).

“No, thanks. I'm going to take Lady out for a walk.” The sun had just started to come up. I went back upstairs to get Lady, who was still curled up on the bed doing her usual early morning protest.

“Come on, pretty girl. It's time to go outside.” She rolled over and showed me her belly which I obligingly rubbed. “Yes, you have a pretty tummy, but you still need to go outside. Come on, we'll go for a walk. You can check out some new territory.” Still no movement. I picked her up and carried her down the stairs. It was a good thing that she wasn't a big dog because she definitely had a mind of her own.

“Enjoy your walk,” my mom called out after us as we headed out into the cold morning air. I could see my breath as I walked. A couple inches of snow had fallen overnight, which made everything look bright and clean and beautiful. A few flakes were still falling. Thankfully, I remembered to pack my boots. I always loved new-fallen snow. It seemed to give the world a fresh start. I checked my cell-phone as we started out. Some small part of me hoped that Mike would call. OK, maybe it was actually a big part. As I flipped open the case, however, I realized there was no service. That's right. We never did get very good service out here. I'd have to go into the center of town later to check. He probably hadn't called anyway.

I walked and walked and walked down the road. There was nowhere to go, really. All I could do was walk down to the main road and then turn around and walk back again. It wasn't particularly productive which I always found frustrating. I liked to walk with a destination in mind, but it did give me some fresh air and exercise and helped me get the cobwebs out of my head. Lady didn't seem to mind, either. There were all sorts of new things to sniff. Her nose was twitching and she was in her glory. As I studied the landscape, I realized that not much seemed to have changed in my absence. All the same trees still seemed to be standing guard over the terrain. The old picket fence still marked the territory. The same dilapidated shed still managed to stand. Life here seemed frozen in time. It was strange, yet comfortably reassuring to be home.

By the time I got back, I felt much more awake and ready to take on whatever the day would hand me. Lady bounded in the door as soon as I opened it.

“Mom, let me help you!” I hurried over as soon as I saw her struggling to put the heavy turkey pan into the oven.

“I guess this must be a bigger turkey than usual,” she said as she closed the oven door. “Thank goodness you came in when you did.”

I noticed when she stood up how much older my mother was looking. She was thinner, too. Had she really aged that much in a few months? Somehow, I hadn't noticed last night.

“Come on, Mom. Let's sit down. I'll get you some coffee.”

“I'm OK, Lucy. Don't bother yourself fussing over me. I just got a little tired, that's all.”

“Well, then sit and take a rest. I can take care of making the dinner. I'm a grown woman. I don't want to hear any arguing,” I said quite emphatically, as much to convince myself as to convince my mother.

“Well, of course you are, dear. I've just been doing it for so long . . . I guess I could use some help,” she reluctantly acknowledged. “How about we do it together?”

“How about you sit there and tell me what to do?” After all, what do mothers do better than tell their daughters what to do?

“That will work!”

She had really done most of the work the day before. I just needed to get the vegetables ready which took a lot of peeling and boiling water and mashing. Even I, with my rather limited culinary skills was able to accomplish that! As I worked, we talked. We spoke of light topics first. She told me about the happenings on the farm, and in town. As it was such a small town, everybody pretty much knew everybody. She filled me in on all the gossip about her friends from the ladies' guild at church and on people that she knew that I had gone to school with. I heard of births and deaths and marriages begun and ended. I guess I was wrong. Life did change, even in this sleepy little town.

“I saw Mrs. Lyons the other day,” my mother began with trepidation. I cringed at the thought of my former mother-in-law. We had never gotten along especially well. She always felt Alan had married beneath him when he had taken me as his wife. No doubt she would have appreciated that tramp he was going to leave me for much better.

“Did you?” I tried to sound casual, but I began peeling potatoes at a feverish pace.

“Yes. I saw her at the supermarket. We were both in the frozen food aisle.”

“Uh uh?”

“She was telling me she and her husband are spearheading a campaign to have the old playground at the park renamed for Alan in honor of how he died.”

“You're kidding?” I asked incredulously. I don't know why I was surprised. He was their honored son, the golden boy, and they had money and influence. Of course they would want to do something like that. I know, I was being heartless. The woman had lost her son, after all. Would I feel any different if it were my own son? Forgiveness, right? I was supposed to be working on forgiveness.

“No. They are trying to raise money to build a new playscape. You should have heard her! She was so excited about it. She asked me if we wanted to contribute, seeing that he was our son-in-law.”

“What did you say?” I asked, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. I had taken so much off the potato in my hand that it was quickly turning into more of a French fry.

“I think that one is done, dear,” she said, pointing to the potato.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I put it down and picked up another one.

“Anyway,” she continued. “I told her that we would see what we could do. She asked me to ask you as well. She said that she would like you to be involved in some way.”

“Oh, I bet,” I said, remembering the disdain with which she used to treat me. I hadn't missed her since I left. That is for sure. “Mom, you know she never liked me. The woman could barely stand to be in the same room as me.” By now, my anger was wide out in the open.

“Calm down. I know. She was horrible to you, but she really seems to be trying to reach out. She realizes that she wasn't the only one who lost someone they loved in that fire.”

“Geez, it only took her eighteen months to realize that! How can you stick up for that woman?”

“Because she is trying. She knows that Alan loved you.”

“Ha! That's a joke!” Another potato was suffering at my hands. At this rate, we would have no potatoes for our dinner and I quite honestly didn't care.

“What do you mean by that? Alan adored you.”

“No, he didn't, Mom. He didn't love me at all.” I admitted.

“What on earth are you talking about? You have completely lost me.”

“Oh, Mom, there is so much that you don't know.”

"Through the Open Window" is available at https://www.createspace.com/3403879
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 9

2009-11-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 9

Thankfully, I eventually recovered from my battle with the flu. I returned to work a couple days later (Rachel was so happy to see me) and I did take Mike up on his offer to join him and Sara at Church on Sunday. Soon it was the day before Thanksgiving and I was getting ready for my trip back home. I opened up my drawer as I was packing and saw my wedding ring again. Should I wear it? When I had left home, I had still been wearing it as part of the role of the grieving widow. It wasn't until I had come here that I felt I could remove it in good conscience. It had been such a relief to take it off, like removing a noose that had been tightening around my neck. I attempted to slide it back on my finger, but it felt like poison, like the metal would burn through my finger and leave permanent damage. I just couldn't do it. It had been a year and a half. Hopefully, my mother would just think I was moving on with my life.

It was bitterly cold as I loaded my suitcase and laptop (might as well have it, just in case I had the chance to write) into the back of my car. Lady had already jumped into the front seat. She was always ready for a ride and this was going to be a long one. The wind seemed to whip right through my body. I was thankful to get in the car and turn on the heat and put on my favorite CD. My heart was heavy as I set out on route 91 North. It seemed so strange to be going back to the scene of the crime. I had such mixed emotions. I had told Mike the truth. I was looking forward to seeing my parents, especially my mom. I had spoken to my mom the day before and she sounded so excited that I was coming home. My brother and his wife couldn't make it and I knew that it meant a lot to her that I would be there. It was hard on her that her children were so far away. My father was a man of few words, but I knew that he would be happy to see me as well.

I was one of the lucky ones. I had good parents. I knew many people couldn't say the same. They had managed to stay together through all the ups and downs of life. I knew it hadn't always been easy. I could remember being a child and hearing them argue in the next room. They thought I was sleeping and couldn't hear, but I did. Sometimes, I would lie there and cry silently as I listened. I was so afraid that they would split up and I was scared of what would happen to me. Who would I go live with if I had to choose? But somehow, by the next morning, things would always be better between them. They would always work it out. And when my mom had been fighting her cancer, my dad was right there beside her. I was the one doing the physical taking care of her, but he was always there with a smile and a kind word. He would bring her flowers from the garden and tell her she was beautiful even after all her hair fell out. That was love. My father was a good-looking man. I'm sure that he had been tempted over the years to stray, but he never did. Maybe my mother had been tempted as well, but they had stayed faithful. I had seen a lot of my friends' parents get divorced. I had even reached an age when some of my friends I had grown up with were getting divorced. I suppose, truth be told, that if Alan had lived, I would be divorced as well. Maybe God actually did me a favor letting him die in that fire. I hadn't thought of it that way before. I suppose my life really wouldn't be much different now, would it? I would still be alone, except that I would have had the opportunity to have thrown a shoe at him. It was so hard to be mad at someone who just wasn't there.

Why didn't people believe in forever anymore? I had stood before God and promised forever, for better or worse, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do us part. It's pretty amazing how air-tight those vows are. I mean, really, for a few simple words, just about every possible situation falls under one of the categories. Even in the short time I had been married, I knew that it was hard to keep the vows, but I had kept them. Alan, on the other hand, why couldn't he be faithful? Why wasn't I enough? Would I ever be enough for anybody? That was the question, wasn’t it? Not only did I need to forgive Alan for what he did to me, to us; I also needed to be able to believe someone could love me again. That was much easier said than done.

Then there was Mike. Handsome, kind-hearted Mike, who thought of me as what, actually? A friend? One of many? He was good and kind to everyone he met. It was just who he was. Yet he had already met the love of his life. She just hadn't realized what a good thing she had. She had gone and married someone else. People were stupid, weren't they? Take a reasonably sane person and have that person fall in love and he or she will immediately begin acting like a crazy person, and they don't care who they hurt in the process. All is fair in love and war, as they say. Who are “they” anyway? But there was that sensation of falling in love and being loved in return that's pure heaven on earth. I guess maybe that's why people cheat – they want to have that feeling again. And for most of us anyway, sharing a bathroom with someone every day and listening to them snore and having to pay the bills and argue over chores seems to deaden that intoxicating infatuation that comes with the beginning of a relationship. There's nothing like that heart-quickening dizzying feeling. The whole world seems brighter.

When I was young, my mother told me to fall in love with my head rather than my heart. I know what she meant. You are supposed to marry someone because they are compatible with you, because you feel like you could make a good life together. The thing is, I honestly thought that Alan and I would make a good pair. Was it possible to have your heart pound wildly for someone and actually have them be good for you? My heartbeat quickens when Mike is around. Was I falling for him? I was trying not to, and totally not succeeding. I liked having him around. I liked the way he looked. I liked the way he smelled. I liked the sound of his voice and the amazing things that he could do with a paintbrush. I liked the way he took care of his sister and his nephews. I loved the way he looked when he looked at me. I loved the way I felt when he was around. Damn it. I was falling. Hard. And no doubt setting myself up for some serious heartache in the process. Was I even willing to get married again? Was I willing to risk loving again? I honestly didn't know. Why was life always such a mess?

Why was this trip so darn long? I had just crossed into Vermont. There were still a couple hours left to go. Lady was sleeping happily beside me. I hated driving long distances alone, especially at night. Yet, here I was. Oh well, I might as well make the best of it. I turned the music up and began to sing along.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 8 Part 2

2009-11-02T00:00:00.000-08:00

Lady was looking up at me expectantly as I hung up the phone. “Yes, your friend is coming over.” She wagged her tail happily. I bent down to pet her. “You like him, huh? Yeah, I like him, too. But, we'll keep that our little secret, OK?” I got her a treat. “Here you go. Good girl.” She took her treat to her favorite spot to eat – right in the middle of the living room.

I tried to tidy things up a bit before Mike came over. Yes, I realized he had seen the house a total mess just a few hours before, but I was half-dead at the time and couldn't do anything about it. I was now only a quarter-dead and my domestic guilt had returned. In living with Alan and seeing the way Mike lived, I had come to the conclusion that most men don't suffer from that particular ailment. They are perfectly happy to live in a mess. Despite that fact, however, I still felt the need to clean up the dishes that had been piling up in the sink and wipe down the bathroom before his arrival. Mission accomplished, I once again retreated to my couch, Lady by my side, trying desperately to stay awake so that he wouldn't find me sound asleep once again. I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Alan was with me. We had just started dating. It was summer and he was holding my hand. We were walking down by the brook that ran through my parents' property. It was one of my favorite places. I went there often when I wanted to think or just relax. I could hear the water babbling over the rocks. I took off my shoes and socks and began to walk through it. Alan did the same. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me, turning me toward him. He bent down to kiss me. His kisses were always so soft. I was so happy with him. When he pulled away, I looked up into Mike's face. How did he get there? “I can't,” I whispered. “I'm married.” But his blue eyes were so crystal clear. I leaned against him. I could hear his heartbeat. The church bells started to chime. It must be noon. I could hear a dog barking. Lady was running to the brook. No, it wasn't church bells. What was it? Oh, yes, that's right, I realized as I forced my eyes to open. It's the doorbell.
I tried to shake the cobwebs from my head as I got up and moved to the door. Lady was barking up a storm and I could smell the pizza before I even got there.

“Hi! Come on in.”

“Were you sleeping?” Mike asked. “I was ringing the doorbell for quite a while. I thought Lady was going to try to jump through it.”

“Yeah, I'm sorry. I had dozed off. I was having the strangest dream.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked as he put the pizza box down on the counter.

“No. I can't really remember what was going on. It didn't make much sense. The pizza smells good. I'll get us some plates. There is some soda in the fridge if you want some.

“You'll get my crusts, I promise,” I said to Lady whose tail was going a mile a minute.

“I like your dog,” Mike said as he bent down to pet her and give her a piece of pepperoni. “She is so good-natured.”

“Yes, she is. I never had a pet before.”

“You're kidding?”

“No, it's the truth. There were lots of animals on the farm that I helped take care of, but they were there for the food they provided. My parents always told me not to get too attached to them. I couldn't help it, though. I had my favorites. Still, Lady is my first in-the-house, let-me-share-your-lap, kind of pet. She's such a faithful companion. I don't know what I'd do without her. How about you? Did you ever have any pets?”

“Oh yeah, I always had animals when I was a kid. We had cats and dogs and a few fish. The fish never faired particularly well.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What was your favorite?”

“I had a mutt named 'Buster' who I loved. He followed me home from school one day and my mom let me keep him. He only lived for a couple years after that, but while he was around, he was my best friend. I used to take him to the park and let him swim in the duck pond or go running. He loved it.”

“That sounds like fun. Lady doesn't like water much, which is odd considering she is part Lab. I tried to take her to the pond over at Heritage Park during the summer. She wanted nothing to do with it.”

“Well, dogs are like people. They each have their own personality.”

“Yeah, I guess you are right. So, how come you don't have any animals now?” I asked.
“I'm not sure. It just wasn't something that came up. Sara's kids have been asking for a dog. She is still considering the idea, but maybe I can talk her into it. I'd like to have an animal around again. In the meantime, I can borrow yours.”

“Are you done with your pizza? I can put your plate in the dishwasher.”

“Thanks. Do you feel up for a walk or do you want me to take Lady out myself?”

“Um, I don't know. I'm definitely feeling better and it would be good for me to get some air. Do you mind if we just go for a short one?”

“Sure. We can just go around the block. If you start feeling tired, we can come right back.”

“Great. I'll get my coat.” It felt good to step out into the fresh, cool air. Mike had Lady on the leash. She was happily pulling him along.

“I can't believe how quickly November is going by,” I remarked.

“I know. This always happens. Every year when November begins, I think I will have so much time to write my novel, and then the weeks just fly by. Right about now, I start to panic, thinking that I am never going to have time to get it done. I have to always take a few deep breaths and remind myself that it will get done. It always gets done, and even if it doesn't, it isn't the end of the world.”

“How is your story coming along?”

“It's doing alright. My stories always seem to be better in my head then they are on paper.”

“I thought you were supposed to shut off your inner critic,” I teased.

“Oh sure, throw my own words at me! I do try. It's just easier said than done. Every year, I hold out the hope that this year I'm going to write a great work of fiction and it just never happens.”

“I'm sure it can't be that bad. If you write anywhere near as well as you paint, I bet your words are wonderful.”

“Yeah, there is a reason I paint for a living, instead of write. How about you? How is your story coming?”

“About the same,” I admitted. “I've been enjoying the writing, though. It's been fun to get back to doing something I used to love so much.”

“And do you still love it?”

“When it is going well,” I laughed. “Sometimes the words just flow and it is as easy as breathing and the words come pouring out. Other times, it is so painful and it feels like the words are never going to come again.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” We turned the corner at the end of my street. “Are you feeling OK?” he asked. “I don't want you to overdo it.”

“I feel a little tired. My legs still aren't too steady. How about we just go to the next corner and then turn around.”

“OK. If you need to, you can lean on me.”

“Thanks. I just may do that. It does feel good to get some air, though.”

“Oh, before I forget. Sara wanted me to invite you over for Thanksgiving. It's nothing formal. It will just be her and the kids, and me, of course. My parents won't be coming to visit until Christmas. We'd love to have you. I wouldn't want you to be alone for Thanksgiving. You can even bring Lady if you want to. I'm sure the boys would love to play with her.”

“That's so sweet! Be sure to thank Sara for me, but I won't be able to make it. I'm going home for Thanksgiving.”

“Are you really? That's great. When are you leaving?”

“Next Wednesday. I have to work until four that day, but then I'm going to head straight up. I should get there by eight.”

“Are you looking forward to it?” he asked as we turned around to begin heading back home.

“Yeah . . . well, sort of. It's the first time I will have been back since I moved here. I'm looking forward to seeing my parents, but I'm nervous, too. It will be weird to be back. I've been trying so hard to put everything that happened behind me and now I'm going back to where it all happened. I'm not sure how I'm going to feel. I'm not sure how people are going to treat me.”

“I can imagine that will be pretty hard. Are you going to tell your mom about what you found out before Alan died?”

“I'm still thinking about it. I don't know if I should or not. I haven't made up my mind yet.”

“I think you should.”

“How come?”

“Because she is your mom and you love her and I'm sure that she loves you. You should tell her the truth so that she can understand.”

“Yeah, maybe you're right. It's just a hard thing to bring up in conversation.”

“You told me.”
“Yeah, but you're a relative stranger. You didn't know Alan.”

“I know enough to know he was stupid for what he did to you. He may have died doing a good thing, but he never should have hurt you like that.”

“Everything happens for a reason. I mean, God can bring good out of something bad, right?”

“Now you sound like me,” he grinned.

“No, I sound like Father O'Malley. I actually broke down and went to confession last Saturday.”

“You did?! That's great.”

“Yeah, it had been a while. It did me good. I went back to church on Sunday, also.”
“It was you! I thought that I saw you in the parking lot when we were leaving, but you were all the other way on the other side and I wasn't sure. Why didn't you come sit with us?”

“I didn't want to impose. You were so kind to take me the week before. I didn't want you to think I was trying to put myself into your Sunday routine.”

“Don't be silly. We'd be happy to have you sit with us. You are always welcome. Next time you come, you come sit with us. OK?”

“OK.”

We walked along in silence for a few steps. We were almost back to my house, but my legs were feeling like lead. “Do you mind if I take you up on your offer to lean against you? I'm feeling so tired.”

“Sure, come here.” He wrapped his arm around me and helped to hold me up. He was so warm to lean against. I could get used to this. At the moment, though, all I wanted to do was lay back down on my couch. “Are you going to make it?” he asked. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.”

“No, I'm glad we walked. I just think I overdid it a bit. I just need to go back to sleep.”

“Alright, we'll get you back to bed. Just a few more steps.” I somehow managed to make it up the stairs and into the living room where I did not even bother to take off my coat before I fell on the couch.

“Do you want to take your coat off?”

I shook my head “No.”

“Well, at least let me take your shoes off.” He took off my shoes. “Did you make this?” he asked, as he pulled up one of my quilts to cover me. I nodded weakly.

“It's beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm going to get going now so you can get some rest.” I saw him start to walk toward the door.

“Mike,” I said.

“Yes?” he turned toward me.

“Thanks so much for today, for taking care of me.”

“No problem,” he smiled. “I'll call you tomorrow to see how you are doing.” He was such a kind man. I was lucky to have him around.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 8 Part 1

2009-11-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter 8

Mike drove me home. I was ticked off at him, though I knew I had no reason to be. He had never offered anything but friendship, and I had told him that I wasn't interested in anything other than that as well. Why was I trying to make it into something more? Maybe I was just setting myself up to get hurt again, but spending time with him made me feel alive. That was something I hadn't felt in quite a while.
The month was quickly rushing by. I was still working on my novel – every day but Saturday. It had become a ritual. The story was coming along. I was determined to hit that 50,000 word mark if it killed me. On some days, I was convinced that it just might. Some days the words just flowed and I was convinced that I was born to be a writer. Other days, every word was a painful struggle and the word count barely seemed to budge.

I knew I was one of the lucky ones in the sense that there was very little to distract me from writing. After all, I lived alone. I really only had to answer to Lady at home, Rachel at work, and my mother on the phone. Lady only asked that I feed her and walk her and let her sleep next to me. As long as I showed up for work when I was supposed to, Rachel didn't care what I did with my free time (although she was still sure something was going on between Mike and me.) My mother cared, but I hadn't told her about the novel project, or about Mike for that matter. I wasn't ready for disapproval on either front. I love my mom and we get along well, but, she is my mom and her opinion matters, especially when it is critical of me. I just didn't need that right now. She was still trying to get over the fact that I had picked up and moved 300 miles away. I was going home for Thanksgiving. Perhaps I would tell her then.

In the meantime, I kept myself busy, which not only helped the pages of my novel to take shape, but also helped to keep my mind off both Mike and Alan. Well, at least I was trying. There were still a lot of things I was attempting to sort out.

*****

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession.” I knelt in the darkness of the confessional, ready to bare my soul. There was the option of going face-to-face, but I preferred the anonymity of being behind the grille. It didn't hurt that this priest had never seen me before, and wouldn't recognize my voice. I never enjoyed going to confession. It was always painful. It is tough to be honest with yourself – tougher to be honest with someone else, whether they are sitting in the place of God or not. It was totally humiliating, but the odd thing was, afterwards, I always felt better, like the weight of the world had been lifted off of my shoulders. There is something to be said for hearing the words, “I absolve you from all your sins.”

“Father, I need some help.”

“How can I help you?”

“I'm mad at God. I've tried not to be, but I just can't stop,” I reluctantly admitted.

“Anger can be healthy. God knows how we feel. We can't hide from Him, no matter how hard we try. What happened?”

I told him the condensed version of all that had happened.

“I think that your anger is normal,” Father said, “But you need to try to put it behind you. When you feel angry with God, tell him. Offer it up, but try not to dwell on it. Try to concentrate on the good that is in your life now. God will show you the path your life should take. You need to trust that He has your best interests at heart. I don't know why all this has happened to you, but there is nothing so bad that God can't bring some good out of it.”

I thought about his words as I prayed in the quiet of the church. I felt like a little girl again when my mother would take me to our local church to light a candle and pray. There was something so comforting about the candle's gentle glow in the darkness. My mother used to say it would burn all day, carrying our prayers up to heaven long after we left the church. I missed my faith. I suppose Mike was right, once a Catholic, always a Catholic. The priest was right, too, God hadn't left me, no matter how much I felt like He had. He was just an easy target for my anger, because the only other person to blame was dead and being angry at him didn't seem to do much good. If Mike had done nothing else for me, he had convinced me to come back to Church. It felt good to be back.

I went back to the children's mass Sunday morning, although this time I sat in the last pew. I could see Mike, Sara and the boys sitting in the front row. I wasn't there for them, though. I was there for me. Despite that fact, I caught myself staring at the back of Mike's head much more than I cared to admit. Why was it whenever he was near I could think of little else? He hadn't called or stopped by the library to see me all week. It bothered me, no matter how much I tried to pretend that it didn't. This had to stop. When mass was ended, I hurried out of the church before he could see me.

The next day, I was sick as a dog. That's a strange expression, isn't it? After all, as far as I could tell, Lady almost never got sick. In any case, I could barely get out of bed. My head pounded, my throat was burning, and every muscle in my body was sore. I wanted my mommy! This was one thing that stunk about living alone. There was no one to take care of me when I was sick. Alan had always taken good care of me when I was ill. He would read to me while I lay in bed, and make me chicken soup, and even take care of the laundry. As badly as things ended for us, I had actually enjoyed being married, and I had loved Alan. I had loved him more than I had ever loved anyone else. I didn't like being alone. Lady was great, but she couldn't take the place of a real live person.

The following day, when I had actually managed to move to the couch, wrapped in my tattered flannel bathrobe, my doorbell rang.

“Go away!” I hollered. Well, hollered might be an exaggeration, seeing that I could barely talk. The doorbell rang again and again. It wouldn't stop. Lady was barking like a wild banshee. Apparently, whoever it was just wasn't going to go away. I dragged myself off of the couch, picked up Lady and answered the door. Mike was standing there, holding a bouquet of flowers and a small box.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered.

“I went by the library to see you. Rachel told me that you were sick.”

“Come on in. I need to go sit down before I fall down.” He followed me into the living room.

“This is a nice place that you have here.”

“Yeah, it's no Victorian mansion, but its home.” I fell back onto the couch. He stood awkwardly over me. “Sit down. You're making me nervous.” He sat in a chair across from me.

“Man, you look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I didn't mean that way. I mean, you look really sick, that's all.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren't you afraid you're going to catch it?”

“Nah, I got my flu shot.”

“Yeah, I'll have to remember to do that next year.”

“These are for you.” He held out the flowers.

“They're lovely. Thanks. Unfortunately, I can't smell them at the moment. Do you want to put them in some water for me? I have a vase in the kitchen.”

“Sure. I'll go do that.” He got up, leaving the box on the chair.

“What's in the box?” I asked when he returned. He handed it to me. “Here, take a look.”

“It's my bowl! Thanks for bringing it to me.”

“Didn't it come out great? I love the blue color. What are you going to use it for?”
“Umm – I'm not sure. I'll have to give it some thought. Could you put it up on the shelf for me?” I requested, pointing in the general direction of the bookcase. He took the bowl, and I wrapped my blanket closer around me.

“Are these your parents?” he asked, holding up a photo he found on the shelf.

“Uh- huh,” I nodded.

“And who is this?” He held up another photo.

“That's my brother and his wife.”

“Is this you as a little girl?”

“Yeah. I had just learned how to ride that bicycle. I wasn't very coordinated. It took me a long time to learn. My Dad wanted to preserve the moment forever.”

“You were adorable! I love the pigtails.”

“Thanks. I wasn't dying of the flu then.”

“You do look awful. Is there anything I can get you – maybe some hot tea or something?”

“Would you be willing to make me some chicken soup? I've been wanting some, but I haven't had the energy to actually get up and make it. I have some cans in the cupboard. You can make yourself a bowl, too, if you'd like.”

“That sounds good.” I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was Mike setting up a tray near me and putting the soup on it. “I'll help prop you up.” He grabbed some extra pillows and put them behind me.

“Thank you. You are being very kind. You really don't need to be here.”

“I know. I wanted to be. I knew you lived alone. I figured that you could use the help.”

I nodded weakly. “I'm not very good company today.”

“That's OK. You don't need to be.” He smiled as he tucked the blankets around me. “Where's Lady's leash? She looks like she could use a walk.”

“I'm sure she could. I've been barely able to put her outside. Her leash is over on the counter.” Lady jumped up happily as Mike put on his jacket and picked up her leash. She was ready to go. “Come on, Lady. You can show me the neighborhood. We'll let Lucy get some sleep.”

I finished my soup and then lay back. It felt good to get some food in my stomach. It was so kind of Mike to come. So kind . . .

When I woke up, it was three hours later. Mike was sitting in the chair, reading a book. Lady was curled up next to him. “You're still here?” I said groggily. “I didn't even hear you come back in.”

“You were sound asleep. I didn't want to wake you.”

“You don't need to stay. I'm sure that there are a million things you could be doing. I'll be fine.”

“You don't look fine. And besides, this gives me a good excuse to procrastinate on my novel.”

“Ugh . . I haven't worked on mine at all the past two days. I'm going to be way behind in word count.”

“You're right. You should be working on your story. Suffering from the flu should be no deterrent to writing! I once wrote half of a novel when I was sicker than you are right now.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, I'm just giving you a hard time. Of course you shouldn't be writing! You're sick. You need to take care of yourself.”

“OK. I think I'm going to fall back to sleep now.”

“OK. I'm just going to sit here.”

“OK,” I murmured as I drifted back into my fever-induced sleep.

I awoke to the feeling of a cold compress on my head and the morning light streaming through the window. I could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen. “You've been here all night? You must be exhausted.”

“I rested in the chair. Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were OK. You had me scared there for a while. You kept tossing and turning and talking in your sleep.”

“Oh, geez, I don't remember what I was dreaming about. Did I say anything embarrassing?”

“No, I couldn't really make out what you were trying to say – just that they were supposed to be words.”

“That's good. I can't have you knowing all my secrets!”

“So, how are you feeling this morning?” he asked. “You're looking a little better – you have a little more color in your cheeks.”

I reached up and pulled off the cold compress. “I do feel better. I'm starting to feel human again.”

“I already called Rachel and told her that you wouldn't be at work today.”

“She must be so mad at me.”

“No, she understands. She doesn't want you to come in and share all your germs.”

“Maybe I'll be able to go in tomorrow.”

“Let's see how you get through today.” he responded.

“You sound like my mother.”

“Speaking of which, she called last night. She left a message on your machine.”

“I'm surprised you didn't answer it.”

“No, I figured you'd have a hard time explaining what a man was doing answering your phone at that time of night.”

“Yeah, you're right. She would've had a fit. Thank you for your restraint.”

“No problem. I have parents, too.”

“Do you think we'll ever turn into our parents?”

“No, it's just not possible.”

“I bet that's what everyone says, and then it happens anyway.”

“You might be right about that.”

“I think I'm going to try to get up. I'm feeling ambitious.”

“Here, let me help you.” He came over and supported my arm as I stood up. “How are you doing?”

“My legs feel a little shaky, but I think I'll be OK. I'm just going to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back.” I successfully navigated my way there. When I looked in the mirror, I scared myself. I hadn't showered in over three days. My hair was greasy. I was pale. I looked like walking death. I was surprised Mike hadn't run from the room screaming.

“Man, I do look bad.” I said as I shuffled my way back to the couch.

“Yes, you do.”

“I need a shower.”

“Yup.”

“You don't always need to agree with me.”

“I don't. Only when you are right!” I threw one of my pillows at him. It hit him in the head.

“You must be feeling better! Do you think you'll be all right if I go home for a little while? I'd like to take a shower myself and change my clothes.”

“Sure, I'll be fine.”

“OK. I'll get going then. I'll come back later to check on you and take Lady out for another walk.”

“She's going to love you forever.”

“Good. Somebody needs to,” he said as he patted her head. He directed his attention back at me. “I know you're feeling better but don't try to overdo it. I'll be back later.”

“OK, thanks,” I said as he headed out the door.

I was feeling better and decided to take advantage of the time he was gone to make myself look somewhat presentable. It took some effort, but I did shower and get dressed. Then, worn out from that activity, I took another nap. I woke up to the phone ringing. It was late afternoon.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it's Mike. You answered the phone. I'll take that as a sign you are up and functioning.”

“Well, I'm up. Functioning is another matter.”

“How are you feeling? Do you want some company?”

“Sure. Lady has been waiting for you to come back.”

“Great! Do you want me to bring over something to eat? I could grab some take-out on the way.” I briefly considered making him dinner, but decided he probably didn't want my germs all over his food.

“That would be great.”

“Anything in particular?”

“No, I probably won't eat that much, so anything you want is fine.”

“Is pizza OK?”

“Sounds good”

“Alright, I'll be by in about an hour.”

"Through the Open Window" is available at https://www.createspace.com/3403879
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 7 Part 2

2009-10-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

“Shall we go to the library first?” he asked.

“Sounds good.” We started walking in the direction of a large Renaissance-style building. “How did you get into writing, anyway?” I asked.

“One of my friends was doing NaNoWriMo several years back and he challenged me to do it with him – for moral support. I think I had a couple of drinks in me at the time because it sounded like it might be fun, despite the fact that I had never written anything but school papers in my life, and even those I kept to a bare minimum.”
“So, what happened? Didn't you think better of it in the morning?”

“I had given him my word that I would do it – I couldn't go back on it,” he said as we climbed the library stairs. “Anyway, I soon discovered that, talent not withstanding, I actually enjoyed it quite a bit.” He held the door open for me. “It was like a painting, except with words. I had to tell readers everything that I would normally show them in a painting. It was a creative challenge. I liked that. I still do.”

“Oh my goodness! This is amazing!” I exclaimed as we walked into the rotunda.

“Told you! I knew you'd love it. Take a deep breath. You can actually smell the books from here.” He was right. You could just breathe in the accumulated wisdom of the years simply standing there. The rotunda had these incredible marble columns that led upward to an impressive amber glass dome.

“Wow! They just don't make buildings like this anymore, do they?” I said as I admired the surroundings.

“Shall I show you around?” he offered.

“Yes, please do.”

We headed to the left into a separate room which was filled with reference materials and computers. “When I was younger, this used to be the art and music library. I would spend hours in here just poring over the books. There was so much to discover. I interned here at the art museum when I was in college and my boss used to send me over with a box full of unidentified slides and I would have to do my best to identify them. It was like being on a treasure hunt. A few years back, they changed it into the technology center. Art had to make way for progress.”
“They didn't get rid of the books, did they?”

“Oh no!” he assured me. “Thank goodness, they didn't do that. They just moved them into the regular book section. The music got moved downstairs with the videos and DVDs. Somehow it's not the same, though. There was something about being able to say that I was going to the 'art library.'” he said wistfully.

We continued on to the other sections of the library. It really was an incredible place. “So many books, so little time,” I sighed as we walked out. I was carrying the few books I hadn't been able to resist.

“Are you actually going to have time to read all those?” he asked.

“Don't worry. I'll make time. There is always time for a good book! Besides, I'm a fast reader.”

“I'm not,” he admitted. “One book can last me a whole month.”

“No kidding?” I asked, surprised. “One book can last me a day – maybe two.”

“I prefer to savor mine,” he said. “I treat them like a fine wine.”

The doors to the George Walter Vincent Smith Art Museum (that is quite a name, isn't it?) were mammoth wooden structures with impressive lion head knockers. “Those knockers remind me of the ones in A Christmas Carol,” I said as we entered. “I half expected the ghost of Jacob Marley to appear as we entered.”

“No, no ghosts here,” he said. “That would make a good story, though, wouldn't it? – a ghost in an art museum.”

“You are always on the lookout for a good story, aren't you?”

“Well, November comes around every year. It's helpful to have ideas to work with. I jot them down in a notebook as a 'just in case' file.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Maybe I'll have to start doing that, too.”

“You should. You never know when inspiration might strike.”

We were still standing in the entry to the museum and the guard was starting to look at us rather suspiciously. “Which way would you like to go?” I asked Mike as I looked around. There was a massive staircase to my right, a gallery in front of me, and a hallway to the left. “It looks like we have a few options. What's your favorite part of the museum?”

“There are some great exhibits here. My personal favorites are the plaster casts I had told you about, but that's not where I wanted to take you.”

“It's not?”

“Nope. Come with me.” He led the way to the right, underneath the stairs, through a door, and down a narrow staircase.“Watch out for your head,” he cautioned as we descended.

“Where are we going?”

“To the classrooms.”

“Are we supposed to be down here?” I asked hesitantly. “It's awfully dark.”

“Here. I'll get the light switch. . . Let there be light.”

“Seriously, are we supposed to be down here? That security guard was pretty intimidating. I don't want to get sent to jail for trespassing or anything.”
“Stop worrying. It's fine. I teach classes here. The guard must be new, but I’ve got my ID if he questions us. I'm allowed to be here. Anyway, I wanted to show you where I fell in love with art, and, if you are up for it, give you a lesson.”

“Me, do art? . . I don't think so.”

“Why not? You said you wanted to learn how to see and think like an artist. Right?”

“Well, yeah . . .”

“Well, nothing, here's your chance. I'm a firm believer that anyone can create art. They just need to be given the opportunity.”

“I'm not totally devoid of creativity. I'm just not good at painting or drawing or stuff like that.”

“I don't believe you!”

“Ugh! . . . how do I get myself into these things?”

“By hanging around with me,” he answered jovially. “Life with me is never dull.”

“Thanks for the warning. I'm beginning to find that out for myself.”

“Here's an apron so you won't get your clothes dirty.” He put one on as well.

“Thanks.”

“Don't look so down. You're going to have fun. I promise. Now, what do you want to try working with? We have pastels, watercolors, acrylics, or we can try doing some pottery if you would like.”

“You're asking me? I honestly have no idea.” I paused to think. “Alright, how about pottery? I mean, that's probably the easiest, right?”

“I don't know if I'd say that. It was the class that I had the hardest time with at school. It took me quite a while to even be able to make a serviceable bowl, but it is a good stress reliever.”

“Great. Now I'm even more nervous.”

“Don't be. The beautiful thing about pottery is that if something isn't coming out well, you can just smush it back into a big ball of clay and start over.”

“Why do I get the feeling I'm going to be doing a whole lot of smushing?”

“First, you are going to be doing a whole lot of kneading. Come over here.” He opened up a big container and scooped out a clump of clay and smacked it on a table.

“Have you ever kneaded dough?” he asked.

“Oh sure. My mom and I used to enjoy making bread for the holidays.”

“See, you're ahead of the game already! This is the same thing, except the dough is thicker and it takes more muscles. This is the stress-relieving part. You have to work the clay until it is nice and warm and all the air bubbles are out of it.”
We stood side by side working the dark earthy clay. It started out sticky and hard to work with, but I soon got a good rhythm going. I liked the feeling of the clay in my hands. Mike was right, though. It was certainly a workout for the muscles. I could feel my shoulders starting to get sore. It was a good sore - the kind that lets you know your body is working hard doing something physical. It was also a reminder that I hadn't been exercising as much as I should be. Mike looked over every now and then to check on my progress, offering encouragement. I wondered if his muscles hurt, too. I looked over at him. He did have a very nice physique. I wouldn't mind running my hands over those muscles. Get a grip, Lucy. He's not interested.

“This is quite a workout,” I commented in an effort to break the silence and get my mind back on task.

“Told you! Pottery isn't my favorite thing to do, but whenever I am stressed or upset about anything, I come and pound clay. It always helps clear my head. I'm glad that you chose to do this. I figure beating the clay might do you some good as well.”

“About the other night . . .,” I began, not sure at all what I was going to say. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what? You have nothing to apologize for,” he replied, still working on kneading his clay. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn't have burdened you with my problems.”

“You needed to tell someone. I'm a good listener. People tell me their problems all the time.”

Great. I had to tell my problems to the Dear Abby of men. He probably has a file somewhere in order to keep track of them all.

“I bet it was a big relief for you to finally tell someone,” he continued. “Besides, your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I may have been one of many who confided in Mike, but as he hadn't told me anyone else's secrets, I took him at his word that he wouldn't share mine. That was a comfort.

“How's the clay feeling?” Mike asked, changing the subject.

“Um . . .I'm not sure. It feels warm and soft.”

“That's a good sign,” he said. “Can I check it for you?”

“Sure. Be my guest.” I moved away from the work table so Mike would have room to maneuver. He kneaded the clay a few times and pronounced it ready to use.

“So what do we do with it now?” I asked.

“The easiest thing to start with is simply to make rolls of it and start using it that way." He took some of the clay and began rolling it to demonstrate. I did the same. Soon, I had a long snake of clay about two feet long.

“This is fun,” I said. “I haven't done this since I was a little girl”

“I'm glad that you are enjoying it! That should be good,” Mike said, looking over at my efforts. “Do you want to try making a bowl with it?”

“Sure, why not?” He showed me how to begin coiling the bottom and then slowly build up the sides.

“Wow! Look at that!” I exclaimed as I admired my handiwork. “It actually looks like a bowl!”

“You're a natural. I knew you could do it!”

“Now what happens to it. I mean, it's not done yet, right?”

“You can leave it that way if you want it to be terra cotta colored or you can put some slip on it if you want it to have some color.”

“I like color. Can I try that?”

“Sure thing. Color it is.” He walked over to a few jars on a shelf. “Do you want red or blue?”

“Blue's good,” I replied. He brought over one of the jars and poured something that looked like very watery clay into a bowl for me to use.

“Here you are,” he said as he handed me a brush. “Just brush this on all over the bowl. You don't need to do the bottom. That will stay as it is. Actually, before you start applying the slip, why don't you put your initials on the bottom?” He took a wire and slid it under the bowl to release it from the table and then gently turned it over. He handed me a tool to write with. “Don't press too hard – you don't want to cut through the clay. Just do it deep enough to leave a slight indentation.” I took the tool and gently scraped in “L. L.” and the date.

“See. Now it's official. You've made your first bowl!” he said as he flipped it back over. “Now you can apply the slip.” I took the brush and began applying the greyish liquid.

“Are you sure this is blue?” I asked. “It doesn't look blue.”

“Don't worry. It will once it is fired. It will be beautiful,” he assured me.

“Working with clay is a lot like going through life. You have to go through a bit of fire before true beauty comes out.” Something in the way he looked at me when he said that made the butterflies come back.

“I think I'm all done,” I stammered as I applied slip to the last recesses of the inside.

“Great! You can leave it there to dry. There aren't any classes going on today or tomorrow in this room. I'll come back tomorrow and put it in the kiln.”
“What are you going to do with your lump of clay?” I asked, trying desperately to regain my composure.

“I don't know. I didn't really have any plans for it. I could just throw it back in the clay bin. The clay can be reused.”

“Oh, OK. It looks sad just sitting there, though. It looks like it wants to be used.”

“The clay looks sad? Are you sure that you're feeling OK? Maybe the fumes down here are starting to get to you.” he laughed. “I guess I could do something with it. I could try making a pot on the wheel. Like I said, though, I'm not great at it.”
“That's OK. I would like to see how a pottery wheel actually works. When I was a little girl, there was a pottery wheel in a toy catalog. I wanted it so much. I asked Santa for it in a letter.”

“Did you get it?” he asked.

“No, but I did get a dollhouse my father had been working on for months. That was good, too. I spent a lot of time playing with it, making up stories with my dolls.”

“You must have been so cute!”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” I smiled, “but I still would like to see how the wheel works.”

“Alright, I'll give it a shot - just for you.” He moved over to the pottery wheel.
“Come on over.” I obliged, pulling up a chair next to him. “You know I'm not making any promises on how this is going to turn out.”

“I'm sure you'll do fine. You seem to be able to work magic with everything you touch.” Did I actually just say that? “Artistically. I meant artistically.” He laughed.

He plopped the clay on the wheel. “OK, clay, be kind to me. We have an audience.”

“Do you always talk to your clay?”

“Some people talk to their plants. I talk to clay. I figure it can't hurt.”

“I'll remember that next time I try working with clay.”

“Well, I guess I should try to do something with this. Let's see. The first step is to get the wheel moving. There is a pedal underneath that makes it go.” The wheel started turning. “That should be good. Next step – try to make a bowl. This is the fun part. I need to stick my thumbs in the middle and try to make an opening.” I watched him working the clay. Sure enough, it was starting to look like a bowl. “Now, I need to try to thin out the sides. This is the hard part.” He pulled gently on the clay and the walls of the bowl began to move outward. Then, they collapsed!
“See, I told you this was hard!” He smushed the clay back together. “But, you can always try again. Do you want to try?”

“Oh, I don't know. If you can't do it, I doubt I can.”

“Think of it this way. You can't do any worse.”

“I guess that's true. OK. I'll give it a shot. Will you help me?”

“Of course.” I sat down in front of the wheel. He sat behind me. “OK, start the wheel turning.”

It took me a few seconds to get a feel for working the wheel. “There you go,” he encouraged. “You want it to go at a nice steady pace. Not too fast or your clay will go flying.”

“Do you know that from personal experience?”

“More times than I care to admit. But, it looks like you've got it at just the right speed. Now start forming the clay. Try to get it into the shape that you want.”

“What shape do I want it?”

“That's up to you. This is your world. You are the potter. It is the clay. Do with it whatever your heart desires.”

“Well, maybe I'll just try to make a bowl – see how that works out.”

“Alright, then, once you feel like the clay is ready, stick your thumbs in the middle and gently start pushing against the outsides to make the walls thinner.” I tried to oblige. It really was much harder than it looked.

“Here, let me help you.” Mike wrapped his arms around me and guided my hands over the clay. I could feel his warm breath on my neck. I could feel my heartbeat quicken. My mind was on everything but the clay. I tried to concentrate on the sensation of the warm clay sliding through my fingers as I attempted to shape it into something resembling a bowl.

“I feel like Demi Moore in 'Ghost.' Except, she knew what she was doing of course!”

“You're doing fine! As I said, you can't possibly be worse than me at this, and I spent a full semester of college working at it.”

“Oh no! It's falling apart!” Sure enough, as I tried to thin out the walls more, they started getting wobbly and then crashed in on themselves.

“Don't worry about it,” Mike said. “Just smush it back together into a big lump.” I happily did so.

“Bad clay!”

“See, now you are talking to it!”

“I guess you're right.”

“Do you want to try again?”

“No, I think I've had enough for today.”

“Well, let's clean this place up, then, so that I don't get in trouble with my boss.”
I helped him put the clay away and clean off the tables. He placed the one bowl I had completed up on a shelf. “See, at least you have one thing to show for today's adventure,” he said.

“Absolutely. Thanks for bringing me here. I had fun!”

“I'm glad. I had fun, too. I always enjoy hanging out here.”

We climbed back up the stairs and headed out into the quadrangle. “We never did get to see the exhibits,” I remarked.

“That's OK. It gives me a good excuse to bring you back here again sometime.”

“I appreciate that, but you don't need to feel like you always need to be taking me someplace, like I need to be taken out or anything. I know you have other friends. . . “

“Don't worry about it. I like hanging out with you, and I do still get to see my other friends.”

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 7 Part 1

2009-10-30T18:14:00.000-07:00

Chapter 7

Mike called me Saturday night. “Hi! I was just calling to see how you were doing.”

“I'm doing great. How was movie night?” I asked.

“It was fun. It's always fun to hang out with the kids eating popcorn. We watched a Star Wars movie and then we battled with light sabers.”

“Sounds like it was a good male bonding experience,” I laughed.

“Yes, it was. It would have been nice if you had been able to join us, though. Maybe you can come another time,” he said.

“Yes, I think I would like that.”

“There was another reason why I called,” he sounded serious.

“Oh, what's that?”

“You don't have to, of course, but I was wondering if you would like to come to Church with Sara and the boys and I tomorrow.”

“Uh . . . I don't know. It's been a while. . . ”

“I know, and I know you are mad at God, but you can't run away forever. I thought it might do you some good – help the healing process along. The priest won't know you and we have a real friendly congregation. We go to the children's mass. There are lots of kids and lively music. I think you'd enjoy it. I could pick you up or you could meet us there – whatever you want. We usually go out to eat after. You are welcome to join us for that as well.”

“It's very thoughtful, really . . . I'm just not sure. . .”

“Please come.” There was something in the way that he said it that made me agree.

“Alright, you've convinced me. Here, I’ll give you directions to my house.”

*****

Sunday morning, I was so nervous. I hadn't set foot in a church in nearly a year and a half. I had always enjoyed going to mass before Alan died. I found the prayers and the music so soothing. I had always liked churches when they were empty – to just sit in the silence and be in the presence of God. Yes, I knew God was everywhere and I could be in his presence no matter where I was, but there was something special about being in a church. I had blamed God for everything, but deep-down I knew that it wasn't really His fault. Alan had chosen to cheat on me. If there was any blame – it lay with him, or perhaps, with me. Maybe I had taken my marriage for granted. Maybe we weren't meant to be together in the first place. And his death? Well, God may have been responsible for that, or it may have been that it was just Alan's time. He was meant to save those children. It was time for me to find someway to forgive – God, Alan, and me.

I was thankful when Mike finally pulled into the driveway. I rushed out to meet him.
“Good morning! How are you?” he asked as I stepped into the car, which, I noticed, had actually been cleaned.

“Terrified,” I answered honestly.

“Don’t be. You’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” I whispered. The butterflies flying in formation in my stomach were not so sure.

We met Sara and the boys in the parking lot. They seemed to know everyone as we went in. They greeted so many people by name. It seemed strange to me to find such a sense of community in a city. It was a modern church, with pews on three sides of the altar, very different from the traditional church I had grown up going to. There were beautiful stained glass windows all around the church, each highlighting a different name of Jesus. We sat in the front row. “Do we have to sit up front?” I anxiously asked Mike.

“It'll be fine,” he said. “We always sit up front. The kids like it up here. They can see everything that is going on.” Sara sat between the boys. I sat next to Tommy and Mike sat on the outside. He said he had to sit there because he helped out passing the basket when it was time for the collection. Tommy was busy doing the puzzles on the kid's bulletin while I knelt down to pray before mass. I said a quick “Our Father” and “Hail Mary” and then sat down. The prayers helped calm my nerves. Mike smiled reassuringly at me. That helped, too. One nice thing about being Catholic is that no matter where you go, the mass is basically the same. Once mass began, the rhythm and beauty of the prayers and ritual quickly came back to me. Mike was right – the music was very uplifting and it was great to see the children going up to the altar for the homily. Tommy and Johnny scampered over me in their enthusiasm to get a good seat. I wished my parish up in Vermont had something similar. The homily was geared for children but it spoke to me as well. Sometimes things are better in simple terms. I found a true sense of calm being there. It was something I hadn't felt in a long time.

“So, did you survive?” Mike asked me as we left the church. “Yes, I did. I'm actually glad I came. You were right; it felt good to come back.”

“Oh, good, I'm glad. With the look you had on your face when we walked in, I was worried.”

“Just a few initial butterflies,” I admitted. “Once mass started, I was fine.”

“We usually go to Friendly’s for a late breakfast after mass. Would you like to join us?”

“Sure,” I nodded enthusiastically. “That would be great! I'm starving.”

Breakfast was good. As I savored my French toast, Tommy and Johnny maintained a running commentary. They told me all about school and Star Wars and Pokémon. It really was quite an informative conversation. When we left the restaurant, they ran ahead with Sara. “I should have warned you – they can talk up a storm,” Mike apologized.

“Don't worry about it! It was fun to listen to them. They certainly have a lot of energy!”

“Yes,” he agreed. “They are definitely little boys. So, what are your plans for today?”

“I honestly didn't have any. I figured I'd probably work some more on my story. It seems like a good day for writing,” I said as we walked back to his car.
“Could I possibly interest you in doing something else?” he asked. “There is someplace I'd love to show you.”

“For the head of this writing group, you certainly have been keeping me from writing!” I teased.

“Yes, I know. It's really all part of a sinister plan on my part to keep you from getting to 50,000 words. I can't have you reach your goal and me not. It would make me look bad!”

“Honestly?”

“No,” he assured me. “But there is someplace I would like to take you. Are you up for it?”

I took a deep breath and looked around. “Why not?”

“OK. Just let me tell Sara we’re taking off.” We walked over to Sara's car and said goodbye to her and the boys.

“No getting into trouble, you two,” she admonished as we walked away. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“Does she think something's going on between us?” I asked once we were out of her earshot.

“Yeah – I keep telling her we are just friends, but she doesn't believe me. She's another one always trying to fix me up. Even with her failed marriage, she is still trying to marry me off! I'm convinced it is a conspiracy on the part of all the women in my life.”

“Well, I promise I won't try to fix you up with anyone,” I told him. After all, even if he had no interest in me and I wasn’t really ready for a relationship with him, I still wasn't going to push him in some other woman's direction.

“So, where are we off to,” I asked as I buckled my seat belt.

“I thought I'd surprise you.”

“OK,” I said uncertainly. “You're not going to take me anywhere frightening, are you?”

“No. I promise. You'll like it. I know that you haven't seen much of Springfield. I'm just expanding your knowledge – showing you all the city has to offer.”
Within a few minutes of driving through downtown streets, we arrived at a parking lot surrounded by a wrought-iron gate. “What is this place?” I asked as he pulled into a parking spot.

“This is the Quadrangle – it's four museums – two art, one science, one history, and the library. It's the place where I told you I went to art classes when I was young and one of the places I teach now. I wanted to show it to you. We can stop by the library, too. It's beautiful – you'll love it. There are lots of old books to sniff,” he said as he smiled at me. “Besides, all the museums are free when you live in Springfield. How can you beat that?”

We got out of the car and began walking toward the museums. “Look, it's the Cat in the Hat!” I pointed to a metal sculpture in the middle of a manicured green.

“Yes, it is. That's the Dr. Suess memorial. Did you know he was from Springfield? He grew up just a few streets from where I live.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, I think that I did read that somewhere. I love his books. They are great for story times with the kids!”

“A lot of his stories were set right here in Springfield,” he added. “Mulberry Street is only a couple of streets from here. Of course, it doesn't look anything like it did back when he was describing it. No horses and carts have gone down it in quite a while! His father worked at Forest Park.”

“You are just a font of information. I'm amazed by how much you know!” I complimented him. “Oh, look – it's Horton!” I pulled a camera out of my purse. “Will you take a picture of me with him?”

“Sure. Smile!” He took the photo, then handed me back the camera. “Over there is the full text of Oh the Places You'll Go.” He pointed to a large metal book. “Have you ever read the book?”

“Yes, I have. It's very encouraging, isn't it?”

“My mom gave it to me as a graduation present when I graduated from high school,” he said. “I think she expected great things from me.”

“And you have delivered, haven't you?”

“Well, she was always supportive of my art, but I don't think she would've objected if I had become a doctor or lawyer or something. I don't think my being an artist was her first choice.”

“Yeah, my parents used to lecture me about my 'lack of direction' as well, but they figured I would get married and have kids and take care of them, so if I didn't have a great career, it wasn't that big a deal. They thought I could always help out with the farm if nothing better came along.”

“Wasn't there anything you ever wanted to be?” he asked. “I mean, I know that you like working at the library and all, but was there anything else? - something you loved when you were a kid?”

“When I was kid, I wanted to be a ballerina.”

“Do you dance?” he asked.

“Not a bit! In fact, I have been told I have no natural grace at all.”

“I don't believe that!” he said.

“Spend more time with me. I'm sure you'll discover it for yourself!”

“OK, so dancing was out of the question. Was there anything else you liked to do?”

“I loved writing. I would make up all sorts of stories.”

“So, this novel project must be right up your alley.”

“Not really.” I shook my head. “It's been a long time since I've written anything. My novel isn't very good, but I'm trying to take your advice and ignore that. It does feel good to be writing again, though.”

“I'm glad to hear it. It always feels good to do something that you love, and I'm sure it isn't as bad as you think. In fact, I'd be willing to bet mine is worse!”
“Well, maybe we could have a contest – writer of the worst novel wins?” I suggested.

“Of course, that would mean you would have to let me read yours!”

“Are you going to let me read yours?” he countered.

“Not in a million years!”

“I guess we have a problem, then. We'll have to just call it a draw,” he laughed.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 6 Part 2

2009-10-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

“I'm not sure where to begin,” I hesitated.

“Why don't you start at the beginning?” he encouraged.

I took a deep breath. “I was married.”

“Are you divorced?”

“No, I'm a widow.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. That must be hard. How did he die?”

“In the line of duty – he was a cop, but that's only half of the story.”

“OK. So, what's the rest of the story?”

“It could take a while.”

“That's OK. I have all night.”

“Let's see – the beginning. I met Alan when we were in high school. As you know, I come from a small town. Everybody knows everybody, but still, Alan and I most definitely did not move in the same circles. He was hugely popular – wealthy, handsome, captain of the football team and all that. Every girl wanted to date him, and the most popular, outgoing girls did. I was the bookworm. Honestly, I might have been invisible. He might have known my name, but that was about it. Anyway, after high school, I went off to college and Alan became a cop. He got to know my father from the local bar. Neither of them were big drinkers. They mostly just hung out there – watching sports on television and playing pool. It's a small town - It was just the men's hangout.

“Anyway, after my mom got sick and I moved back home, Alan started stopping by the house. He would spend some time helping my dad with the farm, and would end up having meals with us. We ended up spending more and more time together. Turns out, he wasn't just a pretty face – he really was a good guy. It seemed like he had grown up a whole lot since high school, and so had I. A lot of the people he had hung around with in school had moved away. We didn't have all that much in common, but we got along well. He had a good sense of humor and could make me laugh which I desperately needed at that point in my life. I love my mother, but caring for her every day and seeing her so sick – it was tough. Alan was a pleasant distraction. I fell in love. I had never been in love before – not really. I had dated in college, a few dates here and there, but no one serious. Most of them just seemed interested in hooking up, not in an actual relationship, and I really wasn't into that kind of scene. Alan seemed like a knight in shining armor, as corny as that sounds. I was so happy when I was with him. He treated me like a queen – he would bring me flowers and buy me jewelry and always picked up the tab when we went out to eat. He was always such a gentleman.

“After my mom's cancer went into remission, he asked me to marry him. My mom wasn't thrilled. He wasn't Catholic and that was a big sticking point with her. He was willing to go to Church with me though to make her happy, so that kind of smoothed things over a bit. For my part, I worried about his wild side. He liked to drive his motorcycle too fast, liked to party a little too much. I thought that he couldn't be happy with me – that I was really kind of dull and that he would eventually get tired of me. After all, I wasn't anything like the girls he used to hang out with in high school. He assured me that he had changed, however – that he truly loved me and wanted to be with me forever. So, I happily said 'Yes.'

“We were married a few months later in a nice small ceremony. It was everything I wanted in a wedding. My father walked me down the aisle and I got to wear my mother's wedding dress. Best of all, my mom was feeling much better and could be there. I was so happy that day. Standing there in the church with Alan by my side – I didn't think life could get any better.

“Alan had some money saved up and we were able to buy a small house near where my parents lived. We had some adjustments as newlyweds. All couples do, I imagine. Still, I thought we were doing pretty well. We each had our own lives. Alan liked his police work – it wasn't like it was a high crime area or anything, but there was always someone who needed help. And I was still helping out on my parents' farm. I got a job as a waitress and I also started volunteering at the library. The only thing we didn't agree on was when to start trying to have a family. I wanted a baby and Alan kept saying he wasn't ready. We were both young. I figured we had time to wait a little while.

“Life was good, or so I thought, - until the day I got his cell phone bill and noticed that there were a whole bunch of long distance calls to a number I didn't recognize. I dialed the number and a young woman picked up the phone. I told her I had the wrong number. Of course, then I was suspicious. I decided to check out his email account. I probably shouldn’t have, but the password was saved on the computer. I was crazy. I had to know what was going on. There were hundreds of emails to and from a woman whose name I recognized. She was a girl Alan had dated in high school. Apparently they had reconnected on one of those reunion sites on-line. I sat there reading message after message. He was having an affair. He had told her he planned to leave me and go to New York to be with her. I didn't know what to do. I was so angry. I printed out a whole bunch of the messages, planning to confront him when he got home from work. I wanted to scream and hit him and tell him how much I hated him. A huge storm had started outside. There was lightning and thunder and driving rain. The storm matched my mood. I sat near the door, the letters in my hand, waiting for him to come home.” I paused to take a few sips of water.

“What happened when he got home?” Mike asked.

“That's just it. He never came home. One of the other guys on the force came to bring me the news. I knew as soon as I saw John coming to the door that something had happened. I turned the letters I was holding over and put them on the coffee table and let him in. The first words out of his mouth were 'I'm so sorry.' Apparently, as Alan was driving around doing his rounds, he saw a lightning strike hit a house and set it on fire. He called the fire department and then ran in the house to see if anyone was there. There was a young teenager home. He could hear her screaming. By the time he got to where she was, she had passed out from the smoke. He carried her out. She came to as they got outside and told him her baby brother was still in the house. Alan ran back in. He found the baby upstairs, but by then the fire was too severe. He stood by the window with the baby. The firefighters had arrived and put up the ladder. Alan was able to hand over the baby who ultimately recovered, but it was too late for him. He was badly burned. He died in the ambulance.

“He was celebrated as a hero. After all, he had saved two children. His funeral was attended by everyone in town. And I was the hero's widow! How could I tell anyone the truth? – that he was cheating on me – that he didn't love me anymore – that he was planning to leave me. I didn't even tell my mother. Whenever I saw anyone, they were always expressing their sympathy, telling me what a wonderful man Alan was; how much he loved me; how they were sure he was in heaven. I was so angry with God – I didn't even want to think about heaven. I was mad at God for the fact that my husband was cheating on me, and mad at God that he had let Alan die before I had the chance to kill him myself. You know the worse part? – I had to email his girlfriend to tell her that he died. I figured that she would want to know. She actually had the nerve to show up at the funeral! She cried and cried and cried. It was all I could do not to scream at her right then and there – call her every name in the book and smack her across the face. But I couldn't, because I was supposed to be the grieving widow and I didn't want anyone to know the truth.

“I thought that in time things would get better, but it didn't. People stopped mentioning Alan so much, but they still looked at me with pity in their eyes. I was still filled with so much anger, but then the sadness mixed with it. The thing was, as much as I hated Alan for what he did and for the fact that he died, I missed him, too. I had really loved him, and I thought he loved me. I have to believe that, for a little while anyway, he did.” I could feel the tears start to stream down my face and I stopped to wipe them away. I couldn't believe I was saying so much, but once the words started coming, there was no stopping them. I had kept them bottled in for so long. I could feel Mike's gentle blue eyes on me. At times it honestly felt like he was looking, not at me, but through me, straight into my soul.

After a couple moments he spoke, “When did you decide to leave and come here?”

“It was after about a year. I just couldn't take it anymore. There was no one I could talk to. Everyone knew Alan and had such a high opinion of him. My parents and the couple of friends I had just thought I was having a hard time because he had died. I stopped going to Church. I tried to avoid our parish priest whenever I encountered him anywhere. Like I said, it's a small town – there was just no escape. I just couldn't take it anymore – pretending all the time. I eventually decided to sell our house, and move here and start over. I had some life insurance money to help out with a new beginning. My mother was so sad that I was leaving, but she knew I had reached a breaking point – that I needed to do something, or I was going to have a breakdown. I don't miss much about home, but I do miss her,” I admitted.

“I'm sorry,” Mike said.

“For what? - You didn't do anything.”

“I'm sorry that you have been hurting so much. I'm glad that you told me.”

I wiped away a few more tears. “Yeah – I'm probably really going to regret this in the morning.”

“I hope not. I won't tell anyone. I just want to be your friend.”

“Thanks,” I smiled. “I could really use one.” A pregnant silence hung between us.

“Could I ask you something?”

“What?” he said.

“How did you move on?”

“From what?”

“Your girlfriend – the one you were supposed to marry. She found someone else. How did you manage to forgive her and go on with your life?”

He took a deep breath. “It wasn't easy. Like you, I was angry and sad and brokenhearted, but in the end I just realized that it wasn't meant to be. We were something very special for a while and I'll always have those memories – I told you I've never really gotten over her, but – it was just a chapter in the story. Well, maybe a couple chapters. There was still a whole lot of the story left to be written.”

“I guess you're right. I admire you – and Sara. The other day at the party when I was talking to her I was really amazed by how she has been able to pick up the pieces after her husband left her. My pieces still feel like they are all over the floor! I want to be able to move on.”

“You will – it just takes time. Some hearts take longer to heal than others. It's been years since Amy left me. Sara, on the other hand, has always been a pretty tough cookie.”

“Yeah, well I wish the healing process could speed up a bit.”

“You can't rush it. You need to let it take as long as it takes. The hurt won't ever completely go away, but one day you'll wake up and it will hurt less.”

“You sound like you know what you are talking about.”

“I do.”

“Do you think you'll ever fall in love again?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he answered. “I'd like to. I'd like to get married and have a family – if the right person comes along. I used to think that there was only one person for each of us, and that Amy was mine, and I lost her. I don't necessarily think that anymore – I think that there is more than one potential mate for each of us. I think there are second chances – I mean there has to be, right? Look at all the people who get divorced and then get married again.”

“Maybe they just didn't find the right person the first time around,” I suggested.

“Maybe – or maybe finding the right person is only half the battle. Maybe choosing to stay in love after the initial rush wears off is the harder part.”

“Yeah. Apparently it is.”

“I look around at married people I know and most don't seem to realize how lucky they are to have someone to love. I mean, look at Sara's husband. He just didn't see how fortunate he was to have Sara and the boys. He threw it all away! Or your husband – obviously he didn't realize how lucky he was to have you, or else he wouldn't have gone looking elsewhere, right?”

“Oh – I wasn't that much of a prize,” I said. “You should've seen the girl he was leaving me for! I think she was actually a model – that's kind of hard to compete with!”

He looked at me intently. “Don't ever sell yourself short like that. Every woman – every person has their own specialness. If someone has been blessed enough to see that specialness in someone and have someone see it in them, they should do whatever it takes to hold on to that.” He turned and looked out the window for the moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts, or perhaps recalling a memory. He turned back to me. “Look, I know I've never been married and that it is hard, probably much more so than I realize. I’m not trying to condemn anybody. I just don't think people should give up as easily as they do, that's all. Love's worth fighting for. If I find love again, I'm going to hold on to it forever.”

“She'll be a lucky woman, whoever she is. I hope someone will feel that way about me someday.”

“Oh, I'm sure of it,” he said. “There is some man out there just waiting for someone like you.”

“I hope so,” I said in a whisper.

“I know so,” he replied. “Hey, in the meantime, we have each other, right?”
“Right.”

Mike's cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the number.

“Excuse me,” he said. “It's Sara. I need to take this.”

“Sure, I'm just going to go to the ladies' room,” I said and got up.
When I got back, he had his coat on.

“I'm sorry. I need to go home. Sara just got called into work for a few hours and asked if I could watch the boys. I know it probably wasn't in your plans for tonight, but would you like to come back with me? We'll probably just watch a movie or something. If you don't want to - if you could just drop me off, that would be great.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Thanks for the invite, but I should really go home. My dog will be waiting to go out.”

“Oh, OK. Well, can you at least give me a ride home? I'll have Sara give me a ride to the library tomorrow to pick up my car.”

“Of course. Come on.” I grabbed my coat and we headed outside.

“It's so cold, it feels like it might snow!” he said.

“Yeah – it's quite a switch from last week. When I talked to my mom a couple days ago, she said that they actually did have some snow on the ground!”

We got in the car and I put the heater on high. Mike was rubbing his hands together. “The heat usually comes on pretty quickly,” I said. We were at his house in a couple of minutes.

“Are you sure you won't come in?” he asked. “I'll make popcorn!”

“It's tempting.” Indeed, I would have liked to stay, but I knew I shouldn't. “But, I really need to go.”

“OK. I understand. Could I at least have your phone number or email or something, so I can get in touch with you without having to go to the library. Not that I mind going to the library . . .”

“Yeah, of course. Hold on a second.” I grabbed an old receipt and scribbled my number on it. “Here you go.” I handed it to him. “And Mike . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for tonight.”

“You're welcome.” He smiled then turned away and closed the door. I watched him walk into the house, then drove home in reflective solitude. It had been quite an unexpected evening. I felt like a huge burden had been lifted from me in telling Mike my secret. It was entirely possible that I would indeed regret telling him in the morning, but I didn't think that I would. The hurt and anger and sadness were all still there, but they felt lighter somehow, like their grip over me had been loosened a bit. It was a first step. As for Mike, I still didn't know what to make of him. All I knew was that I trusted him. I felt safe when I was with him, and I liked that feeling. I wanted it to stay. I knew he wasn't interested in me – not that way, but I could still enjoy his friendship and companionship.

I took the painting out of the car when I got home and brought it into the house. Lady greeted me enthusiastically at the door. “Watch out, Lady, you are going to get stepped on!” I successfully navigated getting through the entryway, holding the painting up as Lady jumped up on my legs. “Yes, I will take you out in a moment. Just let me put this down.” I put the painting on the table in the kitchen. When I came back from putting the dog outside, I went over and looked at the painting again. It really was incredible. Mike was so very talented. Where could I hang it? I picked it up and carried it around the house, trying to find the perfect place. I decided to put it in my bedroom so it could be the first thing I would see in the morning. Besides, no one went in there but me. I didn't have guests that often, but I didn't want to share my painting with anyone. It was mine and mine alone.

I let Lady back in and fed her some supper, then settled in with my writing. What had begun as a whim had become a ritual for me. The month was nearly half over. I could hardly believe it. I was almost halfway to my goal. I had decided my main character would go to France after all. I had picked up a few travel books at the library. I was writing about places I had seen only in pictures and throwing in phrases in a language that I hadn't studied since high school. It didn't matter. No one would ever read this story, and I was having fun. I realized when I was writing, I had a peace that I hadn't had for a long time. I could temporarily forget my life and live in someone else's. Even if Anna was a product of my imagination, it didn't matter. She and I were having fun!

I worked late into the night. The words flowed so easily. I was surprised when I checked my word count to discover I had written over 3500 words – in one night! I had reached the halfway point. I closed my laptop and headed off to bed, where I slept more soundly than I had in ages.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 6 Part 1

2009-10-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

When I awoke in the morning, the ring was still in my hand. The morning light coming through the window shone on the inscription inside, Love is Forever. Except that it wasn't - at least not in my case. Did I still think that it could be? Maybe, like the older couple I always saw at the library. I thought about what Sara had said, that she didn't have time to wallow because of her children. I guess I was the opposite – I had too much time to think. Maybe that was part of the problem. I tossed the ring back into its box, disgusted with myself.

I look like crap, I thought as I looked in the mirror. My eyes were all puffy and my face was blotchy from crying. Even coffee and makeup would not help me today, but I had to do what I could to pull myself together. Please don't let Mike come into the library today.

Well, he must have because I saw that he had written notes on the NaNoWriMo bulletin board, but thankfully I didn't see him. Either he came when I wasn't working or he didn't come to find me. Either way, it was OK. I didn't want to see him.
On the bulletin board he had written on a large sheet of paper: “Week #2: Your Characters Will Start to Do Unexpected Things.” I had resumed work on my novel after my two-day hiatus. I started the week at 12,452 words so I wasn't horribly behind, although I definitely had some catching up to do. There was something remarkably comforting in typing a few paragraphs and checking the word count. I liked to watch the numbers increase, even it was only by a couple hundred words. Each word was one step closer to that elusive goal.

Indeed, my characters were, in fact, starting to do some unexpected things. Truth be told, I had considered scrapping all that I had done to date. My semi-autobiographical story was therapeutic to write, but it didn't make for very entertaining reading. I didn't even want to write it anymore. I was tired of thinking about the past. I truly believed that my writing belonged in the garbage bin. At the same time, I couldn't bring myself to hit the delete key. The point of the novel writing month, I reminded myself, was to just write and shut off my inner critic. That was much easier said than done, however, especially considering that I spent most of my life in a library surrounded by great books. Nevertheless the whole purpose of the exercise was to just keep going, and no matter how much of a mess my life was, I was going to do this. I couldn't surrender now.

That being said, my heroine, otherwise known as Anna, definitely needed to get a life. What could I do with her to bring some excitement to her world? I scanned the shelves for ideas when I was at work. Although I was supposed to write about what I knew, I didn't want to anymore. I wanted to write about something I didn't know at all. I wanted my heroine to have some adventure. I wanted to stop wallowing, once and for all. Maybe I could have her take a trip to France and fall in love with her French tour guide? Or, perhaps, she could have a quarter-life crisis and decide to quit her job, get a motorcycle and ride across country. I had always wanted to do that – the ride across country part, not the motorcycle part. There was so much of the world to see, and I had seen so little of it. Maybe my fictional character could go places I had only dreamed of. Perhaps she could come down with some serious illness and end up in the hospital where her roommate would be a wise old woman who would teach her about all the things that mattered in life. When she recovered and got out of the hospital, she would be a changed woman, facing life with a new sense of purpose. Perhaps my character could do all those things. I would need to do some research. Yes, indeed, my character was going to do some very unexpected things.

I was surprised to see Mike come into the children's room Friday afternoon, just before closing. Rachel and I were putting up paper turkeys for the annual Thanksgiving turkey hunt. He was carrying a large rectangular package wrapped in brown craft paper. He smiled as he walked toward me.

“Hi! I am so glad that you are here. I was afraid you wouldn't be working. I realized I didn't even have your phone number or address or anything.” He seemed really nervous. “I'm sorry I wasn't in the library much this week. I was writing and painting and teaching and busy with the kids and the week just got away from me.” He paused to catch his breath.

“You hadn't been around? I hadn't really noticed,” I lied. He gave me a puzzled look.

“Well, I wanted to give you this,” he said as he handed me the package.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Open it and see!” he insisted. I tore the paper off. Rachel gave a gasp when she saw what it was.

“Wow! That is incredible!” Rachel exclaimed. “You didn't tell me you were having your portrait painted! What are you doing keeping secrets like that?” She was my friend, but at that moment, I wanted desperately for her to disappear. I had to agree, though. The painting was incredible. The colors were somewhat more muted than the other paintings of his I had seen, but he truly captured the gentle light coming through the window caressing my face. It was beautiful. Mike had made me beautiful! How I wanted to see the world the way he saw it.

He was standing there, studying my face, waiting for a response. “It's lovely. Thank you,” I finally managed to say.

“Oh, good!” He breathed a sigh of relief. “From the way you were looking at it, you had me worried there for a while.”

“I'm sorry. I was just surprised, that's all. It's not everyday that you get a portrait someone has done of you.”

“I should say not!” added Rachel. She was still standing there. Didn't she have anything that she could be working on?

“I don't feel like I should accept this. Shouldn't I pay you for it or something? What do you usually charge for a painting like this,” I asked.

“You don't owe me a thing! I won't take a penny. I enjoyed painting it and I hope that you'll enjoy having it,” he stated matter-of-factly. I stood there, continuing to admire the painting, grasping for something else to say.

“There is something you could do for me, though,” Mike said.

“Oh, what's that?”

“I was wondering if you would like to go out to dinner with me tonight. Nothing fancy, just somewhere casual. I've been so busy working, I've been forgetting to eat, and I'm starving.”

“Uh – I don't know.” I looked at Rachel. “I was planning on staying late tonight to finish these turkeys and get everything ready for the Thanksgiving party we are having here at the library tomorrow.”

“Don't you even think about staying here and working!” Rachel ordered. “I can do this myself just as well. We're almost done anyway.” That wasn't true and I knew it. “You and this nice talented gentleman go off and have yourselves a good dinner. In fact, you can leave right now.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes, I'm sure. You just be here bright and early in the morning, ready to entertain those kids.”

“Alright, thank you.” I turned to Mike. “Just let me get my coat. I'll only be a few minutes.”

“OK, I'll wait for you over by the entrance.”

I found Mike over by the bulletin board, writing a few notes on people's word counts that they had posted. “How's everybody doing?” I asked, gesturing toward the board. I was still holding on to the painting. “Most are doing well. A couple of people have dropped out already, though. I noticed you haven’t been coming to the meetings. How come?”

“Oh, I’m not much of a joiner. Besides, I really do spend a lot of time here. After work, I like to go home and do my writing there. How come the people dropped out?”
He shrugged. “It happens. Life gets in the way, or people decide that they liked the idea of writing a novel more than the actual writing. This isn't a project for the faint of heart. It takes commitment and endurance, and a little bit of insanity!” he smiled. “I see that you are still going strong,” he said, pointing to my latest word count.

“Is that supposed to be a crack on my sanity?”

“No, not at all. After all, I believe my count is still ahead of yours which obviously would make me even more insane.”

“I didn't realize it was a contest!”

“It's not. I was just wondering how the writing was going for you.”

“It's going OK. There were a couple rough spots earlier this week when I was considering abandoning the project, but I decided to keep going.”

“Yeah, everybody has days like that when it seems pretty pointless. You need to just push through them.” He scribbled a “great job” on someone's note, then he turned to me, putting his pen back into his pocket. “Are you all set to go?”

“Yes. What do you say we take my car this time? It's cleaner.”

“OK, sounds good. Lead the way.” We headed out the side door into the cold evening.

“Oh, and I insist on buying you dinner. It's the least I can do after you painted such a beautiful portrait of me.” I held up the painting.

“No arguments here,” he answered. “I'm always happy to have a free meal.”

I opened the car door for him and put the painting gently in the back seat before getting into the driver's seat. “Will the painting be alright back here while we go eat?” I asked.

“Sure. I wouldn't make that its permanent home, but for a couple hours it will be fine,” he answered.

“Is there someplace special that you wanted to go?”

“No, I thought I'd let you choose.”

“Well, I don't know too many places around here, but there is a little sandwich shop over near where I live. They have a nice warm fireplace I like to sit near on nights like this. Would that be OK?” I asked.

“Sounds great,” he said.

At the restaurant, we ordered our sandwiches and sat down in my favorite spot. “This is nice,” he said, looking around. “I've never been here.”

“I come here often. They do breakfast sandwiches, too, so I sometimes stop by in the morning before work to grab something to eat then, or to order a lunch to bring with me to the library. I'm not very good at keeping food in the house, especially since I live alone. Well – not totally alone – I do have my dog. Anyway, the food here is good and it doesn't cost very much – a winning combination in my book.”

“Absolutely,” he added, taking a bite of his warm turkey and cheese on rye.

“I'm sorry. I'm babbling, aren't I?” Was it extra warm in the restaurant or was it just me?

“No, you're not. Besides, you have a nice voice. I like listening to you.”

“Really? I think you are the first person to ever compliment my voice.”

“I shouldn't be. It has a real nice quality to it – a gentle tone.” I smiled and began to eat. We ate in awkward silence for a couple minutes. Mike was glancing around at the other people eating dinner and the artwork hanging on the restaurant walls. “I've always liked that painting,” he said, pointing to a picture of a girl standing by a window holding onto a water pitcher. “It's by Jan Vermeer.”

“I've heard that name,” I said. “He painted Girl with a Pearl Earring, didn't he?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“I read the novel about the girl in the painting. It was fictionalized, I know, but it was a great book.”

“I've always admired his ability to take ordinary people and ordinary occurrences and make them so beautiful, so that they are anything but ordinary. I try to do that in my art.”

“I think you succeed,” I answered wholeheartedly, thinking of the painting in the back of my car and the ones that I saw in his studio. “How did you get started painting?”

“I've always loved to draw or paint. I can remember being in 1st grade. My teacher had an easel set up and if we got our work done, we could go paint with watercolors on it. The other little boys would be off building things with blocks, or racing cars, and I would be there painting. I liked to do those things, too, of course, and if the easel was being used by someone else, I was the first one there building a tower to knock down, but painting was definitely my first love.”

“You must have been so cute, standing there at your easel!”

“My mom thought so!” he answered. “She was always so supportive of my artwork – hanging it up around the house, putting it up on the refrigerator. She was always getting me new art supplies to work with and when I got a little older she began to send me to classes downtown at the Springfield Art Museums.”

“What did you study there?” I asked.

“Everything I could – drawing, painting, photography. I loved every minute of it. It was, and is, a magical place,” his eyes lit up as he talked. “They have a whole room of classical plaster casts. I fell in love with the Venus de Milo! I used to go and take my sketchpad. I could spend the whole day sketching the sculptures or trying to copy one of the paintings that hung in the galleries. After a while, the artworks there became like old friends. I felt like I knew every one of them inside out.”

“That sounds amazing,” I said.

“It was. My Dad wasn't crazy about it, though. When I was young, he didn't care much. I think that he thought it was a passing fad. As I got older, however, and continued to spend every minute I could with my art, he got more worried. After all, he sold insurance for a living and it provided us with a comfortable existence. He wanted me to do something practical, to be able to support a family and make my way in the world. As far as he was concerned, artists were poor eccentrics – good to have around for the general culture, but you wouldn't want to have one in the family.”

“Did he ever accept it?”

“Mostly. Eventually. It took a long time, though. When I told him I wanted to study art in college, he almost refused to help out with the tuition. Thankfully, I did get a fairly large scholarship thanks to my grades and my mother was able to convince him to provide the rest. I told him I would study education as well so that I could be an art teacher. That seemed to placate him a bit. At least I would have some job prospects.”

“And did you?” I asked.

“Did I what?”

“Study education?”

“Oh yeah, I got my certification and everything. I taught kids when I was a volunteer after I got out of college. You should have seen my father's face when I told him I was going to volunteer for a year.”

“I can imagine. Did you like teaching?”

“I did. I taught art in an inner-city school. The students were so poor. They had holes in their shoes and holes in their clothes, and for many of them, their sole purpose in going to school was to get the free meals it provided. For a lot of them, it was the only food that they got.”

“That's so sad.”

“Yes, it is. But the kids were great. Life had handed them a rotten deal that they couldn't see their way out of, but for the most part, they still had hope and love. We did this one project with them where we gave them each a disposable camera and had them take pictures of their world. It was like a photographic 'all about me' kind of project. We taught them how to develop the pictures (this was pre-digital) and then write about what they had taken photos of. It was amazing to see the beauty that they found in the strangest places – an old factory, a run-down house, a collection of worn-out toys. They also found beauty where you would expect it – a wildflower growing in a parking lot or the eyes of their baby sister. Those kids taught me as much about seeing beauty in the world as I ever learned in a classroom.”

“It sounds like it made quite an impression. Why did you stop?”

“The volunteer program was only for a year,” he said. “When I got back home, there were no openings in the art departments of any of the local school systems, so I decided to go back to school so that I could teach at the college level. A friend of a friend of my mother's heard about my painting ability and asked me to paint a mural in her house. She liked what I did and through her word of mouth, I was able to get a few more projects. One thing led to another, and I soon found I was able to support myself with my art. It was a good feeling. Then, after I graduated, I got the teaching job at the college. Needless to say, my father was amazed, and forced to admit that I wouldn't be penniless after all.”

“I'm glad that you succeeded. You are lucky to have found something you love so much. When you talk about your art, you have such passion. I wish I had that much passion about something, anything!” I admitted. “I wish I could see the world the way you do. You don't seem to be looking at the same world that everyone else is.”
“Anyone can learn to be an artist,” he answered. “It really is all about truly looking at things – not just glancing at them superficially, but taking the time to pay attention. Take this for example,” he held up the salt shaker. “What do you see?”

“A salt shaker?” I answered.

“Yes, it is a salt shaker, but look closer. See the facets in the glass and the reflections on the silver top. Look at the way the light is reflected. If you look hard enough, you can even see your own distorted reflection in it.” He held out the salt shaker for me to take it. I tried to really study it. To, as Mike said, pay attention.

“Wow, you are right!” I said. “I can actually see all the different ways the light is reflecting. It is really pretty.”

“See, I told you. The whole world is like that. God created this amazing planet, and most people just pass it by without paying it any notice. I want to help people pay attention.”

“Well, you have helped me.”

“Great, one person down, six billion to go!” he laughed, then grew more sober.
“There is something I wanted to ask you. If it's too personal, just let me know.”

“OK,” I said anxiously, “What's that?”

“You have a great personality and a good sense of humor and I really enjoy talking with you.”

“That doesn't sound too bad so far.”

“Let me finish,” he said. “When I look at you, and in the photos I took of you to do the painting, I couldn't help but notice that you have the saddest eyes of anyone I have ever met. Why is that? What is hiding behind that smile that hurts you so much?”

“Wow.” I took a deep breath and looked out the window at the cloudy night. I didn't know what to say – whether to say anything at all.

“I'm sorry – I shouldn't have asked. You don't need to say anything.” I could feel my eyes welling up with tears.

“I haven't told anyone. Not since I moved here, and the people at home don't know either – not really.”

“Here,” he handed me a napkin to wipe my eyes. “I didn't mean to make you cry. You don't need to tell me.”

“No, I'd like to.” It was the truth. For some reason, I felt like I could trust Mike. “Do you promise to keep it a secret?” I asked. “Not to tell anyone in the library or write about it in your story or anything.”

“I promise,” he said. I believed him.

"Through the Open Window" is available at https://www.createspace.com/3403879
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 5

2009-10-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

The sun streaming through my windows woke me up Sunday morning. It looked like it was going to be another warm day. That would be good for the party. I spent the morning doing some housework, and then Lady and I headed out for our morning constitutional. When we got back, it was time for me to get ready for the party. I looked up the address on the internet. Mike lived pretty close to Forest Park. I was known for getting lost when attempting to find new places, but I figured that I should be able to find his house without too much difficulty. I showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and put on some earrings and makeup.

“What do you think, Lady?” I asked the only observer in the room. She cocked her head to the side and looked at me with her big brown eyes. “Yeah,” I sighed, “That's what I thought, too.” I patted her soft head. “Oh, well, it is better than the sweats I had on yesterday. It will have to do.” I gave Lady some chewy treats. “I'll be home later. You be good.” I grabbed my keys and headed out, wondering where this day would take me. It wasn't that I necessarily found a group of six and seven year old boys intimidating. After all, I worked with children every day. Still, I wasn't quite sure what to make of my role in this day. What was I supposed to do? I would have to just wait and see.

I turned off the main street and into a residential neighborhood. Mike lived in the historic district – a section of beautiful old Victorian homes. I had only seen the ones that were on the main road. I never realized how many more homes were set back on side streets. It was like entering a whole different world, taking a step back in time. Springfield was the first big city I had ever lived in. Coming from a small town, I suffered from culture shock when I first moved here. I was struck by the contradictions. Abject poverty and relative affluence lived nearly side by side. You could be driving through a fancy section and then find yourself someplace you wouldn't want to be alone at night within a matter of minutes. It was just a matter of knowing where to go and where not to, and that took some time to figure out. Mike's area was definitely one of the more privileged ones.

When I pulled up to his house, he was attaching balloons to the mailbox. His house was huge! It was three floors, with huge columns framing the entranceway. There was a fountain right in the middle of the street, surrounded by a garden! While I imagined it would be even prettier in spring, it was still breathtaking. Mike waved to me as I got out of the car.

“Hi, Lucy, I'm so glad that you came! A few of the guests have begun to arrive.”
I nodded, smiling. “This is some place you have here.”

“I told you!” he said. “I grew up here. The house has been in my family for almost a hundred years. My parents moved to South Carolina a few years ago and they left the house to me. When my sister's ex-husband left her, she and the kids needed some place to stay so they moved in as well. I like it better that way. It was really way too big a house for just one person. Come on inside. I'll introduce you to everyone and show you around the place.”

“Here. This is for Tommy,” I said, handing him the present I was carrying. “I hope he likes it.”

“I told you that you didn't need to bring anything!”

“That's OK. I wanted to.”

“Thanks. It was very thoughtful of you.”

We walked up the stairs and through the stately front door. There was a huge entryway complete with hanging chandelier and massive staircase with a gorgeous stained glass window at the landing. “This is amazing!” I said.

“You haven't seen anything yet!” he responded. He led me to the right where there was a large living room with mahogany paneling. Our next stop was the dining room, followed by the den and the library. “I think the library is my favorite room so far,” I remarked.

“Yeah, mine, too, at least on this floor. My grandfather loved collecting books. All the classics are here. He had a number of first editions as well.”

I sank into a comfortable armchair and looked around at the bookcases full of books just begging to be read. “I could spend all day here,” I sighed.

“I know what you mean,” he agreed, “but right now we need to go find my sister and see what we can do to help. Come on,” he extended his hand to help me out of the chair. His hand was warm in mine – too warm. I let go quickly. “We'll go to the kitchen,” he said nonchalantly, apparently oblivious to the sudden case of nerves I was now experiencing. “I'm sure we'll find Sara there.” We headed out of the library and around the corner to where the kitchen was set in the back of the house.

“Mike, there you are!” a clearly frazzled woman greeted us. “I wondered where you disappeared to. All the kids are outside. Can you please go keep them entertained?” she pleaded.

“Sara, this is Lucy. Lucy, Sara.” Mike said as he headed out the back door.

“Hi!” Sara said.

“You look really busy. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, thank you,” she pushed some stray hairs from her face. “Could you please open up the chips and pretzel bags and put them in the bowls.”

“Sure.” I went to work. “Do you want me to bring them outside?”

“Yeah, that would be great. It turned out to be such a nice day; we decided to have the party outside. We're usually not that lucky in November.”

I brought the chips and pretzels out to the picnic table. I stopped for a moment to watch Mike. He was running around the large backyard playing football with a whole gaggle of little kids. I think that it was all of the kids against him. At least it looked that way. They were all trying to tackle him. He appeared to be enjoying it.
I headed back in to help Sara. She had me bring out sodas and plates and cups and all the other party fixings. “Thanks for your help,” Sara said as she joined me outside. “These parties are a lot of work, but the boys enjoy them so much. I think we are all set, though, at least for the moment.” She noticed me watching Mike, “He's great with the kids, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed. “They all seem to be having a great time.”

“I'm really lucky to have him as a brother. I don't know if he told you or not, but I would be lost without him. I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't taken me in after my husband left. He's been so good with the boys.”

“Yes, Mike had mentioned that your husband had left you. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, it's OK. It's been a while now. I have the kids to take care of so I can't really wallow in self-pity. I'm getting over it – trying to move on.”

“I know how that is,” I acknowledged.

“Mike told me you had recently moved here. From Vermont, was it?”

“Yes, northern Vermont.”

“Well, welcome to Western Massachusetts. I hope you like it here.”

“I do,” I nodded. “It's really starting to feel like home.”

“Mike must like you a lot. He almost never brings a girl home.”

“Oh, we're just friends. I hope you don't mind that I'm here. Mike said that you could use another adult to help out.” I suddenly felt very self-conscious.

“No, no, not at all. I didn't mean it that way. I'm glad that you're here. I appreciate the help, believe me!” she smiled at me. I noticed that she had the same striking blue eyes as her brother. “Oh, look, there's the pizza delivery truck coming up the driveway. Will you help me carry the pizzas over?”

“Sure. I'm right behind you.” The smell of pizza caused all the little boys (and the one big boy) to come running over. “Lucy, let me introduce you to the birthday boy. This is Tommy.” Mike rested his hands on the shoulders of a little blonde haired boy. “Tommy, this is my friend Lucy.”

“Hi, Tommy! Happy Birthday!” Tommy buried his head into Mike's leg.

“He's a little shy around strangers,” Mike said. “This is my other nephew Johnny,” he said. acknowledging another slightly bigger boy with brown hair and glasses.

“Johnny, say hello.” Johnny waved as he starting eating his slice of pizza.
After pizza, it was time for presents. Tommy was clearly in his glory. He and his brother worked as a tag team, opening cards and taking the presents out of gift bags. Tommy was so excited! “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” he said to everyone there. “I can't wait to start looking through my cards to see which ones I got!”
Mike had moved over near me. “Wow, he really does love those cards, doesn't he?” I said.

“I told you! That haul should keep him busy for quite a while.”

“He's a cute kid. They both are.”

“They get that from me!”

“You have quite a high opinion of yourself,” I teased.

“Ouch!” he said, smirking. “I think I'll go help Sara get the cake ready.” He turned and headed into the house, only to return a few seconds later with a cake with a lighted number six candle on it. He began singing “Happy Birthday!” and the rest of us all joined in.

“This cake is delicious, Sara, thank you!”

“You're welcome. I didn't make it, though. I took the easy way out and got it from the grocery store.”

“Well, it's very yummy. I love cake and ice cream.”

“Me, too!” Sara said. “I fully intend to eat another piece tonight after the boys go to bed! You hear that, Mike? I'm claiming the leftovers.”

“Not if I get to them first!” Mike retorted.

“You guys sound like my brother and I, at least when we were younger!” I laughed.

“I didn't know you had a brother,” Mike said.

“Yes, I do. His name is Bill. He's older than me by a few years. He and his wife moved out to Arizona a couple years ago. I don't get to see them much.”

“Well, Mike is my younger brother,” Sara retorted, “and as much as he hates to admit it, I can still boss him around!”

“I just let her think that!” Mike responded with a twinkle in his eye.

Parents started arriving to pick up the party guests, and soon the party was over. Johnny and Tommy retreated to the den to check out all the new presents while Mike, Sara, and I handled cleanup. After everything was picked up, Mike invited me to check out the rest of the house.

“Come on, I'll show you the part of the house I live in,” he said. “We can take the back staircase.”

“You mean you don't live down here?” I asked as we climbed the narrow stairs.

“Well, I do, but I mostly leave it to Sara and the boys. I have an apartment upstairs. I converted what would have been the servants' quarters into a space I can relax and work in.”

“Did your family ever actually have servants?”

“To tell you the truth, I'm not sure. I think my great-grandparents might have, but none that I remembered. We had free reign of the whole house when I was growing up. It was a house you could have adventures in! The boys have a good time exploring it now. They just know to stay out of my studio if I'm working.”

We stopped on the second floor. “This is where Sara and the boys sleep. There is also a second kitchen on this floor. I sometimes sneak down here in the middle of the night for a snack, especially if I'm working on a project and need some fuel,” he paused. “One more flight of stairs to go.”

“Welcome to my attic paradise!” he exclaimed as we got to the third floor.

“This is beautiful! Look at those windows!” There were three huge arched windows that allowed the attic to be bathed with light. It was a mostly wide open space with one corner used as a bedroom. The bed had not been made and was covered with clothes. Another corner was used as an office, and the rest of the room set up as an artist's studio with works in progress all over the place. Up against the wall were some blank canvasses and shelves lined with paints and cans full of brushes.

“May I look at your paintings?” I asked.

“Sure. I'm just going to tidy up a bit,” he said as he moved in the direction of his bed. “I'm sorry – my room is a mess. You've probably noticed by now, I'm not a very neat person! I'm more of a clean-up-for-company sort of guy. I didn't think I would be bringing you up here today. I thought for sure that Sara and the kids would scare you off!”

“Are you serious? They're great. I like your sister a lot, and the boys are so cute. They couldn't possibly scare me away!” I moved over toward the paintings. Mike's art was full of vibrant colors. There were portraits and still-lifes and even a painting of a dog. The painting on the easel was of an old-fashioned city street. He had small photographs taped all around the easel.

“What are you working on here?” I asked.

“It is a painting of downtown Springfield about 100 years ago.” He finished making his bed and then joined me by the easel. “Look at these photographs. I made copies of them down at the history museum. Aren't they amazing?”

“Yes, they are,” I agreed.

“It's incredible to see how much life has changed in a century. Those people walking down the street in these pictures are just busy going about their daily lives. They couldn't possibly have imagined the world we live in today. I can't help but wonder how different the world will be in another 100 years.”

“It's true. Life changes so quickly.” I pointed at the work of art. “ I love what you are doing with the painting. I like the bright colors you use. It makes all your paintings seem so warm and happy. All your work is great,” I added, looking around the room.

“Thanks!” He responded. “I hoped that you would like them.” Mike looked at me intently. Our eyes met. I walked away to go look out the window.

“This is quite a view you have here,” I said. From the window I could see all of their yard and most of the street. Some kids were riding their bikes.

“Yes, sometimes when I'm at a loss for inspiration, I just come here and stare out until something comes to me. It usually does. The natural light is great for painting by, as well,” he added.

I could feel his presence behind me. I had the sudden urge to turn around and kiss him. Where was this coming from? I’m not looking for romance. I’m not looking for romance. I kept repeating it over and over in my head. I forced myself to keep staring out the window. This whole male / female friendship thing was going to be much harder than I imagined.

“I was wondering if you would let me paint you?” he asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“Seriously?” I asked, shocked. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather paint my dog? I'd be happy to bring her over for you. I'm sure that she would make a great model,” I suggested, trying to keep the conversation light.

“I'm sure that she would, but, no, I'd much rather paint you. Standing by the window like that with the light hitting you just so – you have a very interesting face.” Hmm. Interesting face. I wasn't sure how to respond to that. “Would you let me?”
“Oh sure, why not?” I responded, not at all sure. “What girl wouldn't want to have her portrait painted?” What on earth was I doing?

“Great!” he smiled. Stay right there - right where you are. I just need to get a blank canvas.” I just kept looking out the window, not knowing what to make of the whole situation. The afternoon had just taken a very unexpected turn. Time felt like it was moving in slow motion. I could hear Mike moving things around the room. He returned to the easel a couple minutes later and removed the street scene he had been working on. He placed the blank canvas on the easel, grabbed some tubes of paint and a couple of brushes, and then turned to me.

“Are you OK? You don't look so good.” He looked worried.

“I'm fine,” I replied, not quite truthfully. “I've just never been in this situation before. I feel very self-conscious.”

“Do you want me to not do the painting? I don't have to. I admit I get a bit carried away sometimes. I see something that I think would make a good painting and I feel compelled to get it down on canvas before it disappears.”

“I guess I understand that. It's like with writing – when you have to get the idea out on paper.”

“Yes, exactly,” he nodded in agreement.

“Alright,” I smiled. “Go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“I'd like to take a couple photos if I could.” He held up a camera. The light will change quickly. I'm going to try to get a quick study done, but I'd like something to work from later.

“Sure, go ahead.”

He looked at me and the window, studying us both. It was strange how he looked at me. It was like he wasn’t even looking at me – he was looking through me – as if I wasn't even there. “Here, try this.” He pulled over a chair. “Sit down. You'll be more comfortable.” He walked over to his bookshelf and pulled down a book. “You can look at this if you'd like. It'll make it easier to sit still.” It was a book about Van Gogh. “Do you like Van Gogh?” he asked as he sat back down at the easel.
“Honestly, I don't know much about him, other than that he cut his ear off. I took an art history class in college, but it was mostly focused on Renaissance art.”

He took a couple photos and then he began to work on the painting. “I love Van Gogh's paintings, especially his later works that are so bright and full of color. I try to use color like him.” I flipped through the pages as Mike worked. It did help make the time go by. I recognized some of the paintings, but many were new to me. Every now and then, I would look up a bit to see Mike working. It was as if he were in a trance, working with such passion to get the colors on the canvas. I had never seen anyone be in a zone like that. It was as if the whole world had vanished around him and it was just him and the canvas and his subject. I realized that was what I was. When he did look at me, it was as if I were an object, no different than the bowl of fruit that was sitting there on the table or the street scene in the photograph. I had the distinct feeling that I could be sitting there with my clothes off and he wouldn't even notice, not that I was going to take that step, of course. It was an odd feeling, being there in the silence. Mike hadn't spoken since he started working. I wasn't sure if I should speak, or not. I was afraid to break the spell he was under.

The light in the room began to grow dim. I could see the last rays of the sun as I looked out the window. I wondered when Mike would notice. He kept working for a few more minutes, and then he looked up at me. The spell was broken. “It's getting dark. I should stop working,” he acknowledged. “How did you like the book?”

“It was interesting. I see what you mean about the colors. It's incredible how much his art changed from the beginning to the end. I had never realized how young he was when he died.” I stood up and stretched. “I also never realized before how hard it is to try to stay still.”

“Yeah, when I was in art school, we had to take turns being the models. I never enjoyed it that much. I always preferred being behind the canvas.”

“Can I see the painting?” I asked, pointing to the easel.

“Sure, come on over. I'll turn the light on so you can see it better. It's not much to look at yet,” he admitted, “It's just the underpainting.” Nevertheless, I could see the beginnings of what the painting would become. Mike had captured the light coming through the window and the basics of my face. “What do you think?” he asked.
“I'm not sure what to think – it's definitely a work in progress.”

“You're very diplomatic,” he laughed. “I told you it didn't look like much, yet. I'll work from the photographs I took. It will get better. I promise.”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I don't know much about art. I'm just used to seeing the finished products – not the work that goes into them.”

“That's OK – there's no need to apologize. It's kind of like writing. You start out with a first draft, but then you keep working and working and eventually you end up with something that's pretty good.”

“That might be true for you. If I was making a painting, I could keep working on it forever and it would never turn into anything but a mess. I have no artistic ability, at least not in that area.”

“See, so many people think that about themselves, but it's just not true. I'm a firm believer that everyone can draw and paint if they want to. You should come to one of my classes sometime. Try it out. I'll prove to you that you're wrong.”

“Maybe I'll take you up on that offer. Right now, though, I think I should be going home.”

“Oh, OK. Just let me clean up a bit and I will walk you out.” I watched him as he washed his brushes and his hands. “I have to get the paint out of the brushes right away or else it will dry in them and then it is such a pain to try to get it out.”
We headed back downstairs. I could hear the boys playing. Sara was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea, looking at a magazine.

“Hey, I wondered what had happened to you two. I thought that you had left,” she said.

“Mike was showing me his studio upstairs,” I answered. I didn't mention the painting.

“Oh, that's nice! I don't go up there too much. I can remember how messy Mike kept his room when we were kids. I'm scared of what I might find up there.”

“It's not bad at all. There's nothing to be afraid of,” I reassured her.

“Would you like to stay for supper? We’re just going to be having leftover pizza, but you are welcome to join us,” Sara said.

“Thanks. That's very kind, but I think I'm going to go home.”

“OK, well, thanks again for your help with the party. I hope that we'll get to see you again.”

“Thanks. It was nice to meet you, too.” I turned to head out the front door. Mike followed behind me.

“I'll get the door for you,” he said as he reached to open the door. “Thanks for letting me paint you. I had a nice afternoon.”

“I did, too. - I guess I'll see you at the library?”

“Yes, I'll be there,” he answered. “Have a good night!”

“Good night.”

The door closed behind me as I stepped into the cool late afternoon air. I took a deep breath and let it flow through me, right down to my toes, and then walked slowly to my car. What in the heck had just happened? I honestly didn't have a clue. Mike was one of the most inscrutable people I had ever met. He was kind and honest and obviously totally in love with life and his work. He had passion, a quality I had rarely seen up close. Most people I knew, myself included, just kind of meandered through life. He soaked it up, drinking it in. I liked being near him. His zeal for life was infectious. As much as I hated to admit it, and as much as I swore to myself that I wouldn't, I was starting to have feelings for him that went way beyond friendship. Yet as I fervently attempted to remind myself, to him, I was just a friend.

I drove home. The radio in the car was playing way too many love gone wrong songs. I had had enough of those to last a lifetime. I turned off the music and listened to my own thoughts. Life was getting complicated. I hadn't wanted that to happen. I wanted simple. I had moved here to get away from complicated. Why on earth couldn't life be simple?

Up in my room, I pulled out the small box in the center drawer of my bureau and opened it. There it was. My wedding ring – the reason life couldn't be simple. I hadn't been able to bring myself to get rid of it. I held it in my hand for a while, sat on my bed and cried. Lady curled up next to me. “Hey, pretty girl.” I petted her. “What am I going to do?” She didn't have any answers but she did lick away the tears on my face. It was good to have a friend.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 4

2009-10-26T00:00:00.000-07:00

The next few days I settled into a routine. I would go to work, come home, go for a walk, and then write. I had to admit, I was enjoying it. The writing was therapeutic and once I got typing, I really got into a rhythm. I was meeting my daily word quota of 1600 words. Some days, I would even go over, typing late into the night. I was writing my story, and much of it was straight out of my life, but I was writing it the way it should have been. I was writing it the way I would have liked things to have been. That was the beauty of fiction, after all. I could change characters and events. Heck, I could even make my own character nearly perfect. Who said I couldn't be drop-dead gorgeous with auburn hair and striking blue eyes? It was my world. I could do whatever I wanted.

But memories sometimes got in the way. Digging up the past meant the past was always on my mind. I would dream of Alan and our time together. In my dreams, we were young and he loved me. We were happy. Then I would wake up, and remember. And it would all come back.

I saw Mike a couple times during the week at the library, but we hadn't really had a chance to talk. He was busy writing. I was busy working. I did, however, make a point of checking the NaNoWriMo bulletin board regularly. I would post my totals and check the others that were posted, making a special effort to see how Mike was doing. He was catching up on his totals. He must have figured out something to do with that sci-fi novel after all. I couldn't help but wonder if he had worked me in as a character. Was I really an alien? The prospect was intriguing. He had also left some encouraging messages for the rest of us. “Keep up the good work!” he wrote on several postings, including mine.

Saturday was a beautiful day outside, one of those rare November days in New England when the sun was shining, the air was warm, and one could get by with only a light sweater. New Englanders know those days are to be savored because the skies will soon be grey and snow could come at any time. I didn't have to work, but I did have to run a few errands, including stopping by the library to pick up my paycheck. I was surprised to see Mike there. I figured he would have other things to do on such a gorgeous day. I decided to walk over and say “hello.”

“Hi Mike!”

“Hi.” He looked up, “Hold on just a second? I need to get this thought out before it leaves my brain.” I decided to let that go without saying the smart comment I had in my mind. Instead, I sat down and waited patiently.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “You know how it is. The words start coming and you don't want them to stop. You have to get them down on paper.”

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked. “I don't want to interrupt you if you are in a groove.”

“No, it's OK. I'm happy to see you! I've been spending all this time here and haven't had the chance to talk to you at all. I'd look in the children's room and see you working, but I didn't want to bother you,” he said. “I knew that your boss was upset with you the other day when you were late coming back from lunch. I didn't want to get you in more trouble.”

“Thanks,” I smiled. “You can always come in and say hello, though. Rachel won't have any problem with that.” He had no idea just how happy Rachel would be.

“So, what are you up to today?” he asked. “You're not dressed for work.” I looked down and self-consciously realized I had on my bang-around sweats.

“No, I'm not,” I said. “I have the day off. I only have to work every third Saturday. I was just out running some errands. I stopped by to pick up my paycheck.”

“That's an important thing to do.”

“Absolutely! Anyway, it is too nice a day to be cooped up in here.”

He looked out the window. “You know what? You're right!” He closed his laptop. “Hey, have you ever been to Forest Park?” he asked.

“No, actually, I haven't.” Forest Park was a huge park in Springfield. I had driven by it lots of times, but had never stopped in.

“Do you want to go? It's one of my favorite places. I'd love to show you around.”
I was so surprised, I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Um, won’t your girlfriend mind? I realize it's not a date or anything, but does she care if you go places with other women?” I asked.

“What girlfriend?” he countered with a puzzled look.

“Jennifer?” I said. “At the kick-off party, Chelsea told me that you two were together.”

“Chelsea doesn't know what she's talking about. Jennifer and I have been friends for years, but not like that. I've known her since high school and we do spend quite a bit of time together, but her boyfriend is in the army and is stationed overseas. She just hates being alone, so I take her out to eat or to the movies every now and then.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I feel stupid. I shouldn't have said anything.” I got up and started backing away. “I should just get going.”

“No, don't. I'm not upset with you. I'm upset with Chelsea. She should keep her mouth shut about things that she knows nothing about. I really would like to take you to the park. I'm going to head there anyway, and I'd enjoy having some company.”

I thought about it. Did I really want to do this? Did I want to start down this road, not knowing where it might lead? Was I ready for this? I looked out the window.

“Please. It's a beautiful day,” he said.

“OK.” I said.

“Great! Come on.” He grabbed his laptop and we started moving toward the door.
He held open the door for me as I got into his car. The car was incredibly messy. It looked like a man's car! “Just move that stuff out of the way,” he said. “You can toss it in the backseat.” I picked up several empty water bottles and old papers and threw them in the back so I could sit down. “I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting to be driving anyone around today. Usually, I try to clean up the car a bit if I know someone will be riding in it.”

“Don't worry about it.”

The ride was short. As he drove, I looked over at him. I really liked looking at him. He had such a kind face. I even liked the laugh lines around his eyes! I liked his voice, too. It had a soft, soothing quality to it.

“How's your novel coming along?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

“It's coming along alright, now at least,” he said. “I had to scrap my original idea and start over.”

“Really? Isn't that against the rules?”

“No, not at all. Sometimes, you have to scrap what you’re working on. Sometimes, you just can't get it to work. I know people who have spent the whole month working on a project, only to give up on it the last week. Then they work non-stop for the last few days and manage to meet the deadline. I never should have tried to write a sci-fi novel. I'm not sure what I was thinking. It violated the whole 'write about what you know' principle that I usually hold to. At least I realized it fairly early in the month.”

“So, what are you writing about now?”

“You're going to laugh,” he said as he glanced at me. I wondered what he thought of me. I really wished that I had worn something else. It wasn't like he was dressed up – just jeans and a sweater, but he wore it well. I looked like something the cat dragged in.

“No, I won't laugh. I promise.”

“I'm writing a story about the library.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. That's one of the reasons I've been spending so much time there. I've been trying to truly get into the environment.”

“So, what's happening in the story?”

“There is a librarian who is shelving books one day when an envelope falls out of one of the books. She picks it up and finds a letter inside the envelope. It’s a love letter, written more than 30 years ago. The rest of the story is her trying to return the love letter to its original owner. It's a romance and mystery rolled all in one,” he paused. “At least I hope that is what it will end up being.”

“It sounds great. I'd love to read it when it is done.”

“Hmm. I'll have to see about that. I've never let anyone read anything I've written in these novel projects.”

“Really?”

“Really. I just couldn't bear the thought of someone ripping all my hard work to shreds. It's funny. I'm an artist, right? I went through art school where professors specialize in criticizing you to the point that you never want to pick up a paintbrush again. Even today, I know not everyone will like my art. It's not easy, but I've built up a thick skin in that area. I can take the criticism. But with writing, I'm not that confident. Criticism would hit too close to home. If you read it and hated it, I would be so sad.”

“You don't know, though. I might love what you have written. You could be the best writer ever and you'll never know it because you weren't willing to share it.”

“That's true, I suppose, but I could also be the worst writer ever, and that,” he said emphatically, “I would rather not know!”

“Well, you are truthful. I'll give you that much. If you change your mind, the offer still stands. OK?

“OK,” he said. “Look, we're here.”

And so we were. We drove through the tree-lined entrance to Forest Park, and he parked the car near a big field.

“I thought we might go for a walk, if that's alright with you,” he said as we got out of the car.

“Sure. I love to walk! It is such a beautiful day. We aren't going to get many more like this.”

“That is so true. Winter is right around the corner.”

“Ugh, don't remind me! I've lived in New England my whole life, and I still don't like winter. I like snow. I think it is so pretty, but I like to look at it from inside a warm house while drinking hot cocoa. I hate the cold!”

“Well, we need to enjoy today then.”

We walked along quietly for a bit. Strangely, the silence didn't feel awkward. I felt so comfortable, so safe with Mike. I truly couldn't explain it. I hadn't felt that safe in a very long time, if ever.

“The park isn't very busy today, is it?” I broke the silence.

“No, you should see it in the summer – there are people all over the place. Even then, though, there is enough room here so that you can usually find somewhere to be alone if you really want to be.”

“How big is the park?”

“You know, I'm not sure, exactly. Over 700 acres, I think.”

“Wow, that is big!”

“Yeah, it is one of nicest places in Springfield.”

“What are those things?” I asked, pointing to some large metal sculptures on the side of the road.

“Those are for Bright Nights – it's a big holiday light display that is put on each year here. It's great! People come from everywhere to see it. It opens up the day after Thanksgiving, but it is better to wait until there is some snow on the ground. Then the lights really look spectacular. I take my nephews every year. They really enjoy it, but the truth is that I do, too. Maybe I could take you this year?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I answered.

We rounded the corner of the field. Mike pointed over to the left where there were some white trellises standing guard. “There's a rose garden over there. It's absolutely gorgeous in the summer.”

“Sounds nice. I'd love to see it when it is in bloom.”

“Yeah, this isn't the best time to see the park. It's really at its peak in the spring and summer, or even in the early Fall when the leaves are all in color.” Now, all the leaves were on the ground and crunching under our feet as we walked.

“I've always enjoyed the sound of leaves crunching in the fall,” I said.
“It is a good sound! I'm much more fond of the leaves here than I am when they are in my yard and I have to rake them!”

“I know what you mean! There's a huge oak tree in my back yard. It was great in the summer. I would grab a book and sit in the shade and be as happy as could be. I'm going to have to pay for it now, though. I came home from work one day last week and discovered it had dropped all of its leaves. Now my yard is covered! I had planned to rake them today, but I don't think that will be happening.”
“Well, if you'd rather be raking . . .”

“No, not at all!” I laughed. “This is much better!”

We continued walking down a hill and took a right around a corner when the path split.

“We are heading down toward the duck pond,” he said.

“Sounds good!” I agreed.

“There is something I've been meaning to ask you,” Mike began.

“Oh? What's that?”

“I was wondering where you are from. The other day when we were talking at the library, you mentioned you had volunteered at the library 'back home.' I was wondering where 'back home' is.”

“I'm from a little town up in northern Vermont. I grew up on a farm.”

“Vermont? That's pretty country up there – very peaceful. I've often thought I'd like to build a log cabin and live in the middle of nowhere like that. But, look at me. Here I am in a city!”

“You're right. Vermont is very pretty. I liked it a lot, but small town life can wear on you after a while. Everybody knowing everybody can be both a blessing and a curse,” I admitted. “My parents are still up there, though. I miss them.”

“So, what brought you to this neck of the woods?” he asked.

“I guess I just needed a change of scenery. I was looking to start over someplace where no one knew me.”

“Why did you pick here? I mean, I'm glad that you did, but Springfield wouldn't be everyone's first choice. There are a lot of other places in the world.”

“Honestly?” I paused. “I knew I wanted to stay in New England. As much as I dislike raking and the cold that winter brings, I'm definitely a four-season type of girl. So, with that in mind, I threw a dart at a map of New England to decide where to go.”
“And it landed on Springfield?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Well, at least the second time. The first time the dart landed right in the Atlantic Ocean! I decided that wasn't a good choice, especially since I've never been very good on a boat.”

He laughed. “I agree. I think that you made a wise decision to throw the dart a second time.”

“Yeah, it's worked out alright. I was able to buy a small house on the Springfield / East Longmeadow line and I got the job at the East Longmeadow library. The rest, as they say, is history.” I answered. “What about you? Have you always lived here?”
“Most of my life,” he said. “I went away to college in Worcester and then did a year as a Jesuit Volunteer down in Philadelphia. Since then, though, I've been here. I commuted to UMass when I was going to school for my Master's degree.”

“Jesuit Volunteer, huh? So, you're Catholic?”

“Yes. Irish Catholic. You? I noticed you wear a necklace with Mary on it.”

“The necklace is from my Mom. She gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I've worn it ever since. I'm Catholic, too, although honestly, I haven't set foot in a church in quite a while. God and I haven't exactly been on speaking terms lately. ”

“Hmmm. I went through a stage like that, too, a while ago. The good thing about both God and the Church, though, is that they both are waiting and willing to take you back whenever you're ready.”

“You sound like a priest,” I said. “Should I start calling you Fr. Duncan?”

“No,” he shook his head and laughed. “I did think about becoming a priest, though, when I was younger.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I met a girl and fell in love. It was right after I came back from Philadelphia.”

“So, what happened to the girl?”

“Oh, she was young . . .”

“Well, being young doesn’t mean it can’t last. What happened?”
“We dated for a while. We had this incredible romance. I had never experienced anything like it, before or since. I thought for sure she was the one for me. I asked her to marry me and she said 'yes.' We planned to wait until she was older. She wanted to finish her education, which I definitely supported, although I missed her terribly when she was gone. I would drive to New York to see her whenever I could get away. In the end, though, it just wasn't meant to be – at least not for her. She met someone else at college and married him a couple of years later. It's been years but I've never been the same. I've never been able to forget how I felt when I was with her.”

“Have you dated since then?” I asked.

“Oh, of course,” he hesitated, “Well, to be truthful, not that much. I’ve never really met the right woman. I have lots of friends who are women, but I've never found anyone I wanted to have a long-term relationship with. My mother keeps telling me to find a 'nice girl' and get married. She has even been suggesting that I try an on-line dating service. I keep telling her I'm happier alone! Besides, I have my sister and my nephews to take care of. I'm certainly not lonely.” He looked at me with a pained expression. “I shouldn't have told you all this. You must think I'm pathetic.”

“No, not at all. I know what it's like to have someone you love hurt you. Sometimes it does take a long time to recover. I'm not looking for love right now, either,” I answered truthfully.

Mike seemed relieved. “Well, it's still nice to make new friends.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed.

We came up to what looked like an old house in the distance. “What's that?” I asked, pointing.

“That's the Barney Carriage House,” Mike answered. “It's used for banquets. It used to belong to Everett Barney. He invented clips that could attach ice skates to shoes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he owned most of this land. He had a great big estate here. They knocked it down when they were putting in the highway.”

“If his house looked anything like this Carriage House, it must have been amazing. I love old houses. It's too bad they had to tear it down.”

“I love old houses, too. I think that they have a lot of character. I always imagine that they have a story to tell.”

“You seem to know a lot about this park,” I said.

“I spend a lot of time here. It's good to know something about the place where you live.”

We had reached the end of the park so we turned around and began retracing our steps.
“It's starting to get cooler,” I remarked as I wrapped my arms around me in an effort to keep warm.

“Yeah, the sun sets early these days. We'll all be suffering from lack of sunlight pretty soon. One of the few advantages of getting older is that the winter does pass more quickly. It will be spring before we know it.”

“You're right! I can remember as a child, the days went so slowly. Waiting for Christmas took forever. Now, all the days seem to pass in a blur.”

“I know! My younger nephew, Tommy, is turning six this week. He's been waiting forever for his birthday – counting down the days for the past two months. He's having his party tomorrow. He's so excited! He can't wait to see what kinds of presents he's going to get.”

“What does he want?” I asked.

“Pokémon cards, mostly,” he answered. “It's his latest thing. They go through these stages when they are just obsessed with one thing, and they basically live, eat, and breathe it for a while. Then one day, they wake up and move on to something else. It's hard to keep up sometimes.”

“Do you know anything about Pokémon?” I asked.

“Not enough to keep up with them! I've read this book all about the different Pokémon to them about a hundred times, but I don't really understand the game.”
“Yeah, I don't either. They had a tournament at the library a little while back. I watched the kids play, but I couldn't figure out what they were doing. They seemed to be having fun, though.”

“Hey, would you like to come to the party tomorrow?” he asked. “It's at one. We'll be having pizza and cake and ice cream.”

“Oh, I think I'd be out of place, don't you?”

“No, you wouldn't. My sister's real nice and wouldn't mind having another person at all. You don't need to bring a gift. Just come and keep me company. It would be great to have someone to talk to while I'm helping supervise all those little kids. Besides, you said you like old houses. I live in one built in 1899. I think you would enjoy seeing it. Please, say you'll come.”

I thought about it for a minute. “I guess it would be OK. Another good reason not to rake! Besides, I'm a sucker for cake and ice cream.”

“Great!

“I feel like we have only been talking about me,” he said. “I don't know much about you except that you come from northern Vermont.”

“That's alright. There truly isn't that much to know,” I told him.

“Did you go to college?” he asked.

“Yes, I did. I went to the University of Vermont for a couple years. I didn't finish, though. My mom got sick and I had to go back home and help take care of her and help my Dad with the farm. She had breast cancer. It was rough going, there, for quite a while.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “That must have been tough.”

“It was, but thankfully she is much better now. She's been in remission for about three years.”

“I'm happy to hear that. Did you ever get to go back to school?”

“No. Life just kind of moved on. It was never really a priority. I loved college, but I could never decide what I wanted to do. I took classes in everything. I enjoyed all my classes, well, except science – I was never destined to be in the medical profession, that's for sure! But there was never one area that spoke to me more than another. I couldn't pick just one to focus on. That's why I like working in the library so much. There are books on every topic imaginable. Whenever I want to learn about something, I can just pick up a book and study. Maybe someday I'll go back and get my library science degree. I don't know. It depends where life takes me.”

“I think you should. Of course, I am somewhat prejudiced, seeing I spent eight years in college and now teach in one,” he said.

“Yes, I can see how you would be.”

We were almost to his car when it started to rain. “I'll race you,” he said. We ran our hearts out on the way to the car. “Ha! I won!” I shouted a bit too enthusiastically as I touched the car a second before him.

“Yes, but I have the keys to the car!” he retorted, holding them up and waving them tauntingly as the rain came pouring down.

“Oh, come on! Open the door! It's wet out here.”

“Oh, alright,” he said reluctantly. He unlocked the doors and we both climbed in. “It was funny to see you out there in the rain.”

“You have a poor sense of humor!” I informed him as I tried to wipe some of the water off of me.

“Here, I'll put the heat on – it will help you dry off,” Mike said as he took off his glasses to wipe off the raindrops.

“How did such a beautiful day turn into this? It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” I mused as we drove back to the library.

“You know the old saying. If you don't like the weather in New England, just wait fifteen minutes. It'll change.”

“Yeah, I know. It's true,” I agreed. The heat in the car did help. By the time we got back to the library, I was reasonably dry, only to have to face going back in the rain to get to my car.

“I'll park next to your car, so you won't have too far to go.”

“Thanks! That's kind of you.” I paused before I got out of the car and turned to him. “Thanks for today. I had a really nice time – well, at least until the skies opened!”

“I did, too. I'm looking forward to seeing you at the party tomorrow. Oh, that reminds me, I need to give you my address. Hold on.”

He scribbled it on a napkin he had in the back seat. “Here,” he handed it to me.
“Thanks, it would have been hard for me to get there without this! I'll see you tomorrow,” I said as I climbed out and dashed into my own car. It didn't take me long to get home. It had been a good day, a very good day. Mike was different from the men I had met before. Of course, it helped that he really wasn't looking to get involved with anyone, either. That made him safe to be around. Could a man and woman just be friends? That was the eternal question, wasn't it? I admit, I didn't have much experience in that area – at least not since puberty. I suppose I was about to find out. I was willing to give it a try, anyway. If things got too uncomfortable, I could always gracefully bow out of the relationship.

I took Saturday night off from writing. Instead, I curled up on the couch with Lady beside me and watched a movie while I worked on a quilt. I didn't watch much TV – a show here and there, but I enjoyed my Saturday night movie nights relaxing with my sewing. My mother had taught me to sew by hand when I was a little girl – nothing fancy, just some simple stitches and a little embroidery. She could make the most amazing quilts. Mine were what could most kindly be termed “serviceable bed coverings.” My stitches would never be small enough, and my blocks were nothing if not simple, but I loved it. It took me about a year to complete a quilt, but that was OK. I enjoyed it, and my mother was always kind enough not to criticize my efforts. Like my mom, I liked hand sewing, the rhythm of the needle going up and down through the layers of fabric. It was soothing, relaxing and therapeutic. It was my artistic expression. I had never been good at drawing or painting, but I could piece scrap fabrics together and sew straight lines, and in the end come out with something beautiful and useful. That was a reward in and of itself.

I enjoy movies, too, although not as much as books. Still, a good movie allows you to lose yourself in the story. A great movie might even make a heartbroken girl believe in love again, at least for a couple hours. My favorites were old black and white classics – movies with stars like Bing Crosby or Fred Astaire; anything with Katherine Hepburn. Musicals were fun also. How many times had I seen The Sound of Music? I knew all the songs by heart, and that famous line “When God closes a door, he always opens a window.” My mother always used to tell me that whenever I got discouraged. It may be true, but somehow it seemed like God often made you search for the window.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 3

2009-10-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

The sun was shining when I woke up Saturday morning. I showered, got dressed, pulled on a sweater, and took Lady for an early morning walk. As she pulled me around the neighborhood, I could see the whole story playing out in my mind. It was like watching a movie. The whole novel was there. I just needed to figure out someway to get what was in my mind out onto the paper. I didn't know if it would take 50,000 words. It didn't matter. I just needed to get it out. If only there were someway to download what was in my brain straight to the computer. That would make life easier. That wasn't the point, though, was it? The point was to actually go through the process of writing.

I got home and turned on the computer. Where to begin? I once read that the first line of a novel is the most important. It should grab the reader and leave them begging for more while at the same time shedding light on the story to come. That is a lot to ask of a few words, isn’t it? What if the author doesn’t know where the story is going? Thank goodness real life doesn’t have to come with an opening line. I would be in such trouble!

In my life, I had probably read thousands of “first lines.” Let's see - “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I think that was already taken. “It was a dark and stormy night.” Isn't that the way Snoopy always started his tales? No, those wouldn't work. I decided to go with the old standby - “Once upon a time.” I could always go back and change it later. Once I started writing, the words came easily. It was such a release just to let out all the thoughts and emotions that had been weighing on me so heavily for the past eighteen months. Before I knew it, two hours had passed and I had written over 2000 words. I was impressed. That was a good start!

Monday when I went to work, I noticed the National Novel Writing Month bulletin board by the community room. A few participants had already posted their names and word totals. I scanned the listings to see whether Mike had posted his. He hadn't. I decided to post mine. What could it hurt? I grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote “Lucy – 3200 words” and tacked it up on the bulletin board. Then, I headed off to the children's room.

It was story time day. I love story time day. I run a group for preschoolers and their moms. The kids are so much fun. There is one little girl who comes along with her grandparents. It really seems to be the highlight of their week. That makes me feel good. Each week, I pick books about a certain theme and plan a craft to go along with it. This week, we were focusing on pigs. I was going to read the ever-favorite Three Little Pigs along with Pigs on a Blanket. We were even going to sing Ten Little Piggies – a take off of the more famous Ten Little Indians. For a craft, we were making paper plate pigs, complete with curly tails. I always feel like I've accomplished a good thing when story time is done.

When I was heading out for my lunch, I noticed Mike sitting in the cafe area, working on his laptop. He was working diligently, typing away with remarkable speed. He must have sensed me watching him because he turned around and smiled. That smile – no wonder it melted all the girls' hearts.

“Hey, Lucy! How are you?”

“I'm good. How are you?”

“Great! I saw your total up on the wall. You're doing really well. I'm glad that you decided to take the plunge,” Mike said.

“Yeah, I've been enjoying it” I admitted.

“See, I told you that you would.”

“Well, the month is just getting started.”

“True, but I think that you are going to do just fine. I look forward to seeing more of your word totals up on the board.”

“And how many words are you up to?” I asked.

“Honestly, I've gotten off to a rough start. Writing science-fiction isn't as easy as I had hoped. I've read lots of sci-fi. I thought I would be able to create a new world without much difficulty, but nothing is materializing at the moment. I'm only at about 1500 words. I have some work to make up. That's what I'm doing sitting here, trying to force myself to write. At home, there are too many distractions.”

“And here I am distracting you.”

“Don't worry about it – I like that kind of distraction,” he said. I couldn't help it. I smiled in spite of myself.

“Well, I need to grab some lunch and then get back to work, so I should be going.”

“Do you want to sit with me to eat your lunch?” he asked.

“Won't I bother you? I thought you said that you wanted to write,” I reminded him.

“I do, but like I said, this story is going nowhere in a hurry. Maybe talking to you will help give me some ideas.”

“OK, seeing that it is in the interest of keeping your novel moving forward,” I said. “Let me get my lunch. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“I'll be here,” he said.

I went to the break room and took my lunch out of the fridge. I also checked my appearance in the mirror. Mmm. I straightened out my hair and pinched my cheeks. Unfortunately, I didn't have any makeup on me to freshen that up. It would have to do. At least I had my favorite shirt on. I always thought the green in it brought out the green in my eyes. Why did I care, anyway? This wasn't a date. He was just being friendly and trying to keep from working on his novel. I was a convenient procrastination tool, that was all.

I went back to the table Mike was sitting at. He had put his laptop away and was staring out the window. “What are you looking at?” I asked.

“Oh, I was just studying the people in the parking lot. Being a people-watcher is a good hobby for a writer. You never know when one of those people might make a guest appearance in a story. I think I just spotted someone who might make a good alien in my sci-fi novel. Everyone is fair game,” he replied.

“Even me?”

“Yup, even you!”

“Oh no. You're making me reconsider having lunch with you.”

“Don't worry. I promise to describe you in only the most flattering terms.”

“Good to know,” I responded. “Here, I picked up a soda for you in the back room.” I handed him the can. “I hope Coke is OK.”

“Sure, that's great. Thanks.”

“Would you like half of my sandwich? It's peanut butter and jelly, or maybe an apple?” I held up the fruit.

“No, thank you. I can't have you starving on my account. Besides, I ate right before I came here. “Oh, OK.” I put down the apple and took a big bite out of my sandwich.

“So, what is your job here at the library?” he asked. Unfortunately, my mouth was full of peanut butter and I couldn't respond. I motioned for him to wait as I tried to swallow as quickly as possible.

“I'm an assistant librarian in the children's section,” I answered when I could finally speak again.

“That sounds like an interesting job,” he said.

“It is. I like it a lot.”

“You're good at it, too. My nephews loved the Halloween party that you put on.”

“Thanks. It wasn't just me, though. All of the children's librarians were hard at work that day. It is fun to work with the kids. I had seen you with the boys. I had wondered who they were.”

“They are my sister's kids. Her husband split a couple years ago. The scum decided he didn't want to be a father anymore. So, I try to help her out as much as I can. I watch the boys when she is working.”

“Wow! Not many young men would do that,” I said.

“I'm not that young. Plus, I really don't mind. I like being with them. They are very entertaining!”

“Yeah, the kids I meet here at the library are pretty entertaining, too.”

“I like spending time at the library. I love the smell of old books,” he said.
“No way! Me, too!” I laughed. “I thought I was the only one! My friends growing up always thought I was a bit strange for sniffing books.”

“Don't listen to them! They don't know what they are missing!”

“Maybe you're right. Anyway, this is my first job working in a library. I feel lucky to have it. I was a volunteer in my library back home, but this is the first time I'm getting paid for something I enjoy doing so much. Most days it doesn't even feel like work.”

“I know what you mean. Most days what I do doesn't feel like work, either.”

“What, exactly, is it that you do?” I asked.

“Would you believe me if I told you I was an undercover FBI agent?” he responded with a straight face.

“Really?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” he laughed. “I'm kidding. The look on your face was priceless, though.” I tossed my rolled up tin foil at him.”

“So what do you do?” I asked again.

“Seriously, I am an artist. I work for myself. I also teach a couple classes at a local college and at the Springfield museums.”

“Oh, so that's why you have the time to be sitting here in the middle of the day working on your novel.”

“Yup. I'm a lucky man!” he replied.

“What type of art do you do?”

“Painting, mostly. I do portraits, murals, still lifes. I've even done pet portraits – whatever people are willing to pay me to do, really. I can't afford to be picky. I'm just happy to be painting and getting paid for it,” he paused to drink some soda. “I like teaching, too. It's fun to help people discover their hidden artistic talent.”

I looked up and noticed Rachel looking at me from the children's room. I also caught sight of the clock on the wall. My lunch break had been over fifteen minutes ago. Oops!

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I have to go. I need to get back to work before my boss kills me.” I hurriedly gathered up my trash.

“Well, we don't want that to happen,” he said. “It would be horrible to have a murder at the library.”

“I'll see you later,” I said as I walked away.

“I hope so,” he responded.

I rushed back to the children's room. “I'm so sorry, Rachel. I didn't realize how late it was.” I started sorting some books to be reshelved.

“That's OK,” she said. “I saw you out there with the good-looking Mr. Writer Man. How's he doing?”

“He's doing alright.” I responded.

“He's doing better than alright if you ask me,” she said with a smug look. “Are you going to go out with him sometime?”

“He hasn't asked,” I answered. “We're just friends.”

“Just friends, huh? You weren't looking like 'just friends' to me.”

“Well, we are,” I stated emphatically. “I told you, I'm not looking for a man. Anyway, from what I've heard, he already has a girlfriend.”

“That's too bad,” she sighed. “I suppose it's not surprising that a man that fine would have someone special. Still, there's no ring on his finger. All's fair in love and war. I say that he is still fair game.”

“Rachel, you're awful! I'm not going after another woman's man,” I said indignantly as I walked away to get back to my work.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 2

2009-10-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter 2

I was shelving books in the juvenile paperbacks section when I looked up and saw Mike walking down the aisle toward me. He had a big smile on his face. In spite of myself, I smiled back.

“Hi! I’m surprised to see you in the children’s section.”

“I hope you don't mind me stopping by like this. I was hoping that you would be working today. The librarian at the desk said I could find you back here.”

“No, it's no problem! What can I do for you? Did you need help finding a specific title?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I came by to give you a copy of that book I was telling you about. He held out the well-worn book in his hand. “I had an extra copy at home and thought that you might be able to make use of it.”

“Oh, wow, that is really thoughtful of you,” I said as I took the copy of the book.

“You didn't need to make a special trip just for that.”

“No, but I wanted to. It really wasn't any trouble.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Hey, can you take a break? Do you want to grab a coffee or something?” he asked.

“No, I'm sorry. I just got here a few minutes ago,” I lied.

“Oh, OK, then. Have you decided if you are going to come to the party Thursday night? I really hope you will.”

“You know, I don't think that I am going to be able to make it.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” he said disappointedly. “Well, I guess I'll see you around then. I still hope you'll do the writing project.”

“I'm still thinking about it,” I said. “Thanks again for the book.”

“You're welcome.”

I watched him walk away.

I had noticed that my boss Rachel had conveniently made her way over to my section of the library so she could casually eavesdrop on the conversation.

“And who was that beautiful specimen of a man?” she asked after Mike was out of earshot.

“Oh, that's Mike. He is the head of that novel-writing group I was telling you about,” I said. “Is he good looking? I hadn't noticed.”

“Yeah, right. You hadn't noticed. You'd have to be blind not to notice,” Rachel said. “So, what was that party he was talking about?”

“It's a kick-off party for the novel writing month. Everybody is supposed to come dressed as their favorite literary character in order to 'get them in the mood' for writing.”

“And Mike is going to be there. He's obviously sweet on you, so why, exactly, aren't you going to this party?”

“I don’t think he is interested – he is just friendly. Anyway, I'm just not looking for a relationship right now.”

“And why on earth not? In the six months you have been working here, you haven't talked about going on a single date, or any men at all. Now an amazing-looking man comes in here and invites you to a party and you don't want to go? I just don't understand.”

“I can't really explain it. I just don't want my life to be complicated. I'm still trying to get settled in around here,” I said.

“Well, if you ask me, your life could use some complication. I think you should go to the party. Having a good time certainly wouldn't kill you,” she said as she returned to the desk to help a patron who was waiting there.

Rachel means well. I know that. She is the closest thing I have to a good friend in these parts. She's a few years older than me, married for ten years with two little girls. Her life is crazy busy, but good. Every time she talks about her daughters, her eyes just light up. I have to admit, I'm a little jealous. I would really like her life, but mine just didn't turn out that way. Some people are just lucky, I guess.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I should go to that party. There will probably be enough people there so that Mike won't even notice I'm there. Maybe I could make some new friends. Maybe I would actually have a good time. When was the last time I actually had a good time? To be honest, I couldn't remember. It had been quite a while. Of course, that also meant I had to come up with a costume.

I arrived at the library a few minutes before the party was about to begin. I sat in my car seriously questioning my sanity. I considered putting the key back into the ignition and turning right around. But I told Rachel I was coming and I knew if I backed out, I would never hear the end of it. So, I gathered up my courage, and my carpet bag, and stepped out of the car.

There were several people at the party, but I saw Mike as soon as I stepped into the room. He had a straw hat, a torn shirt, and patched overalls with a paint brush in his hand. And he looked just as handsome as he had the other night in his pullover and tweed coat. He was talking to a woman dressed like Cleopatra. I should have turned and ran, but a woman dressed as Hester Prynne from “The Scarlet Letter” came over and offered me some punch. “Thank you,” I said.

“You look nervous,” she said.

“I'm a little out of my element.”

“Well, you look great!”

“Thanks!”

“I'm Chelsea. Is this your first time here?”

“Hi! I'm Lucy,” I said, shaking her hand. “Yes, this is my first time. Is it that obvious?”

“Yes! I had the same terrified look on my face last year when I came for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was doing with this group either, but they are a great group of people, and the writing is fun. You never know what stories are lurking inside of you until you actually try to get them out on paper.

“Look, here comes Mike now. He heads up our group. Have you met him?”
Before I even had the chance to answer, she was yelling over to him.

“Hey, Mike, come over here! There's someone here that you should meet!”

I could feel my cheeks turning red with embarrassment. If I could have, I think I would have sunk into the floor.

“Hi Chelsea! Hi Lucy! I'm so glad that you decided to come after all!” Mike said warmly.

“Oh, so you two do know each other,” Chelsea said.

“Yes, we had the pleasure the other night at the meeting,” Mike replied.

“Great! Well I can see that there are other people I should be handing out punch to. It was nice to meet you, Lucy, but duty calls!” and off she went.

Mike turned to me. “Wait – don't tell me who you are. Let me guess! ‘Anne of Green Gables’ – right?”

“Wow, I'm impressed! Not many men would recognize 'Anne!'"

“Well my sister absolutely loved her. She had all the books and the movies and an 'Anne' doll. My parents even took us on a family vacation up to Prince Edward Island just so Sara could see all the places talked about in the books. Have you ever been there?” he asked.

“No. I've always wanted to, though.”

“You should. Not just because of Anne either. It is just an absolutely beautiful place.”

“Hopefully, I'll get there someday.”

“Well, you look great as ‘Anne,’” he said.

“Thanks! I figured with the red hair and all. . . I hated my red hair when I was young, just like ‘Anne.’ Somehow, being like her made it a little easier to take.”

“I've always been rather fond of red hair myself. It makes a woman stand out in a crowd.”

My cheeks were starting to match my hair.

“Thank you. I've always been fond of Tom Sawyer.” Did I actually just say that?
“Yeah, it's a great book - one of my favorites when I was kid. Do you want to help me paint a fence?” he asked, holding up his paintbrush.

“No,” I laughed. “I think I'll pass. I don't want to get my outfit dirty!”

“Oh, that's too bad . . .Well,” he said, looking around. “I suppose I should go mingle with the other guests. I'll talk to you later. OK?”

“OK.”

He turned away, then turned back. “Did you get a chance to look at that book I gave you?”

“Yes, actually I read the whole thing. I brought it with me tonight to return it to you,” I reached into my carpet bag.

“Wow! You read fast. You don't need to return the book. I told you, I had an extra copy. If you don't want it, you can pass it along to someone else sometime.”

“OK, thanks.” I placed the book back into my bag as I watched him walk away. He greeted a few other people and then returned to his place next to Cleopatra.

Chelsea came back over to talk. “Mike is something, isn't he? I couldn't help but notice how you were flirting with him.”

“Oh, really, was I? I really wasn't trying to.”

“You wouldn't be a woman if you didn't! Every woman flirts with Mike, and he flirts with every woman! But he's spoken for. Cleopatra over there, also known as Jennifer, has claimed him.”

“I didn't realize that.”

“Oh yeah, they've been together for a while.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, don't feel bad,” she said. “Mike's so friendly. He's really easy to misread.”

“No, it's OK. I'm just getting tired. It's been a long day. I think that I'm going to go home and go to bed.”

“Are you sure you don't want to stick around and meet some more of the people in the group?”

“No, thanks. I'm just going to get going.”

“Well, I'll be hanging around the library during the coming month. I hope I get to see you!”

“I'm sure you will. I often feel like I live here!”

“Alright, have a good night,” she said.

“Good night.”

When I got home, I took off my costume, put on my comfy sweats and curled up with my dog. I love my dog. No matter how bad a day I've had, she's always thrilled to see me. She comes running over the second she hears me turn the doorknob with her tail wagging a mile a minute. I got Lady from the local animal shelter as soon as I moved here, both for companionship and protection, although admittedly she is not very scary. She's all black – half Lab, half Terrier. She basically looks like a miniature Black Lab. Unfortunately, she also suffers from illusions of grandeur. She's only fifteen pounds, but she thinks that she is a big, bad dog, especially if she encounters a cat, or a squirrel, or, heaven forbid, another dog, on our daily walks. She turns into her alter-ego, Ms. Barky. Mostly, though, she's very quiet and sweet and unassuming, and she loves to be near me. She sleeps right next to me in bed at night. I have a dog who loves me. Why on earth would I want a man? No man I had ever met has ever been so loyal or faithful.

I was a bit relieved that Mike was involved with someone. However, I was a little disappointed, too. Despite what I had told Rachel, I had thought he might be interested in me. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me like that. But, if what Chelsea said was true, and I had no reason to believe that it wasn't, that was just how Mike looked at women. He was a natural-born flirt and I was just another woman to flirt with. Ugh! I knew I had no reason to be upset, but I buried my head in my pillow and went to sleep.

The next day was Halloween. My task for the day was to help out with the children's Halloween party. I had traded in my “Anne” outfit for a more traditional witch's costume. The library was having a costume contest and giving out candy. I was reading age-appropriate scary stories and singing songs - “Five Little Pumpkins” anyone? It really was a lot of fun. Surprisingly, Mike showed up with two young boys dressed as “Yoda” and “Anakin Skywalker” from “Star Wars.” They both looked to be about six or seven years old. Were they his children? I wondered. He hadn't said anything about children, but that didn't mean anything. After all, it wasn't like we had gotten into each other's life stories. I was too busy to talk to him at the party. He waved and I smiled and that was all. He and the boys must have left when I wasn't looking, because at the end of the party I looked around and they were gone.
Halloween night was quiet at my house. I bought tons of candy because I had no idea how many trick-or-treaters might show up at my door. In the end, I only ended up with eight. I suppose that's not surprising considering I live at the end of a dead-end street. It was just as well. Lady barks like she is possessed whenever anyone rings the doorbell anyway. Of course, now I had an obscene amount of candy left with no one to eat it but me. Not a good plan; at least not if I wanted to retain any semblance of a waistline. I'd have to figure out something to do with the candy – maybe I would donate it to the library – we could give it out there for prizes or something. In the meantime, there were some Tootsie Rolls just calling my name. It was Halloween, after all, and what's Halloween without at least a little candy?

I sat down with a notebook and pen. If I was going to do this novel experiment, I needed to come up with a plan. It had been a long time since I had written anything. I had loved writing as a child. I would make up stories with my dolls and then write them out. They led such interesting lives, at least in my nine-year-old imagination. When I was in sixth grade, I actually began work on a children's book called “Fairyland.” It was about a girl who discovered an underwater world inhabited by fairies. I was convinced it was going to be the next Alice in Wonderland! I would work on it in school when I had free time. After about a month, however, my teacher said that I couldn't work on it anymore at school. That was the end of that particular project.

As a teenager, I had filled up notebooks with romantic stories and teenage angst. My favorite birthday gift when I was fifteen was a beautiful journal full of blank pages. It had seemed so full of potential. I couldn't wait to start pouring out my heart. That journal had been followed by several others. I had a whole box of them buried in the back of my closet. From time to time, I had considered burning them – one big giant bonfire of my past. But, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I hadn't written in my journal since the day of the fire. In a lot of ways, I felt like my life ended that day. The darkness fell. That young woman with the fanciful stories was officially gone forever. Life would never be the same, but I was trying to start over.

I had hoped the move would be what I needed to rejoin the living. It had helped in some ways. I mostly kept to myself, though. I lived alone with Lady. I went to work. In my free time, which I had way too much of, I would go for a walk, lose myself in a book, or work on my quilting - anything to keep from thinking. It didn't work. I called my parents every once and a while. I knew my mom missed me. She kept asking me to come home. She didn't understand why I had left – not really. How could she? I had never told her the truth. I thought that maybe if I could start writing again, maybe I could bring back some of the person that I used to be. Maybe some of the pain could start to heal.

So, what could I write about? Could I even find 50,000 words to put down on paper? The book Mike had given me said to make a list of the things you liked in stories and a list of things that you didn't like. I suppose I could safely rule out science fiction. I was never the create-a-fantasy-world-on-the-fifth –moon-of-a-planet-to-be-named-later kind of girl. Maybe I could write a mystery. I liked mysteries. I wasn’t sure if I could figure out how to make the clues, however. Anybody with half a brain would probably solve my mystery on the first five pages. I also liked medical stories. I could go for a good hospital drama anytime. Of course, I don't know the first thing about medicine other than what I've seen on TV or read in a book. I suppose that would lend a certain lack of authenticity to my tale. I also loved romances. I loved stories with happy ever after endings, where the man and the woman are madly in love and go riding off into the sunset. There is a reason that they are considered fiction. I never understood why someone would write a book with an unhappy ending. Life is full of enough unhappy endings. I read books to escape, not to be reminded of pain and suffering. I don't know whether I could write a “happy ever after” story. I certainly didn't have much experience in that department. Oh man, this was getting me nowhere. I was supposed to start writing the next day, and I didn't even have an idea. This was going to be a losing effort if there ever was one. What on earth was I thinking?

And then, it came to me. I knew what I had to write about. So what if it wasn't going to be exactly what one might call fiction. I would change the names. Who would know? No one was going to read it anyway. This was just for me and my heart. I went to bed. For the first time in a long time, I was looking forward to the next day.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 1

2009-10-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1

I sat in the back of the room surveying my surroundings, clutching my notebook, and desperately trying to fade into the woodwork. These people were writers! Conversations about plot concepts and writing techniques were going on all around me. What was I doing here? My boss Rachel had convinced me to come after I had casually mentioned seeing the flyer. I was in way over my head. I stood up to attempt a quick escape, but then the meeting leader came in and closed the door behind him. I was trapped. I slunk back into my seat and hoped no one noticed.

“Welcome to the National Novel Writing Month Support Group! For those of you who don't know me, I am Mike Duncan, your humble leader and fellow sufferer as we travel through this grand writing adventure. To you gluttons for punishment who are returning from last year, I praise your bravery and tenacity of spirit. To you new members, I hope that you find this month-long journey as exciting and fulfilling as the rest of us have. At the very least, at the end of it, you will have a great story to tell.”

Mike was tall with sandy hair, a goatee, glasses and a kind smile. A couple of times he glanced in my direction and I wondered if he could see the look of fear in my eyes. He continued talking about the rules of NaNoWriMo. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write 50,000 words during the month of November. You need to shut off your inner critic and just write. Don't worry about the quality – just write. Try to get your word count out each day, so you don't end up with a huge word debt hanging over you that you are trying to make up the last day as you type for ten hours straight, consuming nothing but pure caffeine!” The people around me nodded and smiled knowingly. “Meetings will be held weekly at the library to get together and vent or get help on plot problems you were trying to work out. Word counts can be posted on the bulletin board that will be left up outside the Community Room entrance. Feel free to share your progress with others. A kick-off party will be held October 30th. Come dressed as your favorite character from a novel as a means of getting into the literary mood! If anyone has questions, please stay. I’ll be available to talk after the meeting.”

The group slowly but steadily filed out. I lingered behind as Mike was gathering up his things. My first instinct was to run, but something compelled me to gather up my courage and walk forward.

“Hi! I'm Lucy. I work here at the library.”

“Oh, do you? I've always thought it would be fun to work at a library. I love libraries.”

“Me, too,” I laughed nervously.

“So, have you written a novel before,” he asked

“No, not at all. I haven't done any creative writing at all since I was in high school, and I'm sad to say that was quite a while ago. How about you? How many times have you done this?”

“This will be my fifth year.”

“Five?! Wow! Have you had any of your novels published?” I asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I just do it for the creative challenge. It's like when people run a marathon. They train and train just to see if they can do it. This is like that, except I don't need to train for a year and it doesn't require as much exercise!”

“What do you write about?”

“Things I know about mostly. I've written about schools I've gone to, places I've worked. Except, in my stories, it's my world. I can make people do whatever I want. I can combine people I know and make them into someone new. It's really a whole bunch of fun. This year I thought I might do something different, though. I was thinking of maybe attempting to write a sci-fi novel.”

“Really? I have no idea what I'd write about,” I said. “I'm not even sure why I came to this meeting. I have to admit the whole idea sounds a bit crazy. I was actually trying to sneak out right before you came in.”

“Ah, I see. I blocked your well-timed escape,” he laughed.

“Yes, exactly!”

“Well, something must have drawn you here.”

“I don't know. . .it just sounded intriguing. Part of me has always wanted to write a book, but I've never really felt like I could do it. Books have such power. I've always loved to read and escape to other places ― pretend I was other people. I don't know that I could create a world that other people would want to escape to.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “It does sound intimidating when you put it like that. But that is the beauty of NaNoWriMo. Nobody is asking you, or expecting you, to write the Great American Novel. You saw all those other people in here tonight, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, eighty percent of the stuff that any of them write next month will be lousy, absolutely awful. You probably couldn't pay someone to waste their time reading it.”
“Does that include what you write, also?” I teased.

“Oh absolutely! I have a drawer at home full of manuscripts that are mostly drivel. But every now and then, when I'm writing, I'll get into this amazing zone where the ideas just come and the words flow and it is just pure magic. That magic makes all the drivel worth it.”

“Do you really think that I could do it?”

“Sure you could. Anyone can. There is no secret formula. You just need to be willing to sacrifice some time for a month to sit in a chair and write whatever comes to mind.”

“I still don't know,” I mused. “I'm not even sure where I would begin.”

“Do what I do. Pick places and people you know about, changing the names and identifying details of course. You want to still have friends when the month is over! You'll be amazed how a story will just start coming.” He paused. “There is a great book by Chris Baty called No Plot? No Problem! He's the guy who came up with the idea for NaNoWriMo in the first place. He offers some really good suggestions about getting started and how to survive the month should you choose to take the plunge. They probably have a copy of it right here in the library. You should check it out.”

“Maybe I will,” I said as I glanced down at my watch. “Wow, I didn't realize how late it was! I'm sorry to have kept you so long.”

“Don't worry about it. It was my pleasure. I'm always happy to help someone get started on a writing adventure.”

“Well, thank you,” I smiled. “You have been very kind,” I said as I turned to head out the door.

“Wait!” he called after me. “Are you going to come to the party Thursday night? Whether you decide to try writing a novel or not, the party will be fun. When else can you get together with real life versions of your favorite literary characters?”

“I'll think about it.”

“OK. I hope I'll see you then.”

As I drove home, I couldn't help but think over the events of the evening. Did I really think I could write a novel? Did I actually want to try? What would I write about? Mike said that I should write about something I knew. Mike had such beautiful blue eyes. I caught my breath just thinking about them. OK, I needed to stop thinking about his eyes. I wasn't looking for a new love interest. I wasn't looking for love at all. Besides, a guy like that must have a love interest of his own anyway. Even if I went ahead with the project, I decided I would do it without the help of the support group. I didn't want to see Mike again. I didn't want life to get complicated.

Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com

"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part Four

2009-08-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter Four – A Proposal

To be considered as a first order of business at Faculty Formation meetings until a final form can be adopted by unanimous consent.

Proposed:
1. That constant growth in virtue is required of all who would teach well

2. That no one should teach who is not also, in academic pursuits, an adept learner

3. That no one should teach who has not recently experienced being utterly inept at learning something

4. That the Faculty should spend some time studying the history of, and various philosophies of, education so as to be more clear on the place of Epiphany in the historical scheme of things, and to better clarify Epiphany’s similarities to and differences from other educational models

5. That the faculty study the dynamics of pedagogy both experientially and theoretically in order to become better teachers

6. That the faculty develop the habits of studying, conversing together about (and thus teaching one another) the materials covered; responding in writing to the ideas studied; reporting formally to one another and to the ‘public’ on the key ideas and their reflections upon them [Monthly reports, quarterly symposia]

7. That the first subject taught to new students be a synthesis of these Foundational Studies of the Faculty with the most current history of the development of the school, in a course to be titled, History and Philosophy of Epiphany…a liberative arts university. (Perhaps this course should be a prerequisite to admission as a student.) [Agreed, FF Mtg. 1/14 – See Manifest V1,#1]

8. That when the Faculty have succeeded in articulating fully the overarching vision, operational model, and underlying educational philosophy of Epiphany, and have mastered the Foundational Studies material to the degree they can communicate it fluently both orally and in writing, then it shall be said the doors are open to Epiphany’s first students – ‘epiphanies’ – as their faculty will have earned Masters Degrees in Education [until this point, all formal admissions will be made to the Faculty Formation program and limited to students seeking Masters Degrees]

9. That the final step in awarding the first Masters Degrees will be the design and unanimous acceptance of the ‘closed canon’ of the Master of Education curriculum – design of this program must include a clear vision for the role and qualifications of the student, and prerequisites as they apply

10. That the Masters Degree requirements shall include some form of Practicum in teaching, by which Epiphany will open opportunities to share courses in the special interests of its forming Faculty with the interested public

Read more at OurElizabeth.org

"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part Three

2009-08-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter Three – The Faculty

In odd moments, as Epiphany took shape before her wondering eyes, Elizabeth stumbled deeper into the new universe. Of course, as such things must, it became by turns more fantastic and more real. Just where Maria Ogelthorpe fit in, was difficult to say. On the one hand, Epiphany seemed a product of her own imagination, but on the other hand, she seemed a product of its. In the moments when Epiphany was in focus, she saw that she always had been Elizabeth. She felt the finally-coming-home elation of one who watches as on-shore blurs gradually become the welcoming faces of dearly missed loved ones. The fact that she herself was simultaneously in the waiting throng and on the homecoming ship made perfect sense…in those moments.

Trouble was, the ordinary life through which Epiphany had been born seemed to go on oblivious to it, for the most part. Although Maria could entertain thoughts of it while shopping, cooking, caring for children, paying bills, and the like, the experience of actually being there receded bit by bit until she wondered if it had been a dream. The more she shared the emerging details with key people, however, the more comfortable she became moving back and forth between the campus and her home.
The commute should have been a short one, as her home was the campus, but now and then the journey seemed unbearably long. When, in the second month, her friend Cecilia joined the faculty, the commutes were shortened, as their conversations extended Epiphany‟s reach into both lives. The two of them puzzled long and earnestly over a few burning questions: Whether the university rapidly growing on paper and in their minds was already a reality, or had yet to be actualized. Were the words being written, in fact, the first emergence of some sort of reality outside time into their temporal existence? Would Epiphany exist if they stopped writing its story, or would it push through other people if they failed to realize it? How much was it a pure Ideal, and how much was it just a reflection of their own personalities and wishful thinking? Was this a whim, or a divine calling? Were they mad, or very, very sane?

Luckily, the two months of pondering and quibbling over these issues were passed pleasantly – largely over beer and pizza – and, luckily, they were over before Mara signed on to the faculty. A brash young lady who served the ladies pizzas, beer, and witty repartee on Monday nights at Luigi‟s, Mara won a spot on the faculty without ever knowing she was being interviewed. “That’s a girl you won‟t ever catch being someone she‟s not,” remarked Maria one evening. “There does seem to be a great depth of presence about her,” replied Cecilia, “despite appearances.”

Those appearances were more than a little disconcerting, but from that night dated the keen interest of Epiphany‟s Faculty Search Committee in Maravilla Lopez. Mara‟s blowsily clad cleavage, triply pierced ears and butterfly-tattooed left thigh (all too visible below the scanty skirts she favored) contrasted strikingly with the proud cheek bones and regally condescending eyes and bearing (“Queen of all she surveys, that one is!”) of a high-born Spanish doña. Her frank familiarity and cheerful contentment with what, by her own accounts, had been a difficult life, charmed the ladies.

They brushed away whatever troubling elements she presented to their more mature sensibilities, with indulgence born of growing affection. She was true Dulcinea to these non-quixotic Dons; Sigrid Undset to the Jane Austen Society; flaming blood-orange orchid to Cecilia‟s cottage garden and Maria‟s wildflower meadow. Mara had journeyed far from a childhood of faith, in a close-knit family, and just recently returned, wounded and wiser, to a surprisingly warm welcome. “I can‟t believe they want me back just as I am,” she had said, “but after seeing a world without families, I sure do want them just as they are!”

“Just like Innocent Smith in Manalive!” Cecilia had exclaimed. Which led to Mara‟s reading a copy borrowed from Maria; which led to them all agreeing they sometimes felt most sane when onlookers clearly thought them loopy, or thoroughly dotty; which almost led to Mara getting fired when two customers she forgot to wait on stomped out unamused by the ensuing exchange of hilarious stories of good intentions
gone haywire and generous gestures misunderstood as madness. Mara‟s studies under their tutelage thus commenced (“Now that’s an event that deserves a Commencement Ceremony!”), and she pestered them weekly for loans from Epiphany‟s new Circulating Library. Finally, they agreed to invite her to join the faculty, but not without one qualifying question.

“How would you like to go to college, my dear?” “Well, I‟d love a chance to go crazy learning whatever really interested me, but I don‟t imagine I could ever fit into the box labeled „student‟. I guess the minute I began studying to get a job, or a grade, or a pat on the back, the real Mara would jump up and say, „To heck with this, let‟s go to Europe and live a little‟. I‟m just not the type.” “Perfect!” the ladies cried in unison. “You simply must read the story of Epiphany and tell us what you think.” When she returned the unpublished manuscript the next Monday night, Mara seemed suitably affected.

“Is it real?” she asked, her eager brown eyes shining hopefully. “Do you hope so?” “With all my heart!” “Then, please, do attend next week‟s Faculty Development meeting with us. Can you get off work Monday?” Two weeks later they held an official Welcome Social, and changed meetings to Tuesday nights so Mara could join them at Sisters Pub and Pool Hall. One of the sister-owners of this bistro – the chef, Haley Commett – took particular interest in her regular customers. Camaraderie sprang up quickly with the faculty trio. (“What a mixed bag you three are, if you don‟t mind my saying so!” “Well, you have said it, and once it‟s in the minutes, there‟s no getting around it. I suppose now we‟ll need to schedule Mixed Bag nights at a pub for some reason.”)

Soon, she was introducing them to her sister Clem (Clementine Juster), whose husband Jim called her „oh, my darlin‟” (“Of course!”) with great affection. Clem was mannish looking in a lady-country-vet kind of way: short and stocky, curly graying hair too-closely cropped in a well-meant attempt at saving on salon fees, predictable loafers, corduroy slacks and tailored-shirts-under-vests. She and Jim took right to the faculty meetings, so business took a back seat to the fun of discovering each other for the next few weeks. Clem had great strong opinions whenever she had any opinion at all, but was unconcerned about convincing anyone else. In this company she felt unusually free of the typical social inhibitions that keep anything anyone actually considers important from being said.

Maria, Cecilia and Mara also spoke freely, even of Epiphany itself, which fits into very few typical conversations. When Clem accepted a faculty position, they all agreed Jim should be invited to meetings as an honorary Lecturer in the Faculty Formation program. It was so handy to have him there to fill in the details about science, history and current events – areas of their collective weakness – just enough to get on with an interesting story or metaphor.

Helen St. James, at this point, though not officially a faculty member, was tangentially involved with Epiphany‟s inception. Easily overlooked, bookish, and shy, Helen was one of Maria‟s dearest friends. Maria had discovered, beneath the layers of various ethnic costumes and a perpetual air of puzzlement, a dry wit and a capacity for rather oracular pronouncements. Not at all an academic „type‟, but well and widely read, Helen entered the monologues and conversations of others with confused and confusing insights that seemed to emerge from deep within a mind paying only scant attention to the flow of words.

Like a swatch of velvet whipped crazily onto the top of a patchwork piece, though, her utterances were sometimes the making of the whole. Maria often found that, on reflection, the key to the central meaning of such encounters was Helen‟s contributions. Helen herself, while listening with genuine interest to the unfolding story of Epiphany, did not perceive it as something that pertained to her. Not until her review of the first year (Manifest, Vol. 1, No. 6) did Maria even realize Helen‟s pivotal role in Epiphany‟s formation and rectify the omission by a public invitation to join the faculty. Helen readily accepted, and is credited with authorship of the Faculty Prayer, though her first rendering of it had surprised Helen as much as everyone else.

“Are you quite sure, Maria, that we should be writing so much?” Clem had asked. “After all, though we are called „faculty‟, we really are only students, and it seems a bit uppity to publish, doesn‟t it?” “I can see why she has us writing (Maria had coined the maxim, “It isn‟t a great idea until it‟s well-expressed.”), but I just wonder about the publishing,” said Mara. “After all, aren‟t there too many words in the world as it is, and more blather being foisted on it every day?” “But most of those are empty ones,” suggested Cecilia. “And if they are not just empty, but are really emptying, maybe we‟d better write to staunch the flow of meaning.” “Here, here” intoned Maria, “let it not ever be said that we could have written windows into another world and instead kept them to ourselves.”

“I think I understand,” breathed Helen dreamily. “It‟s like that prayer: Pour forth, O Lord, thy Words into our hearts, that we, to whom the Manifestation of thy Son was made known by the message of an Epiphany, may by that same Presence of Heaven in which we live and move and have our being, be brought to the glory of His coming into the world by creating places of words where the world may meet Him and enter His Kingdom.” She was unaware that „that prayer‟ was an original, but Clem copied the whole utterance into the minutes, and the Faculty have prayed it together ever since at the closing of all their intimate meetings.

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"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part Two

2009-08-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter Two – The Foundress

Elizabeth of the Epiphany was born on the day of the founding realization of the University. At least, that was the day Maria Ogelthorpe took her new name, on the basis of a most extraordinary occurrence. Accustomed as she was to the phenomenon of stumbling through ideas as through magic doors into new worlds, Maria never had grown able to anticipate its coming and was ever freshly surprised. Before she knew where her thoughts about poems, education, water, holograms and Sabbath rest were taking her, she saw the Sign of the Question*E and knew the University whole cloth, seamlessly, as one imagines the disciples suddenly knew the risen Lord in the instant of breaking bread.

Looking at Maria, it would hardly be supposed she was the foundress of a university. She has neither the aquiline nose and high brow of the aristocratic intellectual, nor the lean and leonine bearing of presidential power. Yet, preside she does over the small domain of Epiphany…a liberative arts university. Her appearance – a somewhat faded, dumpy middle age nondescript enlivened by a ready smile – does not so much belie the deep interior fire as garb it in an apron and ready it for domestic duty. One might notice in her eyes a piercing capacity for plumbing the depths of things and an almost pathetic eagerness to see the quickening of kindred spirit in another‟s eyes, but only if one meets that gaze a while, and it is hard to do. Now and then she vows to “toss the hair dye and let the mop become a silver crown of wisdom”, but has not yet taken that step.

A wordy, but not verbose, woman, Maria collected into herself, in the one word „Epiphany‟, all the words that have since been written about it. She and the faculty consider it their first priority to study those words until the university becomes whole in and among them all. Though it is complete in one word, it would take volumes to contain it. The faculty intends to become living volumes and then to open the doors to Epiphany as they publish whatever overflows from that experience. Hence the early need for Epiphany Press, and their rich plans for its future.

You may ask what credentials such a woman brings to the leadership of a university. And she might answer, “Only that the notion came to me and I love it with all my heart and feel responsible for it.” Her faculty would add that her love of learning inspires them. She just seems to be the place within which the universe of Epiphany consists and has its being. It isn‟t as though she‟s lording it over anyone. She‟d be the first to tell you she is not yet even a fully qualified faculty member.
Though epiphanies scoff at the notion of credentials meted out as feed to complacent cattle, they take quite seriously the idea of true faculty formation. It is a holy calling to prepare one‟s faculties to receive and nurture the faculties of others. To this end, Maria – now Elizabeth of the Epiphany – dedicates all her leisure. A free university being free of – among other things – work for hire, she and the others are compelled to spend only their free time at the task of making ready to receive Epiphany‟s students.

Under the Sign of the Question*E the faculty are even now laboring not to question, not to answer, but to be questioned, and to respond. An „answer‟ is too like a „solution‟ to a problem, a fill-in-the-blank mask over the pain of unanswered questions. Not this easy path take Epiphany‟s profs to knowledge, but the path of patient willingness to be wounded by unanswered questions; to dwell in unknowing so as to recognize Truth when it answers. Daily they study and write, weekly they meet, monthly they report, quarterly they give public symposia and in due time should find themselves feeding a student body – like mother pelicans – from their own life‟s blood. How they dream of that day!

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"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part One

2009-08-14T17:54:00.000-07:00

A Tribute, Perhaps a Sequel, to G. K. Chesterton‟s “Manalive”

* Epiphany:
- Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles – Feast: January 6
- A sudden, intuitive perception of, or insight into, the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence
- A literary work presenting, usually symbolically, such a moment
- A student at Epiphany: A Liberative Arts University

Chapter One – The University

Epiphany was founded January 6, 2008 by its faculty and a woman named Elizabeth of the Epiphany. Since then, its primary purpose has been the development of its faculty – a laborious process expected to take five to ten years. Epiphany‟s students must be, above all things, patient. They will likely tire long before graduation if seeking a degree (at least, that is the hope). The motto on the Epiphany seal is Semper Incipe (Always Begin), and it is this constant beginning of things that puts the brakes on the education engine here. For instance, Epiphany had hardly existed an hour before new institutions were springing up on the campus: Epiphany Press, the Blessed Order of Elizabeths, Incipe – a foundation dedicated to the beginning of good works, Euphonium – Epiphany‟s chorale, and Manifest – its news and literary journal.

Elizabeth, as soon as possible after the Epiphany, began the formation of her faculty. One by one she selected the young ladies, poets, eccentrics, clowns and G. K. Chesterton enthusiasts who had the wherewithal and what-not to get on board. She looked for women with full, yet unbusy lives – women for whom one more full time job would be a mere bagatelle. By the end of the first year, they were four – the Founding Faculty – and were ready to begin.

Meanwhile, Manifest had quadrupled its circulation (from four to sixteen subscribers) and was in a fair way to become a leader in the Catholic Renaissance of the 21st century. Epiphany Press had plans on the drawing board for six book-length manuscripts, two study guides, a collection of essays and poems, and several pithy pamphlets. Euphonium had held its first public recital and several members of the chorale expressed interest in becoming students. Incipe had begun at least eight truly good works, and the entire faculty, by year‟s end, aspired to become Elizabeths in the Blessed Order. In fact, life at Epiphany barely left time for faculty formation. This is what made it so delicious to steal away together, just the four, and prepare themselves to be feasted upon by future students.

Their preparation was very like the preparation of a banquet – great slabs and haunches of common meats roasted manfully on spits, delicacies with complex recipes and flavors fussed over with detailing love, hearty portions of honest buttered vegetables and bread, lovely and whimsical table decorations and garnishes fashioned with creative flair…but I digress. Alas, such is the way of things at Epiphany. One thing leads deeper, backward, higher, onward to another until one‟s path through the curriculum describes a veritable maze. This first year, as we have seen, was a rich one, and bodes well for the future of the University.

It should not be supposed that, because Epiphany is a young school, it is bereft of traditions. Indeed, its traditions took off like its institutions, blossoming wherever Elizabeth dropped a little maxim, or a hint to the faculty of great things to come. Beloved of all epiphanies (for each student will be known as an „epiphany‟) are the words Semper Incipe. It is the animating permission, the empowering edict of every heart, to be told “always begin” and thus, to be freed from always rushing to complete delightful things. End a thing if you must, or if it insists, or if it is odious to you, but do, do begin with abandon. (You may well ask how the heart of the students can possibly be known before any matriculation has begun. I can do no better than answer, in the words of the foundress, “Oh, my dear, how could you ever imagine we would accept any student whose heart we had not known and prepared our own to receive?”)

Other early Epiphany traditions are rooted in its mottoes:
We take ourselves seriously, that others may, and unseriously that we may fly.
(A great sense of whimsy, wry humor and self-spoofing buffoonery traditionally pervades life at Epiphany.)

Free education for free persons
(Yes, an Epiphany education may be costly in some ways, but shall always be free to students. This accounts for much of the long wait for proper students. Rare is the bird that judges grass better than gold thread for building a nest.)

Epiphany … a liberative arts university
(Never, in the history of Epiphany, would Elizabeth have it called either conservative or liberal. With true human freedom in mind, she made swift work of omitting the worst of those terms from the Epiphany tradition, and keeping the best.)
Banquets figure prominently in the body of Epiphany tradition. The annual, catered Fancy Dress Ball – to raise money for Incipe‟s good works; the as-required and thus rare Solemnity of Investiture in the Blessed Order of Elizabeths; the summer Family Choir Encampment offered by Euphonium, which includes a week of fireside feasting; and the Quarterly Faculty Symposia for public discussion of the faculty‟s studies, which must have food aplenty to go with the home-brewed beer – traditions all, from Epiphany‟s first weeks. The Founders Tea, begun on Epiphany‟s first anniversary, is sure to be as stimulating and delightful as the four ladies and their invited guests – potential faculty and students with the requisite conversational skill that makes Epiphany events so pleasant – made it this year. If one word could give the essence of Epiphany tradition, it is “commonplace”. Flush with layer on layer of warm allusions and associations, “commonplace”, though inadequate, will do nicely.

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"Shalom, Mary" by Kathleen Techler

2009-04-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

This is the first letter from "Shalom, Mary: Letters the Blessed Virgin Might Have Written" by Kathleen Techler, available at http://www.diskuspublishing.com/kathleenculligantechler.html

Nazareth
Dear Rebekah,

I have just received the most wondrous blessing possible, and now I am sitting here trying to comprehend it.

Today I was alone in the house weaving a new cloak for Father. The day was dreary and dark, so that even with the light from the doorway it was difficult to see my work.

Suddenly a brilliant light shone on the wool, as though the sun had come from behind a cloud. Startled, I looked up—into the eyes of an angel! Really, Rebekah! He was standing beside the loom. His face was so bright that he was hard to look upon. He wore a white robe with a golden sash, and long silvery hair curled around his shoulders.

He smiled. “Rejoice, oh highly favored daughter,” he said. “Blessed are you among women.”

My heart was beating fast, and my mouth was so dry I could not speak. Deeply troubled, I stared up at him, wondering why he had come.

“Do not fear, Mary,” he said gently. “You have found favor with God. You shall conceive and bear a son and give him the name Jesus. Great will be his dignity, and he will be called Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of David. He will rule over the house of Jacob forever, and his reign will be without end.”

I knew this must be a messenger from God, so I believed him, but I was very puzzled. “How can this be, since I do not know man?” I asked. And I immediately thought of Joseph, my betrothed.

The angel explained that the Holy Spirit would come upon me, and the power of the Most High overshadow me. So my baby would be called Son of God. And then the angel told me that my cousin Elizabeth is in her sixth month! She is very old and has always believed she was sterile, but she is going to have a child. As the angel said, “Nothing is impossible with God.”

I looked into the angel’s kind face as he waited for my answer. God was asking me for a favor, and of course I would obey! Bowing my head, I said, “I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be done to me as you say.”

At that, the angel disappeared! One minute he was there, and the next minute he was gone. The room was shadowy again, and I blinked my eyes to accustom them to the dimness. Stunned, I sat on my stool and fingered the soft wool on the loom while my heart slowed to normal and an incredible peace came over me. Whatever the future brings, I want only to do God’s will.

My son, the Son of God! How can I tell my parents? Will they understand and believe me? Or will they think I was dreaming? And what of Joseph? I am fourteen and old enough for marriage now. How could he possibly accept this news as the truth? I pray that he will not be angry! What if he publicly denounces me? I do not believe I could bear it!

Maybe I should wait a few weeks before telling anyone. But then Mother would say, “Why have you kept this secret from us?” No, I must tell her today, and I am sure God will help me.

When Rabbi Eleazar taught us to read and write and told us about the coming Messiah, remember how we wondered what it would be like to be His mother? How little I knew then what was in store for me!

I wish you had not moved away, Rebekah, so we could talk. But fortunately, Father’s friend gave me this papyrus, so I am sure you will receive many letters from me. I am sending this with Azor, the merchant, who will be traveling to Damascus next week.
I hope your father’s new dyeing business is doing well. Greet your parents for me. I miss you very much! Please try to answer soon.

Shalom,
Mary

"Stars Within the Glass" by Karl Bjorn Erickson, Part Seven

2009-04-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

She turned and looked in his direction. Her disheveled blond hair hid her features for only an instant. Then, David saw him again. The mask utterly concealed her features. His leering face of ageless madness and hate stared hauntingly back at him. For a moment, David thought that he, or it, glimpsed him standing there. It glared mockingly at him, displaying only the smallest hint of surprise...and something else. Was it fear?

David began to shake and silently cry, as he watched Laura tilt her head back and choke down the pills. It was not her face that turned to gaze directly at him with a look of triumphant hate. A smell like rotten meat made him turn away. Buzzing flies sounded in his ears. David opened his eyes, and a tear slid down his cheek. Metanoya was there again.

“Purifying fire and the gate to another land is the purpose of this place. Strive to
remember that hope through prayer is justified.” The stranger paused a moment before
continuing. “Now, the time has come. You don’t belong here, and you must return.”
“I want to go back more than anything, but I don’t know how. I’m lost.”
“Yes, you are lost. David, take your finger and place it in the soil. Make a cross there in the earth, and you will find yourself where you need to be. We will talk again someday.”

He was going to ask why Laura had done it, but something told him to do simply do
what he had been told. David knelt down and hesitantly extended a finger into the warm and moist ground. Like a breeze whispering through a stand of poplars, the words “John 14:14” gently filled his mind as the iridescent blue of the soil slowly changed to a milky red. Taking a last glance up at the tall figure above, David obeyed. While making the cross he mouthed the words, although he had never before considered himself religious.

The moment it was finished and the word “Spirit” had escaped his lips, he was instantly gone. He blinked and found himself sitting on a bench along the ship canal—just a block north of the science building. A police boat was just passing, swinging its spotlight lazily back and forth along the shoreline, and the lights of the Freemont Bridge sparkled in the distance. Besides the usual traffic noise in the background, the familiar rumblings of the demolition work from the neighboring shipyards made him sigh in relief; he was indeed back in Seattle. A light mist began to fall as if to confirm this.

The thought that it had just been a dream passed through his mind, but he glanced at
his hand. A glowing bluish green substance was caught under one fingernail—the nail
with which he had drawn the cross. Bringing his hand to his forehead in stunned
disbelief, he caught the feel of something long and hard caught in his hair. He removed it and was only somewhat startled at seeing a red fluorescent feather in his hand. The November mist was turning to rain as David rose from the bench and started to walk back towards the university campus. It was good to be in familiar territory again, and somehow he didn’t feel quite so alone anymore either. He had hope that he would be reunited with Laura some day in a place where every tear will be wiped away and where death itself would finally be destroyed forever.

The End

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"Stars Within the Glass" by Karl Bjorn Erickson, Part Six

2009-04-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

“What?” David stammered.

“What’s wrong?” the stranger inquired a second time.

“I lost my best friend,” David confessed. “She killed herself. Are you happy? On top of that, I don’t have any damn idea where I am.” David paused a moment, “how did you
know that something was wrong, and who the hell are you?”

“Hell has nothing to do with this place. My name is Metanoya. Why don’t you close
your eyes and see the truth of why you are here?”

Before David even had given it any thought, he was shutting his eyes. There was only
a darkness at first, but he seemed to be in a familiar place. The darkness lightened and shapes took form. In a terrifying instant, he realized that he was looking at Laura alone in her dormitory room. It was as if he was there in the room with her. Distant city lights twinkled outside her window. Except for the lamp on her desk, the room was dark and quiet. David wondered if he was in a nightmare. He tried to yell out to her, but he couldn’t make a sound. She looked disheveled and her eyes were puffy, like she had been crying. David suddenly caught a change in her face as she reached down and picked up a bottle of prescription pills. Her distraught features seemed to disappear altogether as they were replaced for an instant by the face of a strange man. David could make out the man’s smile for only an instant. There was no mistaking that it was an unfriendly smile, a look of absolute hatred and malevolence.

David wanted to scream, to do anything to stop what was happening, what had
happened, but he could not say a word to his friend. She put the pills back down, and
David hoped with every fiber of his being that something would change. She would be
back in his arms again, and everything would be the way it was supposed to be. Laura
stared out the window for a time, watching the city lights and listening to the sounds of the night. With a sudden determination that shocked and horrified David, she picked the prescription bottle up again and hurriedly opened it with shaking fingers. David tried to scream, to slam his fists into the wall--anything--but he couldn’t move or make a sound.

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"Stars Within the Glass" by Karl Bjorn Erickson, Part Five

2009-04-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

His consciousness seemed to drain away like blood flowing from a deep wound. He
slipped into another place and somehow joined with all of the colors and shapes
surrounding him. The brilliant colors and geometric patterns, like a sheen of oil atop a puddle, grew more intense as he slipped beneath their spell. Mental images of the world shot through his brain. He moved his fingers, and he felt the cold stillness of the sky. Bewildering alien landscapes passed in and out of view. Then, he recognized what the landscapes were: insane fractals. It was a world somehow constructed or rooted upon the fractal form. As he gazed through his mind’s eye, there was movement far off. The images changed to pictures of people—more like silhouettes at dusk than clear people, but he felt with certainty that they had been like him once. There was a mysterious quality of waiting about them, but he didn’t understand what precisely held their attention. David watched as they milled about and then disappeared into a bright mist. He could just catch the sound of a licking fire and questioning voices, but only a single word came to mind: purifying; none of it made any sense. Then, there was a gentle yet stern voice that simply said, “No!” The sound of that single voice echoed in his thoughts.

As if caught up in a surging current, David felt himself pushed upwards towards the
surface, and the disturbing images and sounds faded away. Once his eyes opened again,
he could not contain his own panic. Flailing wildly, he tumbled over the edge of the alien peak. The shooting speed of his fall downward was incredible. Wind whistled in his ears as the swirling landscape below drew nearer and nearer. He screamed up into the darkness. An explosion of thunder suddenly reverberated all around him, making his ears ring and his head ache violently. His arms throbbed in pain. Without thinking, he drew them close to his sides. The speed of his fall should have increased, but, to his astonishment, his rate of descent slowed significantly. He tried bringing his legs tightly together next, and, again, the sensation of falling became much reduced. The fall began to resemble a dream that he recalled having as a child, or perhaps it was a dream of a dream. Something struck his face hard, then disappeared. He spit out a red fluorescent feather that tasted something like cinnamon and honey and tried to right himself in a position that was perpendicular to the ground below. He could make out figures on the surface now, their heads turned up to gaze at this peculiar shooting star. David brought his legs together again and pointed his toes downward—as if he were trying a new high diving technique. The fall slowed to a crawl, and he alighted gently on the glassy blue
surface. As his tattered shoes pressed into the ground, the blue became darker around the outline of his feet. It reminded him of walking in a shallow pond, or pressing a finger too hard on a liquid crystal display.

Looking up, he gazed at the star-shaped mountains towering up into the mist above.
Intricate fractal patterns played out over the mountain walls, and all around him the
landscape extended out in impossible directions and swirling shapes of blue and red. It was more than his brain could accept, and he fell to his knees on the spongy ground. He refused to be afraid. Shaking his head, David slowly rose to his feet and continued on. With each step, he felt a growing assurance that he was simply experiencing some kind of altered mental state--perhaps even food poisoning. He walked along a gently sloping spiral of a green and ocean blue fractal, lost in his own thoughts. His eyes were downcast as the slope began to level. David’s mind focused on the loss of Laura, and his anger began to grow as he nurtured it. What made her do it? What right did she have? Faint singing and the scent of pine and roses wafted to him from somewhere, but they only distracted him for a moment. David quickened his pace as the path leveled, but he was startled out of his thoughts by a questioning voice. A tall man faced him, and there was a distinct quality about the stranger that made David recognize instantly that this was no ordinary man. This also was clearly not a figment of David’s imagination. It would be more likely that David himself did not exist. The man simply stared at him expectantly, awaiting a reply. The light around his face was brighter. He stood at least several feet
above David’s height.

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"Stars Within the Glass" by Karl Bjorn Erickson, Part Four

2009-04-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

For a terrifying second, David thought he recognized a familiar face staring blankly
from out of the darkness. The eyes were empty sockets. It looked like a mockery of
Laura, a lifeless mask barely resembling her face; the spirit gone or hidden. For the
second time, he screamed into the darkness. His light abruptly wavered, and it began to tip and fall over, like running water, as it raced downward, a waterfall of light. The width of the light stream grew narrower and narrower as the falling continued. Soon, it was a thin trickle of light rushing down like a shooting star. David felt pressure building and pushing him in from all sides. His mind began to go entirely blank. He almost welcomed it. Before he lost consciousness entirely, new and disturbing noises entered his mind. The last thought that slipped through his wavering mind was that ‘This place is called Fear.’ He continued to fall through the endless night.

He jerked awake to find himself lying on his back on something soft and staring up at
an empty sky, a void without visible stars, moon, or sun. He didn’t even notice the
contents of his pockets strewn around him. As he turned on his side, knocking a tattered matchbook onto the ground, he gasped. The landscape about him resembled nothing like he had ever seen before. He lay on a spongy surface that reminded him of grass, but it was violet with swirling patterns of iridescent blue. In the distance, he saw towering monstrosities of outlandish colors—shaped like five-pointed stars. Whatever they were, the colors appeared the most vivid towards their tops and faded away as he gazed downwards. At least, that’s what David thought—until he stared harder. A chill went down his spine as he began to grasp his altitude. He carefully inched his way to the side of his bewildering mountaintop and peered over its precipitous edge. Even without anything on which to clearly gauge the height of his perch, the sense was that he was impossibly high. He could only barely make out a patchwork quilt of reds, greens, and blues far, far below. Then, David caught sight of movement atop one of the neighboring shapes. In frustration, he waved his arms in the air and let out an anguished scream. The shadow cruelly mimicked his movements. Somehow, the distant figure was his own reflection, or worse. He buried his face in the violet surface, and it took him.

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"Stars Within the Glass" by Karl Bjorn Erickson, Part Three

2009-04-13T17:30:00.000-07:00

As he watched, the bottle was suddenly full to the brim of a pulsing fluorescent red
liquid. Points of light, like stars, shone with a fierce brightness throughout, gliding this way and that within the confines of the glass. Bewildering lights and shadows played over the walls of the room. Strangely, the reddish light seemed to pass clean through some objects in the lab, but not others. David extended a shaking hand directly in front of one of the lights on the wall, but there was neither any shadow of a hand showing on the wall nor any faint light caught in his palm—only a sense of coldness. David was too mesmerized by the lights to even notice the strange scent of roses and pine emanating from the lit bottle. He stared transfixed at a single point of light while taking a tentative step towards where he thought the clipboard should be.

He failed to notice the backpack left carelessly on the floor. He found himself falling straight towards the glass bottle. He stuck out his arm to brace himself, then realized that he was extending one hand towards the bottle and another into the blackness. Something was terribly wrong. In a flash of realization, David understood he was no longer in the lab at all. The familiar walls were replaced with an inky blackness, deeper than the darkest night he could imagine. There was a feeling of movement or falling, although it was hard to define the exact sensation at first. David stretched his arms out again, hoping to feel the walls or floor of the lab, but there was absolutely nothing there. He reached down in the dark to grope beneath his feet, but the floor was gone. The sensation of falling continued, but there was still nothing that could be seen. He tried scream, but no sound reached his ears. The sense of noiselessly rushing downward through the endless night continued. Nothing made any sense.

With a start, David remembered his key chain. If he could find his keys, there was a
small flashlight attached to the ring. As he brought his arms in towards his body, the speed of his plummeting fall seemed to increase slightly, and this feeling was combined with the sense of spinning as he shot downwards. He tried to ignore it as he began fumbling through his pockets with trembling hands. His groping fingers felt it, but the key ring was caught on a thread. He yanked it free, spilling change, a matchbook, and other pocket contents into the dark void around him. Where was the switch? The sense of rocketing downward was nearly overwhelming his senses as his fingers tried to activate the light. Then, with a noiseless click, the light was on, forcing the darkness to retreat a step. For a moment, it seemed to create a warm ball of comforting light around him. But the sense of warmth was lost when he caught sight of the swirling black wall through which he was falling. As the wall raced upwards on either side while he continued to spiral downwards, he glimpsed shapes and forms moving within the wall, or barrier. It reminded him of different shades of swirling smoke, except there was a sense within him that something very old and malevolent resided there, and that an unfathomable hatred existed just beyond the black veil.

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"Stars Within the Glass" by Karl Bjorn Erickson, Part Two

2009-04-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

“No, please don’t do that. I’ll be fine--really. Could I just borrow your keycard, and I’ll return it tomorrow in class? I already know the access code from the lab project.”
Dr. Jenkins glanced uneasily at his watch before making a reply. “My wife wants to take
the kids to a movie tonight, and I have to make it Mercer Island in half an hour. Make
sure you lock up and arm the system before you leave. There may be one other faculty
member still working.”

“No problem,” David said. “And thank you.”
“That’s fine. You might want the nurse to take a look at that gash on your forehead. It’s still bleeding. You may need stitches, you know.”
With the front doors locked, he entered the welcoming darkness of the hallway. Under
the green light of an exit sign above, he dropped to his knees on the carpet and buried his face in his cut hands. The sobs that racked his body had very little to do with his cuts and scrapes, but the pain began to dull slightly after crying there on the floor for some minutes. The clicking sound of a door closing somewhere caught his attention, and he leapt to his feet. He didn’t want anyone to catch him in this condition. It was bad enough that his roommate had an inkling of what was going on; no one else needed to know. He quietly climbed the stairs to the deserted second floor of the science building. As far as the exact reason for his visit, David wasn’t even sure himself. He often felt more at ease with math and science than he did with questioning people. It just seemed like the right place to be, a place where he could lose himself in the research and leave the people behind for a while. It was a retreat from reality, or depending upon your perspective, a return to reality.

The current experiment was based upon the Bose-Einstein condensate, but David’s
English major roommate just referred to it as the Absolute Zero Project. This inaccurate description somewhat annoyed David, but he admitted that it did sound a little better. It was sometimes a little unnerving to be working around some of the coldest particles in the galaxy, but it was exciting to be involved in cutting edge research all the same. From what David understood the last time he was in class, some elements of the experiment weren’t going quite as planned, but he was just intending a cursory examination as a lab assistant. He didn’t feel like doing anything more involved. It was comforting returning to a place where he could shut things out for a while. He didn’t even need to switch on any lights as he retraced familiar steps towards the lab. Withdrawing the keycard from his pocket, the door to lab 3A buzzed open.

The main box-like apparatus containing the laser and the rest of the equipment was
situated in the center of the reinforced table. An odd hissing noise immediately caught his attention, but the pipes running up from the table seemed to be in good condition. He noticed a nearly empty glass soda bottle sitting precariously on the table’s edge. It was an odd thing for someone to leave behind in this particular lab. As he studied it, the contents seemed to glow slightly. He rubbed his eyes and looked a second time, but the glowing was definitely there, and it was growing stronger. As his eyes adjusted to the low light of the lab, he noticed an area of blackness extending out like a pool from the machine towards the bottle. While David, an underclassman, didn’t understand precisely how everything worked with regards to the Absolute Zero Project, something was clearly going wrong.

Find our more about Karl Bjorn Erickson at http://www.karlerickson.com

"Stars Within the Glass" by Karl Bjorn Erickson, Part One

2009-04-12T18:49:00.000-07:00

Shadows deepened as the fluorescent lights began to flicker on around the university
campus, and the warmer lights shown down from the dormitory windows above. A soft
November rain began to fall as students and visitors headed indoors. A lone campus
security guard walked briskly down the sidewalk, jingling keys and a heavy flashlight
hanging from his belt and a radio gripped in his hand. Suddenly, a young man raced by, nearly knocking the guard off his feet. The runner barely paused, then bolted towards the eastern edge of the university campus. Before the guard could make pursuit, he tripped over a hidden sprinkler head. The young man was already fading into the dusk. The radio lay shattered and quiet along the path.

David Lightholler ran like he had never run before. She was his first love, and now
she was utterly gone. He put out a burst of speed, but slid on some moss and nearly lost his balance. Her blond locks of hair on porcelain skin were like a raging fire in his mind that refused to be extinguished. He raced across Nickerson, almost hoping to be struck and killed by a speeding truck. Unfortunately, traffic was light. Only one Honda’s brakes squealed, and he barely noticed the blaring horn and the driver’s gestures. The math and science building lay just ahead.

Why did Laura do it? Why did she take those pills, and why did it take all day for her parents to call him—like his feelings didn’t matter? He would never stroke her hair or kiss those warm lips again, and he could barely remember the scent of the sweet perfume she had worn on their last date to Golden Gardens. Her laugh, oh, how he ached for the sound of her laugh! David’s legs lost it, and he hit the pavement, nose striking the sidewalk. A rivulet of blood streamed out and mixed with a tear, as he stifled a sob. His head ached almost as badly as his heart. Someone was locking the doors to the science building up ahead. It was Dr. Jenkins, his astronomy professor. David fished a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his bleeding nose as raced towards the double doors.

“Dr. Jenkins!” David called, running towards the professor.
“David!” Dr. Jenkins exclaimed. “You look awful, son. What happened to you?”
“I had a bike accident by the canal,” David lied. “I just need to use the restroom and wash up, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll call Campus Security for you,” the professor offered as he withdrew his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “They’ll be here in no time.”

Find our more about Karl Bjorn Erickson at http://www.karlerickson.com

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Ten

2009-04-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

The next morning she did some more wandering about, still pondering the options she was considering. As the sessions with the doctors receded into the past, the sense of urgency was fading as well. Both had thought she needed treatment, though they differed as to the urgency and nature. But she was feeling well these days, and had been tempted to think that the whole matter had been a tempest in a teapot until she'd joined the session the day before. All the members there had taken the stern doctor's prognosis very seriously and had pressed upon her the gravity of her situation. In light of that, she wandered and thought. When she returned to her bed after lunch, she got a shock that brought the whole matter abruptly back to the forefront of her mind.

Dee was gone.

As long as Jillian had lived in the Ward, Dee had occupied the next bed over. Since Dee was so much older than Jillian, they weren't exactly friends, but they were cordial acquaintances and always asked after each other. Dee seemed to suffer from more than the usual number of ailments, but there had been no indication that she was doing worse than usual over the past few days – in fact, Jillian had passed a few words with her just that morning.

But now Dee's bed was empty and all effects were cleared away. There was no sign that anyone had ever occupied that bed, and there were no nurses or staff to ask. That was considered rude anyway – people just left the Ward, usually in the night, without notice or fanfare. There would be whispered speculation as to the patient's fate, but nobody knew whether the patient had been discharged Outside or simply died. Out of courtesy everybody presumed it was a discharge, but everybody recognized that death happened, too – in fact, Jillian remembered with a shiver, that was exactly what the stern doctor had warned her that she was in danger of. She stood at the foot of her bed, gazing at the empty space where Dee had been just that morning.

"Ah, another one gone", a voice said at her elbow, causing her to jump. She turned to see that the nice doctor had come quietly up beside her and was gazing at the empty bed as well.

"Yes – she was just there this morning", Jillian said in a quavery voice. "Doctor, do you know what happened? Was she under your treatment? Was she discharged, or did she just –"

"Now, dear, you know I can't go discussing the treatment of any other patients with you, no more than I can discuss your treatment with anyone else", the doctor squinted at her. "And speaking of which, how has it been going? Have you been finding the results – satisfactory?" He seemed to be looking about for the pill bottle.

"I keep it here – in the drawer", Jillian said, stepping over and pulling the bottle out. She didn't want him to go fishing for it himself and find it sitting next to the paper from the stern doctor.

"Ah, but have you been taking them? Morning and evening, like my instructions said?"

"Well – I took one in the morning", Jillian replied.

"Good, good", the doctor replied, though he still looked at her suspiciously.

"Every morning, now, and every evening, right?"

"That's what your instructions said", Jillian assured him.

"Very good, very good", the doctor smiled. "Well, I must be off. I'll be checking back."

As he bustled away, Jillian sat down on the bed and pulled the stern doctor's paper from the drawer. She looked at the bottle of pills, then at the paper, then back at the bottle of pills. Then she lifted her eyes and looked at Dee's empty bed.

The End.

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Nine

2009-04-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

"Does this mean I can't stay to watch? I'm considering undertaking this treatment myself. The doctor was quite emphatic about the necessity, but I'd like to know a little more about what I'm getting into."

"Oh, you're perfectly welcome to stay as long as you like, dear", Angela reassured her. "We'll be happy to answer any questions. I was just trying to explain that there's only so much you can understand until you enter into the treatment."

Jillian stayed through the session, which entailed some exercises, some talks from older patients, and a meal together to which Jillian was invited, though she didn't eat much. Everyone was welcoming, and though most seemed shy about speaking much to this stranger, the most common encouragement she received was to sign her paper and start the treatment as soon as she could.

In talking to the patients, Jillian noticed something interesting about their attitudes toward the Ward. It was clear that they regarded the Ward as somewhere they were passing through on their way to Outside. Jillian would have thought this would have made them impatient and dissatisfied, but the opposite appeared to be true. Since they had low expectations for the Ward, it was not a disappointment that the Ward fell short of an ideal place to live. Their treatment was rigorous, but it served to remind them that little could be expected of their life here – in fact, they were even encouraged to use the difficulties of Ward life to toughen themselves. Their focus was beyond, on the Outside that they were aiming for.
Yet this did not make them cavalier about their lives in the Ward. They pitied those whose lives reached no further than the walls, and wanted to help as many as they could to join them Outside. Jillian would have asked them what they thought of the nice doctor's recommended treatment, but having felt the effect of the pill herself, she could guess what their response would be. These were not people who wanted to be numbed to the difficulties of life in the Ward. When Jillian bid them farewell, she left with much to think about.

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Eight

2009-04-06T00:00:00.002-07:00

The next day Jillian found herself subject to her usual melancholy, but she sat on the temptation to reach for the pill to regain the glowing feeling. Instead she did something she'd never done before: wander about and observe people. Venturing out of her home wing, she sought other areas of the Ward, areas where she wasn't known. She wanted to see if she could find patients of both doctors, and talk to both groups about their experiences. This mission was complicated by the fact that it was considered rude in the Ward to flat-out ask someone about why they were there, and what treatment they were under. Those were private matters that could be offered by someone if they chose, but could not be asked – especially by a stranger – without risking deep offense.

So Jillian went far away from her usual haunts to try speaking to strangers. Having had one day of the nice doctor's treatment, she could more easily spot those who were taking the pills. They were genial and easy to talk to, though their attention seemed to wander and there was something fragile about their geniality. As long as circumstances were good, they were able to remain in the glow of the pills. But if anything went wrong, they could be quite disturbed. And "anything" meant even the most trivial things, such as the temperature of the soup or the responsiveness of the nurses. She wondered if the pills wore off sooner the longer you took them.
One thing that interested Jillian to see was the effect the nice doctor's treatment had on his patient's outlook. Given that these people were supposedly taking a simple treatment that would inevitably get them released Outside, she would have thought that they'd be much less concerned with matters in the Ward and more tolerant of minor inconveniences as they bided their time until their promised release. In fact, she found the opposite to be true. It seemed that, since these people assumed that Outside was theirs at such small cost, they were aggrieved that their current circumstances were not as good as they deserved. She found them eager participants in many improvement schemes, everything from trying to get an oversight board appointed to supervise the cafeterias to trying to implement a governance scheme to manage the television stations watched in the lounges. Given the momentous issues that still hung over Jillian's head, she was amazed to see people devote such effort so such trivial matters, but they dove into them wholeheartedly in the name of "making the Ward a better place."

Jillian was fortunate on her second day to stumble across a group of patients under the treatment of the stern doctor. They were assisting each other in their regimen in one of the small gyms. She'd heard whispers of such meetings, sometimes with the implications of strange or perverse doings, but the social constraint against discussing such things openly had prevented her from learning more. But when she wandered into the gym, nobody seemed surprised or ashamed at their activities or her presence. A few shied away from the stranger in their midst, but a couple of the older patients were glad to sit down to talk to her, even after they'd learned she hadn't yet signed up for the treatment.

"Does the doctor directly supervise your treatment?" Jillian asked the man, whose name was Steven.

"Occasionally, but mostly we help each other out. The instructions are simple, and we older patients can help the newer ones", Steven explained.

"Do you find the treatment – excessively, ah –" Jillian stumbled for words.

"Rigorous?" suggested Angela, the woman. When Jillian nodded, she gave a slight smile. "It can be at times, but far less than you'd think. You get accustomed to the discipline, and even come to enjoy the order it brings to your life."

Jillian looked skeptically at the exercises that the patients were doing with one another out on the gym floor, some of which looked far beyond her ability. Angela followed her glance and then laid a hand on her arm. "My dear, you'll never understand it by watching. I thought I could when I was – oh, younger than you are now. It made no sense to me just by looking at it from the outside. The regimen is something you have to experience to understand. You have to be inside it."

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Seven

2009-04-05T18:03:00.000-07:00

Jillian was again alone with her indecision, and lights were going out around the wing. She put the paper on the bedstand with a surge of irritation – who was the doctor to be sending messengers to nag her? She'd told him she'd let him know, hadn't she? She looked at the bottle of pills – one in the morning and evening, it had said, and it was evening. Should she? She couldn't shake the notion that once she embarked on one of the treatments, she was irrevocably committed. She wasn't ready for that yet, so she put the pills on the bedstand unopened and crawled into bed. Sleep was long in coming.

The next morning the two items reminded Jillian of the decision that still lay before her, but she felt like some of the pressure had lifted. So she had two options before her – what was wrong with giving one a try? She could see how she liked it, and if it didn't work, she could try the other. She opened the bottle and swallowed one of the pills before she headed off for breakfast.

The only effect Jillian could detect throughout the day was a moderate restoration of the glowing feeling of well-being that she'd experienced following the nice doctor's visit the day before. Nothing seemed to worry her much – everything would work out. The prospect of having a minor and easily treatable condition seemed much easier to believe. Being released to Outside was an inevitability. As for the shadow of death, or the necessity of signing up for long, difficult treatment – well, it seemed impossible to get worried about all that. It was a trifle, a bagatelle. What had she been so worried about? She felt like she was floating along the hallways that just yesterday she had been plodding down.

As dinnertime approached, Jillian could feel the effect of the pill wearing off, which made her cranky and irritable. Dinner was tasteless, the conversation inane, and she once again felt as if everyone was staring at her and talking about her. She felt ready to burst into tears, and when Kim asked her if she was all right, she about bit Kim's head off. Fleeing the dining hall, she rushed back to her bedside to get another pill. But as she was fumbling with the cap, her eyes fell on the stern doctor's paper still lying unsigned on her bedstand. She looked at it, and then back at the pill bottle. It was clear that at least part of the nice doctor's regimen involved numbing her to certain things. With such vital matters in the balance, was that what she wanted? Resisting her body's urge to gobble another one of those pills, she put the bottle down and walked to the other side of the bed, out of reach of both items. Both doctors were right – she couldn't mix treatments. By nature, taking one meant turning from the other. From the craving she was feeling after just one pill, she guessed that taking a second would make it much more difficult to turn away from a third.

No. Jillian wanted to make her own decision about which treatment she'd select, not have the decision made by the treatment itself. She stuffed both the paper and the bottle into the bottom drawer of the bedstand and went off to refill her water bottle. She was very thirsty, but she wouldn't take any more pills until she'd made her decision.

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Six

2009-04-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

The evening passed in a blur. Jillian remembered wandering halls and sitting in near-empty rooms – anywhere that people weren't. The conflicting prognoses she'd been given, and the choices they required of her, tumbled around in her mind like twigs trapped beneath a waterfall. What was she? Gravely ill or barely sick at all? What she facing death, or a short and simple treatment before being released to Outside? Should she undertake the more difficult treatment just in case? Did she have the stamina to see it through?

Eventually she found herself back at her bed. The paper and envelope that the stern doctor had given her lay on her bedstand, but on top of it was a small bottle of pills with a scrawled note that said simply "Take one every morning and evening." She sad down on the bed with the pills in her left hand and the paper in her right, looking back and forth between them.

"Miss Howard?"

Startled, Jillian turned to see a young man standing near, just outside curtain sweep as was customary here in the Ward. His face was familiar – he was a newer young man with whom she had a nodding acquaintance. She smiled to see that not everyone was shying away from her.

"Yes – Jason, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am – Jase more usually. The doctor sent me."

"The doctor?" That was an ambiguous term to Jillian at present, but Jase cleared it up.

"Yes'm. He was wondering if you'd signed the paper yet." Jase gestured to the form in her hand. "'Cause if you had, I could take it to him for you."
"Yes – well, ah", Jillian fumbled, "actually, I was still considering it. Does he need it right now?"

"No'm", Jase replied, "though he'd like it soon, if it's convenient."

Something rose inside Jillian at this. He wanted it soon, did he? He'd get it when she was good and ready, if that time ever came. She started to make a tart reply to Jase, but then backed down. "I understand. Please tell the doctor that I will give the matter full attention until I make a decision. I will let him know as soon as I know." She could not keep the cold edge out of the response, but Jase didn't seem to notice.

"Very well, ma'am", Jase responded with a slight nod and turned to go. Loneliness and desperation welled up inside Jillian.

"Ah – Jase?" she called.

"Yes'm?" he turned back.

"Are you under – that is, do you participate in the doctor's course of treatment?"

"Yes", Jase responded without hesitation. "Yes'm, I do."

"Do you find it – that is, it looks quite rigorous", Jillian said.

"It can be, ma'am. But it's not impossible. It gets easier the more you do it."
"But the doctor", Jillian probed. "He's rather – stern, isn't he?"

"Yes'm, he is", Jase responded. "Stern is a good way of putting it. But he's very good, and he takes care of us."

"Do you –", Jillian began, but cut herself short. Clearly the lad thought the treatment would cure him, or he wouldn't be taking it. That might be right for him, but was it right for her? How much weight did she want to be giving the opinion of a mere boy at a time like this?

"Do I what, ma'am?" Jase asked, reminding Jillian that she'd left the question half-constructed and hanging.

"Never mind, never mind", Jillian waved him off. "I'll – I'll ask the doctor myself. Thank you for your time." She gave him a small smile which he answered with the slightest of nods.

"At your service, ma'am. G'night."

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Five

2009-04-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

Agnes didn't. She had plenty to say, of course. She heard Jillian's account of both doctor's visits, and then was quite free with her opinion of medical practitioners, life in the Ward, her immediate neighbors, and her own situation. She made clear that she didn't think much of the stern doctor and his dark predictions.

"That's why I try not to be around when he might come by", Agnes confided in a conspiratorial whisper. "If I see him about the wing, I head for the dining hall or the crafts hall or pretty much anywhere but here. I've seen him talk to people, people I'd considered my friends and – they've never been the same. And those eyes of his!"

Jillian agreed that his eyes were disturbing, but that was the most definitive statement she could get out of Agnes. Despite her distaste for the stern doctor, Agnes would not give a firm opinion as to the reliability of the nice doctor. Neither would she reveal which doctor was treating her, or if she was under treatment at all – in fact, she began to get testy when Jillian hinted that she'd like to know. The conversation didn't last long after that, as Jillian began to see that Agnes was getting nettled by her presence.

Jillian took her leave and wandered aimlessly down to the rec hall, not certain if she would be glad or sorry to see anyone she knew. She needn't have worried – most people in the hall were clustered around the big screen television, on which was playing a gaudy, noisy game show. The few that weren't watching were either dozing in their chairs or absorbed in books or needlework. She dawdled about the room, paging through tattered old magazines but unable to concentrate, distracted by the noise of the television and her own internal turmoil. Her thoughts kept returning to the paper and envelope on her bedstand, and what they implied.

The chime rang for dinner, and she trudged down to the cafeteria. Dinner was the usual nondescript stuff, and she sat alone with her thoughts, barely comprehending what she was eating. She was dimly aware of people glancing at her then turning away quickly to engage in subdued conversations. She could guess what the topic was. She'd taken part in those conversations herself. Though doctor visits were supposed to be confidential, everyone seemed to know when someone in the Ward had been visited – and she'd been visited by two doctors in the same day! There would be the whispered comments, the guesses as to the prognosis, the opinions regarding which treatment the patient would undertake. A person who'd received a visit was set apart, isolated. Even as she'd been chatting with Agnes, when Jillian had mentioned that she'd seen both doctors that day, Agnes' demeanor had chilled just a little. Now everyone was doing it. Leaving half her dinner unfinished, Jillian stood, dropped her dishes off at the window, and left the dining hall.

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Four

2009-04-02T00:00:00.000-07:00

Jillian almost jumped at the frank use of the term. Almost nobody ever used it here in the Ward. A variety of euphemisms were employed, but few people said "die". It was almost considered rude, and some people got offended when they heard it.
Jillian clutched her robe about her and tried to gather her thoughts. "Thank – thank you, doctor. I appreciate your concern, and I'll take your advice under consideration."

"We need to begin the treatment soon, Jillian", the doctor warned, his tone grave.

"Why? Do I – is there that little time?" Panic surged within her again.
"I don't know", he replied, glancing at his clipboard. "In your condition – it could be any time. We have no time to waste. Shall I send someone to start you on the treatment?"

"I – thank you, doctor –", Jill fluttered. "This is all rather startling, especially after – that is, I was hardly expecting this. I'd like a little time to think, if I may. Do I have a day to think it over? Just a day?"

"I'll be honest, Jillian: I don't know how much time you have. My recommendation is to begin treatment – my treatment – without delay. But I understand that this is rather a shock, and that you'd like some time. I'll leave this here with you", he handed her a piece of paper and a manila envelope. "It provides the basic details about the treatment and what it requires of the patient. When you want to begin, just sign it and someone will pick it up. Once you undertake the treatment, helpers will be sent to assist you. My strongest recommendation is not to delay. A decision by tomorrow, or even tonight, would be wisest."

"I understand, doctor", Jillian meekly replied, staring numbly at the papers in her hand. "I'll – I'll let you know as soon as I make a decision."

"Soon, Jillian", the doctor admonished gently, "please make your decision soon."

Jillian didn't even hear the stern doctor part the curtains and leave. She sat silently on the bed, stunned. Grave condition. Dangerous shape. She stared at the paper in her hand, making no sense of what was written there. She was confused. She didn't know who to believe. Not twenty minutes ago she had been giddy with the promise of freedom, having been told by one doctor that she could be cured with a simple treatment and be released to Outside. Then another one tells her that she's in serious trouble and must undertake a difficult treatment of indeterminate length or she'll die. Which was right? Part of her wanted to dismiss the stern doctor's prognosis as doom and gloom. Grave condition? She didn't feel like she was in grave condition – oh, sure, she had her days, but – death? On the other hand, the nice doctor had been vague, and when he'd delivered his prognosis, the thought had flitted though her head: too good to be true. Was it too good to be true? Both claimed that only their treatment could help her. What should she do? Finally she stood – she'd still go visit Agnes, she'd just have more to talk about. She pulled the curtains back headed for Agnes' bed. Maybe Agnes would have some ideas.

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories