Dora

 

Dora Smart was a beautiful woman but not in the traditional sense. She was tall, nearly six feet with abnormally large feet and hands. Her hands were elegant though, long fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Her feet she hid in sneakers; she never wore high heels. She wore her hair up in a pony tail with the loose strands of hair sprayed into place. She awoke every morning at 6am to make Sam’s lunch and breakfast before he got on the commuter train. She was diligent and disciplined, sitting down after Sam left to pen her next great novel. She had a least 5 stories saved on her laptop but they were hers, like little fetuses, infused with all her life and love but not meant for the outside world. Dora was a perfectionist and as such nothing was ever quite ready for the outside world. She loved all her work just the same.

It was quiet at home. No reason not to write and yet Dora couldn’t seem to get a word onto the page. Sam, all she could think about was Sam. Dora wasn’t a quitter either, when she said ‘til death do us part’ she meant it. She was going to see this house through, she could fix it. She would love on these walls, whisper sweet nothings into the door knobs and put the roof on her back. Sam was sick and he needed her. There was no way this house was crumbling, not if Dora had anything to do with it.

***

The snow was thick.  So thick I thought it might have been toothpaste.  It didn’t make any sense.  I walked out into the night not knowing if I wanted to return.  I prayed to God that night.  I told him that I wanted the snow to swallow me.  I wanted to be buried under white.  I could think of nothing more beautiful than to be buried under the snow.

            What then of the spring?  When children galloped about in the yard and stumbled upon my half-existent toes.  What then?  I would be unearthed.  I would be taken away.  They would strap me in white and stick me in a white room.  Nothing.  I would be nothing.  And it would be so cold inside that room.

            I keep having these hallucinations.  I sit at my computer to write and all I can think about is dying like all the little ones Sam and I tried to bring into this world. I feel I failed, failed myself, failed Sam. We can’t seem to save this house. It’s falling apart. I was sure little feet scampering about would shore up the foundation. What can be done about what cannot be done?

I worry that I don’t exist. Sam says I should talk with someone about the babies, but it seems too personal. What business is my uterus to a stranger?

The snow feels like toothpaste and smells like fresh cut apples. I lay myself down until I can see nothing but white; the snow blotting out the perfect blue sky above.  The ground shakes and I’m torn out of bed.  Men without faces and legs put me into a straight jacket.  There is a fire in the middle of the white room and suddenly I have an apple lodged in my mouth.

            Maybe Sam wasn’t the problem, I am the problem. If I could just do what I’m supposed to do, if I could just make sure this house carried on, maybe then Sam and I could remain, live out our simple lives knowing we made a difference in this world. But I can give him nothing and in turn I receive nothing. I should see the psychologist, Meghann Vardern. Maybe this woman could help sort out these demons.

***

“I keep having the same recurring nightmare. We had dog and she had a bunch of puppies.  I wanted to bring them inside the house cause we were in the middle of a storm.  I told Sam that it was too cold for them out there.  They were just babies!  It was raining so hard I thought our roof would collapse in on us, and the lightning it was so wild” Dora took a sip of coffee and continued, “I also didn’t trust our neighbors.  They would steal them, I knew it.  Steal them from me!  They were my babies.  I wanted them inside the house with us”.   

Greg, a new therapist, was shadowing Meghann for the day. Meghann would have rather conducted the session alone but her superior insisted that Greg sit in on a session. He was young and lacked the seriousness that Meghann felt this position required. Greg slid over his legal pad with its scribblings to Meghann but she paid no mind to him.  

“Our house is a light blue, almost gray." Dora continued.  "It’s kind of difficult to explain.  Like the color of frozen flesh, but not that purple. Honestly though, I never saw another’s frozen body" her large hands wrapped around the warmth of her Starbucks coffee mug. Dora paused to look down at her numerous purple splintered veins on her thighs that made hairline cracks in the smooth pane of her white skin. 

Greg urged her, “Ms. Harper could we come back to your dream about the puppies?” 

“Our house, my small little house was blue gray, like the way the sea looks when a storm is forming.  How it turns everything gray.  How you feel so small and insignificant in front of it." Dora seemed wrapped up in her own speech. Then without warning she lifts her eyes from her coffee mug. 

"You know what I’m talking about don’t you doctor?” 

Greg nodded compliantly while Meghann sat stiff time seemed to expand into the grainy wisps of green in the woman’s grey eyes. 

 “You know how it feels living on the inside trying to fill yourself.  Thinking you’re complete but knowing you’re not.  What do you do when you have nothing in your house, when you can’t keep what you want and you keep getting what you don’t want?  I know you know what I mean Doctor Vardern?” 

Meghann shifted in her chair and leaned in close to the woman.  Meghann’s heart throwing itself against the wall of her chest, bruising itself as she struggled to keep her composure.  “Ms. Harper, tell me more about the puppies" said Meghann not looking up from her legal pad. 2339  

Dora sat upright in her chair and continued,  “I went out to where the puppies were.  The rain had become so heavy it was as if oceans were falling onto me.  Suddenly I was in the yard, up to my neck in water.  Sea swirling, slipping into my parted lips, then surging in, sloshing about, finally stuffing me until I’ve become so bloated, a rigid cell ready to explode with the all the moving atoms of other bodies.”

She paused, “It didn’t hurt though.  Dying.  I thought it would.”  She lit a cigarette and watched the bilious poison escape from her mouth.  “Dora, I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here”. She looked at the lit cigarette, “I’m sorry, nervous habit” she stubbed out the cigarette on the bottom of her extra large sneaker.

“My house was blue like that I guess.  Blue and gray.  Gray with an ‘a’ not an ‘e’ cause gray with an ‘e’ is reserved for eyes only.  Those puppies they had a lot of eyes.  There was six of them.  That’s twelve eyes all tracking, all following”.

“The puppies” she paused “were beautiful and thus they were perfect but because of that, they were only parts.  The puppy legs and paws and ears and heads without eyes were trapped in the blue-gray walls.  Like someone cut them up and tried to fill the holes in the dilapidated wall by shoving in the pieces.  The puppy bits were coming out and I should have been afraid but I wasn’t”.

Meghann couldn’t help but think that this woman was no more crazy than the rest of the world.  She had just made the fatal mistake of opening her mouth.  The reason Meghann had taken this job, she was convinced, was to help those less fortunate than herself.  She was fascinated with the abnormal.  She wanted to understand the incomprehensible.  She wanted to be consoled, convinced that she was sane by becoming the one who labels the “crazies”.  But a mere four years later at twenty nine, she realized that she could not be cajoled anymore. 

“Didn’t I tell she was nuts?”  Greg leaned, more to push his breath against Meghann’s neck than to keep his voice lowered. 

“How often do you have this nightmare?”  Meghann asked Dora.

“It happens pretty regularly, maybe twice a month." Dora looked down at her hands. "I get lost sometimes in it.  It picks me up so I don’t know where I left off” the woman’s eyes swooped in ripping away Meghann’s composure.  Meghann drew back and tucked her head behind Greg’s shoulder, an act he mistook for affection as he put his hand on Meghann’s knee.  She quickly crossed her legs pushing off his unwanted hand. 

“I’m  not crazy” the woman said very matter of fact. 

“No but this dream is definitely important.”  Meghann said. “Do you often dream of houses?”

“All the time. Houses are just physical representations of people. We are all little constructions built by our parents then shaped by our environment. My marriage is a house…” she stopped suddenly. “Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely” said Meghann with an encouraging smile. “What do you think this dream meant?”

“That’s easy” said Dora, her eyes welling with tears, “My house is incomplete” Meghann waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

“And the puppies?” Meghann asked.

Dora gave her a hateful look then in mock innocence, “They’re just puppies. Sometimes things are just what they are. Nothing more nothing less.”

***

SAM

            The day I met Dora, I was sure she was the one.  It was chemistry class and I sat in the back bending the pages in my book into strange little designs.  I had failed the class once already and if it wasn’t for my talent with the violin, the school would have disposed of me quite a while ago.  She came in late on the first day and got a smart yelling for it too.  Never one to be wrong, Dora spent the rest of class showing off her sizable knowledge of chemistry and by the end of the day she and the professor where practically best friends.  I loved how this girl could just change the entire situation.  What power, what wild ambition.  On our way out of class, I stopped her to ask for her name.  I got her answering machine, “Hi I’m Dora, I’m not really here right now, but say something witty and I may call you back”.  Truth be told this intrigued me even more, so that night I locked myself in my dorm room and wrote her a poem. 

            I walked in a smidge late the next day and was expecting a bit of a fuss as well, but the professor only remarked, “Mr. Dehlite, could you please turn out the lights, I have an overhead.”  What?  No big commotion, hell not even a little tisk tisk tisk?  I scanned the room embarrassed at how unimportant I felt, then I saw a seat by Dora.  I sat next to her and began to whisper, “So remember me?  How is this guy pretty boring huh?  Blah blah blah makes me want to rip off my ears so I don’t have to listen to him anymore”.  I laughed and she replied, “Could you please be quiet, I can’t hear a word he’s saying.”  Disappointed I took out my notebook which was brand new even though it was the middle of the year. 

            At the end of class I walked with her to the door.  “So, I wrote this for you.”  “What is it?” she asked curiously.  “It’s a poem, I’ve been known to write a few good poems.”  I bragged remembering how all my previous girlfriends loved my poems.  “Are you an English major?”  “No actually I’m a Music major cause I’m majorly into music.”  I laughed hesitantly.  I couldn’t believe I made that joke, God what an idiot!  She gave me a pity laugh and said, “I look forward to reading it uh…what was your name again?”  “Sam” I beamed.  “Well thank you very much, Sam.”  As she walked away I shouted out, “What are you majoring in?”  She turned her head giving me a cocky smile and replied, “English”. 

 

*

 

“You did what?”  “I gave her my poem.”  “You gave Dora Smart your poem?  Are you an idiot or something?”  “Ah Jon you knew I was an idiot a long time ago, why rub it in?”  I joked.  “You have no idea, do you man?”  “What do you mean?”  “I mean Dora Smart, do you know just how good she is?”  “Pretty good?” I ventured nervously.  “Pretty good?  Pretty good?  Faulkner was pretty good, Hemingway was pretty good, but this girl she’s amazing!”  “But is poetry her thing?  I mean maybe she’s all prose and no poetry.”  I suggested.  “She’s all English man.  You’re so dead.”  “Not true man, she knows I’m no Poe.”  “You don’t need to be no Poe to impress her, hell all you need to be is decent.”  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”  “Man your poetry sucks!”  “What?  How do you know huh?  Did you read that one I sent to Jennifer?”  “Yeah ‘Our love is like a bottle of boose, the more I drink the more stellar I feel, until the morning when most of my food I do loose, but fuck the morning I’ll drink you with every meal’ dude it was like a crappy version of the beans, beans, the magical fruit song.”  “Man you’re right I need to get that letter back.”  “Probably too late, she probably already read it and is laughing herself to death right now, maybe even showing all the girls in the dorm.”  “Real supportive man, real supportive.”  I said sarcastically.  “You need to help me get it back.”  “How?”

***

“Don’t do that!” she put her hand on my knee, pushing it down until my heel was forced to the floor.

“You know I can’t stand when you do that.”  I looked out my window and let out a loud sigh.  The green hills flowed away from us like people swimming, green backs arching and then disappearing into the metal frame of the window, sealing forever our distance. 

“Why do you do it?”  She looked at me, her eyes fierce as to say, “Nothing else matters so long as you answer this question correctly we can go on living together.”  Living.  Were we living?  Together?  I shook away the thought.  I looked at her hand on my knee.  I knew the answer, I was supposed to smile, take her hand into mine and tell her I didn’t know and that I would quit right then just for her.  I should have.  What could one more lie have done?  Our whole relationship was built on a foundation of lies.

“Because it bugs you.”  She looked at me shocked.  That wasn’t supposed to happen.  I saw her eyes strain against mine, “What?”  She couldn’t get it, couldn’t see why I won’t just say I didn’t know, why I won’t lie anymore. 

“Hills, they turn their backs.  They’re riding away.  Our turn is over”  I say. 

“Hills?  What the hell do hills have to do with this?”

“We’re losing…”  I drop off because it wasn’t worth trying to explain something she could no longer understand.  There was a time when we belonged to each other, when we were joined, breath to breath, running up, our bodies flush.  Fresh fragrance of flesh on flesh.  Flush.  There was a time when we weren’t losing…

“What I’m missing” I turn my face from the window and back into her eyes, metal lids closing me off.

“Life.”  She couldn’t understand that.  She couldn’t understand the hills or my shaking leg.  She forgot what our lives were like before. We had gotten so caught up in routine, in the house, in renovations that we hardly even spoke to one another these days. The saddest part was that Dora knew it too. She always knew we were mismatched and to this day I don’t understand why she chose me. She could have had any man she wanted, she could have run off with a publisher and been a best selling novelist by now. But she was with me, in our small little home outside the city. She was a house wife and she was really, really good at it. Everything at home was immaculate, dinner always made, bed with fresh sheets. I had no reason to complain at yet, I did. I felt like I was living with a stranger or worse, we were living in different houses within ourselves. We were no longer building together, we were simply trying to stay out of each other’s way.

 It’s a horrid thing to see someone die.  I’ve seen so many of us walking around pretending to care, pretending that we’re happy, pretending that we’re people.  Beyond the skin cells, the layers of muscle, the veins and arteries, far deeper than the nerves or the neurotransmitters, there resides the person.  Deep in the core, some place near the solar plexus I live, huddled in my shell afraid to be seen.  So my body walks, my feet kick out and arms, tawny and white swing like weighted cords from my shoulders.  I’ve watched so many somebodies die and become bodies, walking down the street eyes fixed on the soul that floats just in front of them.  It’s happened to me, I’ve seen myself die a thousand deaths only to gasp and gulp down Me before I get too far in front.

***

 

“His tie is crooked.”  She rushed over to fix it.

“It doesn’t matter, lets just take the picture.”  I pulled her back.  Always having to fix everything.  Dora I can’t stand you sometimes, I can’t stand you, I can’t stand you!  I yelled in my head.

“Wouldn’t you want me to fix your tie Dad?”  She asked in that sweet obedient yet crafty voice.  He smiled, what did he care?  Crooked, straight, picture or no picture so long as things kept moving.  Moving.

She went over to him and I sighed, put my camera down and waited.

“Now that’s better.”  He gave her a peck on the check and touched her shoulder with his trembling hand.  They were hard hands, knowing hands, beautiful hands.  They didn’t hide feelings behind a tired smile or age behind false teeth.  They were true.  Hands, I wanted to keep his hands.

“Ok hon,”  she instructed, “Now make sure you just get the top part” drawing the edge of her palm just below her breast.  “Hands, what about his hands?”  She looked at me puzzled.

“Hands?” she whispered.  Then aloud, “Pop don’t you think it would look nice if Sam took the picture from the chest up?”  He smiled, he loved his daughter.

“See” she said almost taunting.  I took the picture, hands too.  Because I couldn’t stand her and I loved his hands. 

 ***

 

            I’ve fell into another episode.  I’m not sure how long it will last.  I wonder when you’ll leave me.  Nothing has gone the way I expected it too.  I was sure that they would pick up this last story.  Marlene assures me that this past publishing company couldn’t tell a good story if it smacked them in their gluttonous round faces.  But I’m sorry.  I know this means that you will take that job in Chicago.  We haven’t spoken about moving yet.  I know what that means.  I never wanted things to get like this between us.  Day in and day out all I can think about is how much farther I’m falling.  Away from you.  I think about all the things that could have happened and how I haven’t accomplished any of that. 

            Remember the time at the county fair?  We waited our turn for a ride on the speed train.  All I could think about was being able to hold you close to me as the world whipped by.  Watching the anxious faces tainted red, green, blue by neon lights as we screamed at the top of our lungs, holding on for dear life.  The smell of damp gravel and cool of wet handholds.  Then everything was perfect.  But even then I thought if only it wasn’t raining, if only I had more money to spend, if only we didn’t park so far away, if only you were my wife.

            But now I think about how far I’ve gone without you.  This morning you reached for your coffee as I went to retrieve my toast.  You drew back your hand quickly, uncomfortable, not knowing.  We have become strangers, the lovers we have lost. 

            As I sit in my den looking at all the pictures I’ve saved of us, I can’t help but regret. Dora, I miss you.      

 

***

 

            “How was your day?” asked Dora.  She was dressed in a jogging pants and a plain blue t shirt, her hair still stiff with hairspray, make-up only visible in patches on her smooth perspiring face.  Her eyes were deep, Sam sometimes feared he would fall in and be engulfed. 

            “It was another day” he replied not looking up from his spaghetti. “This is good sauce.  What brand is it?” I said not wanting to go any deeper in conversation than what’s for dinner.

            “I don’t know” she said, shaking off my question.

            “Well I called Judy Nestahm you know to inquire a little about the Chicago thing” I said not looking up from my plate.  “anyway, she offered me the position.  I’ll be making triple what I was making at the Community College and facilities are infinitely better” 

            Dora took a sip of wine, swirled the glass and replied, “I got ten pages today.  I don’t know how I’ll like them tomorrow, but it looks promising”

I said nothing. Dora clenched her jaw and her right hand found its familiar place at her temple, “Sam, are you even listening to me?”.

            “Of course, I’m answering you aren’t I?”

            “I talked with Cynthia about getting some copy together”

I stirred the spaghetti on my plate. Dora was an extremely talented writer and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was holding her back. I said nothing. She paused, then her face turned sour.

            “You know I’m getting really sick and tired of your depressive episodes.  We took you to a doctor, got you medication, you go to work, come home and don’t even talk to me. I stay home all day writing stories that no one sees and the one person I thought I could count on to share my dreams with cannot even spit out one word!” she started to cry, “You don’t talk to me anymore, don’t touch me anymore.  The only thing you’re committed to is being depressed” she threw her fork down and screamed “I demand you get out of this stupid self-absorbed malaise!”

            Sam looked up for the first time.  His face placid and devoid of all expression he replied, “I’m dying.  Life doesn’t exist”

            Dora threw out her chair and got up quickly taking her dish to the sink.  “Here’s some news for you Sam.  We are all dying and life will never exist if you only think about it’s end.  You spend all your time outside of your own life.  Playing in the past and frolicking in the future.  I feel for you Greg” her voice grew soft as tears rolled slowly down her face cutting through the paste-like foundation.  “You want everything you can’t have and what you do have you throw away.  One of these days you’ll be left with nothing but your dream of death.  You can’t be afraid of losing because if that’s all you see then you’re missing all that you’re gaining.  Where did he go?”  She walked over to Sam and lifted his face to her.  His skin felt cold and his petite and gaunt body looked as if it would turn to dust in her very hands.  His eyes looked through her and every once and while a flicker of recognition would pass over his face and he would smile.

            “I’m sorry Dora.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry” he began to cry pressing his head into her stomach.

 

***

 

           When is sex love?  Does love exist?  Or is it something we devised to overpower the greatest power?  Death.  I thought that maybe I could love, maybe I could exist in perfect, blissful, tranquility, in blaring silence, in one single never-ending moment with her.  I thought love with awaken me, thought sex would reaffirm my fading believability in my own reality.  I had made love to her twice, no I had sex with her twice.  I smelt her sweat on my palms and in my hair.  I could feel her pulse tapping against my hips.  I felt her soft, sensuous body gliding against my taught thighs.  I crept inside her, an intruder.  I always felt so outside even when I was in her.  She would scream in delight or frustration I was never sure.  It wasn’t until we had sex that I realized I was going to die.  I was trying to exist with her but I could never keep the same time.  The reverberations of our hearts always a little out of time, just missing that wholeness, perfectness, the moment when everything was going right.  Try as I may to create life, I was expelling degenerating sperm to meet an ovum whose clock had been ticking the moment my lover was born.  I looked back and realized perhaps that there isn’t life.  That we live in a continual and forever impending death.  What we see now as life is that small moment before the rest of history catches up with us.  Life is the breeze before the sonic boom.  I was dying as I started to unzip my jeans, I was dying before I came, I was dying as I emptied myself into a latex condom, I was dying as I lie beside her.  I finally understood.  There was no sense in ruminating on the past or trying to prepare for the future.  I was losing. 

Did she feel any of this? Did she know that as I was coming I was actually going. I was spinning out far into nothingness, unanchored, like a space man that lost the tether to his ship. I was with you but without you.

We tried. We thought if we could smush our bodies together our hearts would align. I feel forfeiture in slack of your jaw when I kiss you, feel you walking down the hall to another room when I look into your eyes. Where did you go Dora? And why won’t you take me with you?

DORA 

***

Each day feels the same because it is. Dora looks around their small apartment and sees lies everywhere. Lies in the teal sofa they bought on Memorial Day sale, lies in the area rug Sam insisted on buying but she secretly hates, and lies in the eyes staring back at her from her living room. Sam was lying through his eyes and all Dora could do was blur her vision with tears. How did they get here? Had she not held his head when he cried out for help? Had she not cradled his dreams like they were hers? Had she not been a good wife? But she hadn’t. She couldn’t bear his light to the world with her loins. She couldn’t make this house a home. Now he was leaving her and he couldn’t even spare her the lie. Her mind goes back to the day they met, chemistry gone right, then oh so wrong. His light brown hair long near his ears and wavy at the ends framed a face full of so much promise. So many promises. Everything seemed to explode in that moment, the beaker burst and the whole house was on fire.

 

***

            My neighbor is a reclusive author that I imagine I’ll become in my solitary old age but a lot less famous. She lives alone from what I’ve gathered from the few times I’ve seen her leave her apartment. She is of no particular interest to me other than she’s a writer and I fancy myself a writer too. She writes cryptic pieces on the human condition. It’s really not my cup of tea. But who cares about my opinion, I’m a soon to be divorced housewife that hasn’t held down a job since college. Which brings me to job applications. Why is everything online? They look at you crazy if you walk into a place asking about an opening. Before that used to be called initiative, now it’s not doing your homework. I feel inept and I haven’t even really started. I hate Sam. I shove everything off my bookcase in anger only to immediately regret it. I could just…and I let out a howling scream. The sound roared out from deep within me, the breaking of a life lived, the swelling then exploding of every dream we ever shared together, the sorrow of a home destroyed, bellowed out of me. The next sound I heard was a knock at my door.

            I looked through the peephole to see Gail standing on the other side.

“Dora! Dora are you alright?” she sounded frantic, then silence, then footsteps retreating. I opened the door just as she was opening hers to go back inside.

“Sorry Gail. Just letting off a little steam” I said breathlessly. I had exhaled the last traces of oxygen in my scream, it was difficult to recover.

“That’s one hell of a tea kettle you got” said Gail with a nervous chuckle. Clever, I thought.

“It was a lot of steam” I joked back.

“As long as you’re ok” she said earnestly.

“I am, thank you” I said, “And nice piece on the destruction of man”

“Oh, well thank you. I wrote it in about an hour when I was at the beach. Men in speedos, inspiration, am I right?” Gail joked.

I was jealous of her ability to write anything in an hour let alone something publishable. Her arrogance grated on me and I looked for a way to excuse myself.

“Well, I better get going” I said.

“You know, we’ve lived across from each other for three years now and we’ve barely even spoke. I’m truly sorry about that”. The way she said ‘that’ indicated a false pity and I wondered if anything out of this woman’s mouth was true. “Would you like to come over for some tea? Sam told me you also write. I’d love to hear what about” she said her voice getting silky like the snake in the cartoon The Jungle Book.

Why was she luring me to her apartment? What did she want? A woman like that always wants and wants and wants. I know, I’d seen it before. I’d seen it too many times before. The insatiable want and want, like all their blood on your hands, like all their names wasted on your lips, like all the dreams you had for futures they could never have. Yes I’ve seen a wanting woman, a mad woman, in every single one I lost. Maybe it was for them, for the ones I couldn’t have that I wanted to fill her want. I wanted to be wanted.

“Sure, a cup of tea sounds nice”  

           

***

Inside Gail’s apartment:

 

The apartment felt cramped and tiny compared to Dora’s even though the two had the same footprint. Gail’s walls were lined with books and magazines of all sizes, colors and categories. There seemed to be no interest unaccounted for in the tons of text Gail had surrounding her. A large metal desk, probably circa world war II squatted on the floor in front of her only open window. The other source of natural light, a small kitchen window, was drawn shut with blackout curtains. The place felt dark but cozy, maybe how the womb feels. On the desk sat a slim black laptop and three cups, each with a teabag tag draped from it’s lip. Piles of paper surrounded the laptop with no discernible order. She motioned for me to sit at the small dining room table. She cleared a stack of magazines and a few paperback books and unceremoniously plopped it on a pile of papers near the front doorway.

“Sorry about the mess” she said unconvincingly. To Dora it was more than a mess, it was chaos. How could anyone even think with all this clutter?

“Oh don’t be silly” she replied politely.

Gail put a cup of hot water in front of Dora and proceeded to ramble off at least 15 different tea choices.

“The first one you said” replied Dora, not remembering any of the titles and more fascinated that someone with such a cramped apartment had so much tea.

“Good choice. That’s my favorite. Can’t go wrong with an Earl Grey I always say” she plopped the tea bag into Dora’s cup.

“So tell me Dora, what do you write about?”

The question felt so forward and it was. No foreplay, just directly to the point. What do you want Gail and why do you want to know?

“Mostly fiction”

“Well that’s specific” Gail laughed.

“I like to tell stories about people and their daily lives. It’s nothing special really, I’m surprised Sam told you” Dora blushed.

“Yes, he said you’re writing was quite good but you’ve never published”

“No, I haven’t”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t really know if there’s an audience for it besides myself. You know? Besides there are so many good writers out there, writers like yourself that my work just doesn’t compare”

“You’re right, it doesn’t compare” she said bringing the tea to her lips and then putting it down again, leaned in and said, “but it’s not supposed to compare.” She smiled to herself mostly, like she was taken by something she said. Like she was realizing something true for the first time.

“I write about the things I live. Those things cannot be compared to anyone else’s living. That’s the beauty. That’s your voice. Write about you. Write about what moves you, what haunts you, what makes you ache. Write about living so you know you’re dying and then write about that. Scour your house and look for the cracks, dig inside them and see where they go. Go deep, dig behind your walls and under your floor, lift the roof and see what’s inside. Blow it all up with your writing then hope you can build something better next time. And so we die and are reborn if we dare”

I was confused. What house? My house? Who wants to hear about my house? House with a hundred puppies’ eyes.

***

We sat drinking tea like we were in some party. The outside world felt so alien when looking from the inside of Gail's apartment. Gail's company was surprisingly pleasant. I feel a little guilty for having judged her these past three years. She is a woman of great interest and influence. We spoke mostly about writing and she shared with me a project she was working on called House Metaphor. 

"Each person is a house and collectively we are an even bigger structure. We rely on others and our selves to stay upright" Gail explained.

It makes sense and I can't help but cry when I think of Sam and the house we built together. Why do things end? Especially the things and people you don't want to end. 

Tea on Tuesday is what she called it. Every Tuesday at 10am I would go over to Gail's apartment for tea. I got so used to things, I mostly had her tea selection memorized. The mint medley was my favorite. I would do most of the talking and Gail would listen fascinated. I don't know what made my mundane life so interesting to her, but it felt good to tell things to a real person and not my therapist. Nothing wrong with my therapist. Dr. Vardern seemed very smart and caring. But she was young and couldn't know the verity of life like the older woman sitting in front of me. 

"How's the writing coming?" asked Gail.

"Oh you know, nothing good. I'm just rambling. That's all I seem to do is ramble on and on about nothing" I said depressed.

"The nothing is usually the best parts" said Gail smiling.

I sipped my mint medley. "What about you? Tell me about how you're doing. We always talk about me" I said with a smile. 

"Well" she said, dragging out the word. "Lets see, the book is coming along slowly. But I'm excited about a new character I'm developing so I've been dragging myself kicking and screaming to the computer to develop her" she said smiling and lost in her own world.

"What's the character like?"

"She's..." she paused, "sweet." she smiled knowing at me. I waited for her to say more but she didn't instead she quickly changed subjects.

"Do you watch ballet Dora?"

"No not really. Not because I don't like it, I just never make time to go out and see a show but I wouldn't mind watching a performance"

"My daughter is a dancer" she said, ignoring my response as if her question was rhetorical. "We met briefly for coffee in the city" Gail seems bothered and I can't help but pry.

"I didn't know you had a daughter. What's her name?"

"Audrey" she said smiling a smile only a mother gives her baby. I should know, I've practiced that very smile too many times before. "Yes, my baby girl. She was all set to get married, but you know how things go, sometimes it just breaks down"

"I'm sorry. I hope she's alright"

"Audrey? Of course, she's like a cat always landing on her feet" she shook her head, "So tell me, you and Sam ever talk about having kids?" Her question seemed flung out of left field and it hit me hard. I gulped a sip of my tea hoping to loosen the words lodged in my throat.
"We did. But that's over now. I don't really want to talk about it" I said defensively.

Her eyes gleamed with excitement like a wild cat stalking prey. "I understand" she said.

"How old is your daughter" I volleyed the conversation back to her.

"31 this year. I can hardly believe that many years has gone by. I still think of her as my little girl dressed in the black leotard practicing for The Jungle Book" Gail's eyes looked far away. I breathed lightly in the pause not wanting to disturb her. "But she's all grown up now, complete with contempt for her mother" she said her lips growing tight. "Anyway, that's dull conversation. Tell me what are you going to write about today?"

I was probably going to write about Sam and how heart broken I was, the usual. Instead I said, "Oh I don't know. Whatever strikes me in the moment I guess" I didn't want to tell her that all my writings these past few weeks have been about Sam.

"You have to dig and don't be afraid" her icy blue eyes bored into me. "Find the things that move you, to joy, to pain and write that" she paused as if wondering if she should continue, "Write about your children"

I stared shocked. How did she know? How dare she mention! Rage swelled inside of me, or maybe it was sorrow. I pushed myself from the table.

"It's getting late. I should get going"

Gail smiled like she won a prize. "Of course" then adding as a gesture of good intentions, "I'm sorry if I upset you"

"You didn't" I said steely. And with that I exited her apartment.

***

I knew I wanted children since I was a teenager. I was anxious to become a mom, to undo all the things I thought my parents did wrong. I was eager to have someone love me unconditionally, to make something beautiful in this world. The first time I got pregnant, Sam and I were still dating. We were excited and nervous, just a couple of kids ourselves. We were both 21 with the world at our feet. Doing the math the baby should have been born right around Sam’s birthday in November. However, summer came and left and took my beautiful baby with it. It’s a shock to the system, losing your child, even if you’ve never seen it’s face. To feel a life, die inside you changes you, makes you susceptible to sorrow.  

We got married in January, not exactly the best month weather wise but both of us were desperate to try again and do things the “right” way as if us not being married cause the miscarriage. But you’ll believe anything if it gives you some hope.

It was a simple ceremony with our two families and several friends. I wore white and Sam had a nice tux. I ducked in all our photos. Sam would never admit it but he hated when I towered over him in photos. It was easy enough to duck. I’m used to it, been doing it my whole life.

The reception was too much fun. Both Sam and I went straight to bed on our wedding night, no romance, just sound snoring. I got pregnant again three months after our wedding. We were elated. Again, something went wrong and three months later my body aborted the pregnancy. We had gotten ahead of ourselves, started picking out names and putting together a nursery. I didn’t recover as quickly from this one, perhaps because part of me thought that maybe this was reality: I couldn’t have children.

My final pregnancy, I almost lost my life. This baby was in the wrong place. Nestled in my fallopian tube, the fetus began to grow. There was no way to save it; if left to grow my fallopian tube would burst and I would bleed out from the inside. The surgery severed my right fallopian tube and my dreams of becoming a mother. After this pregnancy, I talked with Sam about trying again. But he was too worried about my safety.

“I can’t lose you and another baby” he said, tearing up. “We could always adopt.”

I cried. Not because I think adoption isn’t a good solution, but because my body had failed me.

Gail told me to write what I know, and I know this. Losing babies would make any woman unsteady on her feet. A house but not a home. I tried to get back to the way things were but I can’t say I’m over the loss. Sam wouldn’t admit that he hurt too. In fact, we hurt each other over and over again. Every time we tried and failed, I felt him grow farther away from me. I used to think it was all my fault, but I know it’s not. I guess if I blamed it all on me then I would only need to fix me to fix us.

Sam fell into deep depression, he retreated within himself, and he wouldn’t let me near him. All I wanted to do was curl up with him and have him stroke my hair telling me it was all going to be alright. I’d like to think we grew a part naturally and that’s why he left. But I know it’s because of the babies. 

Meghann

 Meghann was beautiful in her own light. She had waist length brown hair bordering on blonde that she almost always had wrapped up into a tight bun. She slicked back any loose hair with mousse. Her nose, her favorite feature, was small and ski sloped. Her hazel eyes were shy under striking brown eyebrows. She had good posture, a habit she picked up from years in gymnastics. She had a distinctly feminine glow about her, a natural beauty and elegance that exuded from her being. Make no mistake, Meghann was raised tough. The youngest of four, Meghann wrestled with her older brothers growing up and they didn't take it easy on her. 

Meghann grew up in a traditional household. Both of her parents were teachers and highly valued their children's education. Both of Meghann's brother's enlisted in the Army at 18. Meghann went directly into college to study clinical psychology. 

 

***

 

“It’s really nice of you but you don’t need to walk me to my car”.

“You never know people these days.”  Greg shoved his hands back into his pockets.  “Hey I know it’s sort of late, but I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite to eat?” he looked up at Meghann, who, catching his eyes, diverted her own to the ground.  “Or maybe we could stop for some coffee or something”.

“Thank you, but I’m not very interested in coffee” she said kicking aside a pebble.  Taking the scurrying pebble scurry as a sign Greg brought his gaze back to the ground.

“But I’m interested in other things” Meghann said under her breath.

“What was that?”

Not knowing what to say, she blurted, “I like coco” her face becoming red with chagrin.  “I like all sorts of hot chocolates, the ones with the big marshmallows and certainly the ones with the small marshmallows.  I don’t care about size” she flinched with the accidental connotation of such a statement.  “That is, a marshmallow is a marshmallow and I like chocolate.  I also like coco with different flavorings in it” her pace greatly increased by this point, so that Greg had to jog to keep up.  “So hot chocolate is what I’m interested in.  I guess because it is both hot and…chocolately”.  She could believe she said “chocolately”.  It wasn’t even a word!  She felt like rewinding, leaving behind Meghann and becoming someone cool and collected, Angelina Jolie maybe. 

The two stood in front of her car, Meghann flushed as Greg stood with a big grin on his face. 

“Well maybe, if you would like, I could take you out for some hot chocolate”

Meghann fiddled in her bag for the key, “Sure”.  Having found it she looked up into Greg’s sapphire blue eyes, “goodnight Greg”.

“Goodnight to you Meghann Vardern” he smiled and waved an ungloved hand to her.

 

***

 

Stepping into her apartment Meghann felt relieved, the excitement of her walk home had nearly sent her into cardiac arrest.  The apartment was immaculate.  The sofas covered with plastic protectors, the wooden floors without scuffs, the remote controls to the television and DVD player, the VCR and the surround sound stereo system all on a corner table lined up tallest to shortest.  The CDs arranged in alphabetical order and the kitchen spotless.

The lock on the back of the gold-colored door handle clicked out.  Two shiny black heels stepped onto the white carpet.  Out slipped nylon covered toes—pebbles wrapped in silk—and the young woman walked toward the kitchen.  She flicked on the coffee machine and it groaned with effort, dripping a black liquid.  Meghann turned on the stereo and Dave Matthews pervaded the room, the coffee maker creating a discordant back beat, followed shortly by a rush of water.  The bathroom was the mark of elegance with a deep white tub and gold trim.  It was everything that Meghann had wanted in life and love—beauty, elegance, purity and a holder? to match her own.  How could a woman be content with only a tub?  It was like asking why wombats don’t knit sweaters, it is unanswerable question. 

Meghann perfumed in bath salts and dressed in a loose white satin night gown sat on the plastic covered couch.  Dave Matthews fell to Sade and so Meghann sat, alone, with an oversized coffee mug clutched with both hands.

 

 

***

 

            Several employees gather by the water jug ended on either side with a cheap plastic plants whose leaves were so covered with dust that it was difficult to notice that it was truly made of plastic.

            “So, do you think you’ll make it to the Christmas party this year?” asked Jasmine an older, yet well dressed woman who specializes in child psychotherapy.

            “Are you kidding?  Oh course I’ll be there.  Jassy have I ever missing an office party?”

            The woman smiled.  Then turning to the slender young woman who had quietly crept over to the jug to retrieve some water, “Meghann, do you plan on coming to the Christmas party?”

            “We’ll see” said the young woman disinterested. 

            “Why don’t you bring someone this time?  I’ve noticed how lonely you looked the last time” whispered Jasmine as she took hold of Meghann’s elbow.

            Meghann smiled politely and turned to walk back to her office. 

            “Won’t you join us for lunch?”  shouted Lizzy the receptionist.

            “I wish I could, but I have much too much to get done.  Thank you though”.

            Shannon, a sharp tongued and unhappy mother of four, quipped, “She’s always so busy.  I don’t understand why you always ask.  Just because she’s got a PhD doesn’t mean that you have to kiss her feet”.

            Albeit hurt and upset Meghann proceeded into her office and closed the door.  She sat down in her large chair that seemed to consume her body like a pair of plush black lips encircling a grain of rice. 

***

“Wow!  That’s beautiful!  So you’re in love with a dancer.”

“Well ‘love’ is a very strong word”

“Oh you can’t lie to me Meghann”  Malia smiled and scooted her chair closer and leaned in, preparing herself for the name.

“It was one cup of coffee”

“Yeah it was” said Malia playfully.

“No I mean it.  Nothing else happened.” Her smile dropped, “I probably won’t see that person again”

“You do realize that you’ve been talking about this one cup of coffee for about an hour now?  You can’t tell me that this guy didn’t make you skirm”  Malia nudged her, “What’s his name?”

***

Despite her best efforts, Meghann could not get the dinner with Audrey off of her mind. Greg was a gracious date as was customary for his personality. Meghann tried her best to focus on anything other than how absolutely beautiful Audrey was. The women’s frames matched each other both slim and muscled, each disciplined and rigid in her own way. And of course, Meghann allowed her mind to wander, each so very soft and tender in her own way.

 

At night Meghann’s mind rests with Audrey while her body rests with Greg. They had broken up three months ago but hadn’t stopped sleeping together. It was complicated and Meghann squeezes her eyes shut trying to shake the truth. Her next conscious thought is, unsurprisingly about Audrey. “I just want to laugh with her, she’s fun. We could be friends” she thinks. “This couldn’t be anything more than a childish crush” she assured herself, one she would get over after spending more time with Audrey. Meghann turned over and tried to sleep. Coffee? A run? What was she going to suggest and why? Wouldn’t it look weird? “One car jump and a cup of coffee later and now you’re hounding this poor woman” she thought.

 

Saddened but resolute, Meghann shuts her eyes and waits for the morning to come. She’ll go down to the coffee shop and maybe she’ll bump into Audrey, if not, no big deal, she’ll still enjoy her coffee. Greg will be happy to sleep in and she’ll bring one for him too. Nothing weird about that, she closes her eyes once more. “What am I going to wear?” she thinks and her eyes snap open. “What would Audrey like?” she thinks then physically shakes her head, “What would Audrey like? Why do you care? Stop being weird Meghann”!

 

The next morning Meghann has settled on a loose pair of jeans, sneakers and fitted white cotton t-shirt. Casual. This was casual. She didn’t even know if she’d see Audrey, this would be up to the fates. She was cool. Casual. As her heart raced she kept repeating to herself, cool. Casual. Cool. Casual. The line was long as usual and Meghann made a quick scan of the shop to see if she could see Audrey. She wasn’t there. “Oh well, I’m happy to get some good coffee anyway” she thought.

“A large café latte with half and half and a large Americano triple shot please” Meghann ordered. “Oh and that blueberry scone”. Greg would love that she thought. As Meghann approached the door she heard a familiar voice.

“Meghann!” when she turned around she found Audrey stunning as ever. She wore running shorts and a fitted black tank top that hugged her every curve. Her smile was bright and friendly. She had perfect teeth Meghann thought, she would make beautiful babies. Meghann nearly dropped her coffees at her internal monologue. She was still speechless standing in front of Audrey. Audrey kindly took up the conversation.

“Do you need help with that?” she said reaching for the scone nearly falling out of Meghann’s hands.

“Oh thank you”

“How have you been?” asked Audrey.

“Good. Good. And you?”

“Eh, you know. Life. Would love to tell you about it sometime”

“Why don’t you tell me about it now” Meghann blurted out without thinking.

Audrey laughed a little, “Well, you got two cups so I’m assuming someone is waiting on you.”

“No one is waiting for me” she blurted out again. Dammit Meghann keep it together. What is wrong with you?

Audrey looked skeptical then pleased. “Sure, if you got a moment it would be nice to catch up”.

The two women sat at a table in the coffee shop. “Why two cups if there’s no one waiting for you?” asked Audrey

Meghann blushed, “Couldn’t decide what I wanted” and I still can’t she mumbled to herself.

“What did you order?”

“Café latte with half and half and an Americano. Are you interested?”

“Oh I’m definitely interested” Audrey said her tone sultry and suggestive.

Meghann felt her words go right to her center. She blushed again and shook her head.

“Which would you prefer?” she asked politely.

“Which do you?” Audrey said cryptically.

“Ok you’re making me feel like I’m in Alice in Wonderland or something with all the riddles”

“What riddles?” Audrey said slyly. Meghann smiled and gave her the ‘come on you know what you’re doing look’. Audrey stared deep into Meghann’s crystal blue eyes. Meghann looked away.

“Fine, I want the Americano” said Meghann.

“Good, I wanted the cream” said Audrey from just over the lip of her cup.

“What’s been up?” Meghann asked casually.

“Well I’ve been working my ass off on a new modern project. There’s so many young and talented dancers that it’s impossible for my ego to flourish” she said with a large grin. “Its fun and it’s still dance. I’m too…” she hesitates, “I’m just too…for ballet right now. I’m not the image they’re looking for. They want perfect and I’m less than”

“You’re gorgeous” Meghann blurts out in too much of a volume. Audrey laughs and blushes, then her eyebrows furrow, “How’s what’s his name, Greg?”

“He’s good, he’s good. We’re separated, but he’s good. And I’m good, so it’s all good” Meghann chuckled in embarrassment at her sudden lack of a vocabulary.

“That’s good” says Audrey with a laugh

“And how’s Josh?”

“Josh?” Audrey searches her mental rolodex. She can’t remember a Josh but it doesn’t matter because she’s alone now, “Oh right Josh, yeah we split. All good” she laughed. “Yeah I’m just enjoying doing me for a while” hearing how that sounded Audrey blushed, “You know what I mean”

“I do. I’m flying solo too and the view is nice” said Meghann, choosing to ignore the man whose coffee was now on the lips of this tantalizing stranger.

“So no dating for you. Enjoying the solo ride eh?” Audrey smiled and Meghann melted. Trying not to show her cards she replied, “Definitely. I need some time to myself. I’ve been sketching a little. It’s been fun”

“What do you sketch?” Audrey asked.

“Anything really, a lot of my cat Milo. He’s my main and only man at the moment. But I’m totally happy with that”

“I’m glad for you. You know I was just thinking about trying out the new ice rink. I think the fanfare has died down a little so it shouldn’t be so crowded. I was thinking of going this weekend if you’d be interested?” she looked pleading, like she was showing Meghann something precious, showing that she actually cared.

“I can’t skate. I never learned how. It seems fun though.”

“I can teach you” Audrey said. Meghann imagined Audrey’s athletic frame wrapped around hers leading her backwards on the ice. She imagined feeling Audrey’s finger tips embrace her ribs and even maybe by happy accident graze her breast. These thoughts were so embarrassing that Meghann kept her coffee cup close to her face to hide the blushing.

“That would be nice. Yes, I’ll join you”

“Good. It’s a proper date then.”

 

***

 

The parking lot at the ice rink was about half full. I found an empty spot next to Audrey’s Jeep. I somehow memorized her car, along with every outfit I’d seen her in. I walked in gripping a new set of skates I bought just for this occasion. Greg didn’t understand why I, who actually feared skating, would suddenly buy skates and go to the rink. I didn’t explain because I didn’t have to anymore. It was precisely when he was questioning the purchase of my new skates that I told him it was completely over. No more sleep overs. Strictly friends and strictly colleagues.

 

Although I didn’t want to admit it, I had moved on from Greg a while ago. I was only sleeping with him to be nice if there is such a thing. There was never any magic, no spark, no butterflies. But walking into this skating rink I felt tingly with excitement and anxiety. It was cold but my hands were sweaty, and my legs were wobbly. I kept thinking of the moment I would see her smile at me, a smile I was sure was special for me. A smile that said she wanted to know me, know the intricacies of my days, a smile that made me feel both at ease and completely fired up. My emotions teeter tottered between excitement and fear. What if what I felt was different than what she felt. What if I was on a completely different page? What page was I on anyway? I didn’t even know. All I knew is I didn’t want to see anyone more in my entire life than I wanted to see Audrey. Maybe I had a little crush but soon we would be skating as friends and all this awkwardness would be over.

 

I spotted Audrey immediately. Standing on the ice she leaned against the wall of the rink talking to a group of women in hockey uniforms. Her slender frame was strong and elegant, there was no doubt she was born to dance. Her short hair tussled when she laughed and she laughed often it was one of the things I found so charming about her. Her fitted jeans accentuated her lean figure and a loose long sleeve t shirt extended down past her waist. She was perfect. Just as I was thinking that she turned around and her face lit up. Something about seeing someone be as excited about you as you are about them makes you feel, well, loved or at the very least beloved. I better not get ahead of myself as my headlong dives into love have usually proven disastrous. I waved and she skated over to my side of the rink.

“Hi” she said breathlessly as if she was at a loss for words.

“Hi” I said smiling and looking down at my feet. I could feel Audrey’s eyes all over me, devouring me and suddenly I wondered if I put enough thought into my outfit. But when I looked up and saw the raw desire in Audrey’s eyes I knew, my outfit was working perfectly fine.

“Can I help you with your skates” she asked not looking away from my eyes.

“I think I can manage. Thank you.”

 

She led me by the hand onto the ice. That was the first time we touched. I was so hot I’m surprised I didn’t melt the ice beneath me. My body felt like it never felt before, pins and needles and sheer elation with the touch. It was as if I had been craving something forever, something to make me feel whole and suddenly this beautiful woman with a tiger tattoo makes me feel absolutely delightful. She takes my other hand in hers and skates backwards pulling me forward to her. Our fingers interlace and I start to imagine we are dancing, just the two us in some flirtatious waltz. Her body glides effortlessly on the ice and attached to her I am floating. Her body is strong and skilled as she holds me through the spins. She pulls me close and I can feel the heat of her skin next to mine. I’m in a trance, so utterly wrapped up in this moment I don’t feel my feet. They are moving without me, moving to the undulations of this woman I barely know, but a woman that I don’t seem to want to separate from. 

 

“You did well out there. Really getting the hang of it. I hope you had fun”

“I really did. You know I was always afraid to skate because I didn’t want to fall” I said. But I don’t mind falling with you I thought.

“But you handled the fall like a champ” she said play hitting me in the arm.

“Thanks” I said hitting her back in her shoulder. She grabbed my fist gently and opened up my fingers with hers. She sat there holding my hand for a few seconds and then as I hoped, as I dreamed and as I wouldn’t admit I wanted to myself, she leaned in and kissed me. It was a gentle, tender and polite kiss, a kiss prince charming would give sleeping beauty to wake her from her slumber. And awaken I was!

“This was fun” she said, shaking off the kiss. I was shocked.

“I…” I mumbled. She leaned in again and kissed me longer. Then she snapped back.

“I like you. And I think you like me too. And maybe we should do this again?” she asked same pleading look as before.

“I…” still couldn’t get anything out.

“I’d like to apologize, I’m way too rash”

“No, no you’re not. I’m just slow with words. I…” I exhale. “I’m confused.”

Audrey looked to the floor, then she laughed, “I’m always confused, so you’re in good company”

“But” I said leaning in to touch her face and sweep a piece of bangs from her eyes, before I knew it I was kissing her again. Long and hard and hungry. I pulled away as soon as my conscious mind could catch up. “But I want to do this again” I said hurriedly

“Skate?” she said earnestly.

“If that’s what we’re going to call it” I said through a shy smile.

 

I spoke with Audrey every night on the telephone. It was a ritual that I loved. She’d call around 9 and we’d chat anywhere from 15 minutes to hours depending upon how each of our days were going. I grew very fond of her and anxiously awaited her phone calls. Its true we spent more time on the phone than I did talking with anyone else. I really enjoyed speaking with her and sharing all my days worries with someone.

 

***

I had a dream where I followed a butterfly with my eyes.  So bright and free, so enchanting, entrancing.  I thought to capture her when she landed and enjoy her colors—close.  But she kept dashing away, had captured me—close.  I thought to give it up but every time I relaxed my muscles she came teasingly near.  I reached out, and again and again she flew away.

I became angry then desperately I ran after her.  I swatted hoping to get a piece if not the entire thing.  I slammed around like a kid with a hammer at the whack-a-mole machine.  I would tear her wing if I had to.  As I ran and ran, the butterfly laced through the air, following the currents like paint brushed across a canvas.  She danced in front of me doing repetitive curtsies on the wind.  Who thought a butterfly could be so cruel?  I lunged out at her, my hand encircling her body.  I squeezed tight.  Color dripped down my arm, her head twitched a moment between my forefinger and middle finger.  Wet, sticky paint dripped down my arm.  I opened my hand and examined the reminisce of the creature inside.  Like wet paper her body had stained my palm—clotted bits of color. 

Suddenly you see.  You were so blind with jealousy and distrust.  Now you see.  You think that perhaps maybe you could glue the wing back on.  Perhaps you could piece the thorax and head together in harmony how it was before you had demolished it.  Perhaps you could fix it and tell her you were so, so, sorry. 

            She was so beautiful and all you wanted was to touch her, love her, keep her.  It was the mistake of a lifetime.  Your fingers laced with a fine dust, butterfly color spilt on your palms.  You grope for the fragments that break into smaller and smaller pieces receding like memories.  Memories are falling away, and the wind sweeps up the pieces from your greedy little palms Her color is evaporating and you inhale deeply trying to catch whatever it is that is drifting away.  All that’s left is memory of the memories. 

            Suddenly you realize.  You were so wrong.  Now you understand.  The butterfly would have returned if you didn’t decide to keep it. When I open my hand again, I see Audrey’s face. I wake up sweating and in a panic.  

Gail

 Michael reached over and wrapped his arm around her waist, then gently slid her across the white cotton sheets to him.

            “Michael, not tonight.  I’m tired” she groaned.

            He shifted his body closer to her and proceeded to kiss her neck.

            “I mean it.  I’m not in the mood”

Suddenly the sensation on her neck was gone, “You never want to” he said upset.  He tossed off the sheet and sat upright, back turned toward her.  “God, I must be really bad huh?”  Gail turned toward him, she examined the tautness of his muscles, the movement of his ribcage under his skin, his full wavy gray hair.  He was perfect, and he was hers.  He was considerate and passionate.  He was the best she’d ever experienced and yet she had no romantic feelings for him.  She should have felt afraid of losing but instead she blinked.

            “What are we doing here?  I mean Gail, shit Gail, if you have someone else” his voice grew soft and to himself “if you have someone else”

“There’s no one else”

“Then what is it?  You don’t want to have sex with me, you don’t like me kissing you, you don’t like cuddling, and you can barely contain your irritation with hand holding.  Tell me Gail, if there isn’t someone else, then do you have something against physical affection?”

            “No”

            “Well it must be something Gail” by this time he was standing facing her, his arms crossed like an upset little boy.  Then his erect posture broke, he slumped and his face grew bitter and scared, “Do you love me?”

            Gail looked at him, her eyes growing wide with fear.  Her lips trembled and the words fought against her teeth.  She flared her nostrils and with a very controlled fake smile replied, “Yes”.

            “Are you in love with me?”  Michael fired back.

            Gail’s eyes glistened with sadness.

            “Right” Michael ran the fingers of his hands through his silvery hair as he nervously looked along the floor.  He reached for a pair of yard jeans that had been laying on the back of a chair.

            “Michael!” screamed Gail getting out of bed and rushing toward him.

            Michael stuck out his hand and she stopped in front of the bed tears like rivers in the beds of her wrinkles.  “I was such a fool to wait this long.  I should have known” he grabbed his keys, “but I guess that’s what they mean by ‘love is blind’ or something”.  He pulled up his jeans and put on a white cotton shirt.  He grabbed his wallet from beside the bed.  As he exited, he turned toward her, “You could have told me earlier.  You could have told me before I fell in love with you”.

           

*

 

            You’d think that if you were crazy it wouldn’t matter what line of work you were in.  Being a writer wouldn’t change the charge would it?  Should it?  I went to see a doctor two years ago because I kept getting these headaches.  He gave me a physical then proceeded to conduct his doctor duties.  I was tested for brain cancer, liver cancer, stomach cancer, throat cancer, breast cancer, ovarian cancer, testicular cancer, cancer of the bones, cancer of the joints, cancer of not knowing that one shouldn’t wear white shoes after labor day.  I was scanned once, twice, three times because I was a lady.  I was pinched and examined.  I went home completely naked, my body touched in every imaginable place, bombarded by rays and cold metal.  I felt sick but my headache had disappeared.

            A week later a man in the white lab coat called and asked me to come in for an appointment. 

            “What’s wrong?  What did you find?” I asked nervously.  “I’m going to die aren’t I?” 

            “No Gail you’re not going to die, well not just yet” said the voice with mocking condolence.

            “What do you need to see me about then?”

            “We found a slight imbalance in some of your hormones” he sneezed, “nothing to worry about really”.

            I went in for my appointment three days later.  An old man jabbered on about a murder, he was the best bit of inspiration that I had that entire week.  I jotted down a few of his sentences as examples in formulating the newest character in my novel. 

“Gail Stark” the rotund nurse called.  I never really understood that.  You’d think that if someone is fat it wouldn’t matter what line of work they were in.  Being a nurse wouldn’t change the size of her fat cells would it?  Should it?  This perplexed me.  If she’s a nurse and knows (hopefully) the ways of a healthy lifestyle, how then could she knowingly allow herself to be fat?  But I had confused the person with the job.  It’s like the large corporations that dump hazardous waste in third world countries and yet provide millions in aid.  There was a contradiction.  But I was getting lost the sweaty slop of terms, denotations and connotations. 

I was taken to a quiet room.  They don’t call them quiet rooms but that’s what they are.  These are the large rooms that have no windows and wooden walls to withhold the wailings.  It’s in such an immaculately clean and impressive yet unassuming room that they tell you have two or three months to live.  “The cancer has returned”, “I’m afraid you have AIDS”, “The cancer is malignant”, “There’s nothing we can do but pray for the best”, “We have support services that will help you in breaking the news to loved ones”, “I’m afraid it isn’t as harmless as we thought”, “You’re going to die”.  The walls looked heavy like wet clay, screams boarded up in the boards.

“Ms. Stark, please have a seat” as he motioned to plush leather chair in front of his desk.  I hated doctors offices, especially quiet rooms.  As my buttocks spread over the cracked leather, I felt the sickness of past patients crawling up into me.  I got up quickly,

“Need I sit?  Is the news that bad?  I would prefer to stand”.

“As you wish”.  He smiled and continued, “Your results indicate a disruption in hormones nothing that can’t be cured with a small prescription.”  His face grew a little stern, “However, it is doubtful that these were the sole cause of your headaches.  We examined your brain scans and come to find out your brain is experiencing mini seizures”

“Mini-seizures?”  I laughed, “Is that all doc?  Well give me the meds and I’ll be on my way”.  I slammed my two hands on his desk, “Goddammit quick playing with me.  Do I look stupid to you?  Mini-seizures!  I have cancer don’t I?  Why won’t you just tell me?”

            “Because you don’t okay?” He looked worried.  “Jesus Gail everyone gets this sort of thing at least once a week.  Yours are just more frequent”.  He got out of his chair and walked around his desk toward me.  “You’ll be alright” he stroked my face and pressed his lips against mine.  I fell back into the chair.  He knocked against my teeth with his tongue.  I pushed him hard and scrambled to my feet,

            “What are you doing?”

            He stared at me a little annoyed, “Gail, honey”

            “I don’t how you think you are but I swear”, I put my handbag under my arm, “I’m going to report you”.

            “You’re not going to do that.  Honey there’s nothing to worry about.  I’m not going prescribe anything until you’ve been cleared with Johnson”.

            “Johnson?  She’s a doctor for crazies!”

            “Now Gail” he handed me my sunglasses, “Just stop in for me”. 

            “I’m not crazy, I may be dying but Jesus Michael I’m not crazy!”

            “I know honey, it’s just the standard procedure.  I can’t be treating you any different from my other patients”

            “So you stick your tongue down all your patients throats?” I bantered.

            “Only the good looking ones” he grinned, “God you’re beautiful.  I love you”.

            “I’ll see you tonight?”

            “Eight o’clock”

            “Bye”.    

 

*

 

            A framed photograph of a sailboat silhouetted by a setting sun hung on the wall just above Gail’s head.  She wrote vigorously so much so that her body shook with the force of her pen strokes.  She put the end of the pen to her lips as she read her writing softly to herself.  Her short gray hair sloppily falling over her thick rimmed reading glasses. 

            “Gail Stark” queried a slender young woman.  “She had dramatic features that made her as striking as the glorious Madonna in the paintings of Italian Renaissance artists.  Her long blonde hair was fastened tightly to her head—golden shafts of light framing her like a halo.  Her skin was thin and fine as a spider web.  She was surprisingly slender though.  The veins in her hands were clearly visible—grounded dikes obstructing the perfect flat landscape of her body.  The veins remained visible and tactile through her wrist, then finally dived beneath a layer of fat in her forearms.  She stood with near perfect posture as if she had a string extending out from the top of her head that was being pulled upward.”  Gail wrote of the women who came out four times before calling on her.

            “Please have a seat” said the young woman as she gestured to an elongated fabric sofa. 

            “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long” the woman remarked as she seated herself in the chair opposite of the couch.  Gail couldn’t believe that this woman, barely a woman by any means, she looked more like a little girl with some height, was her doctor.  She couldn’t be the doctor.  Guessing Gail’s surprise, the woman introduced herself.

            “I do believe this is the first time we have met.” She said with a forced smile, “My name is Doctor Meghann Verdern.  But you can just call me Meghann”.  She reached out her hand which Gail took cautiously.

            “Doctor Harmen tells me that you’re experiencing some headaches that can’t seem to be alleviated with prescriptions”.

            Gail stared at the doctor for a moment then, “yes”.

            “Could you tell me what sort of headaches you are having?  What do they feel like and where do you experience these feelings?” 

            The use of the word “feelings” made Gail quiver and she realized that she was really at a psychiatrist.

            “I don’t see why I must be here.  It doesn’t make any sense.  It’s not like your touchy feely talk is going to cure the tumor in my brain”. 

            Meghann leaned in toward Gail.  “Tumor?”

            “Yes tumor” said Gail frustrated.  “I can’t believe I let Michael talk me into to coming here!”

            “Did Dr. Harmen tell you that you have a tumor?”

            “No”.

            “Then how do you know you have one?”

            “I just know that’s all”.

            “How do you know that you aren’t just thinking, imagining that you have a tumor?”

            “Because I can feel it!”  Gail clutched her purse into her stomach.

            “Where do you feel it?”

            “I don’t actually feel the tumor.  No I feel sick from the tumor”.

            “Is there a history of cancer in your family?”

            “Not that I know of, but that don’t mean there couldn’t have been”.  Gail paused and looking down into her purse continued, “besides cancer knows no bounds.  I saw this young woman who was no older than 25, probably like yourself.  Michael told me she was one of the healthiest human beings he had ever seen, with an attitude to match.  But she had breast cancer.  It is really too bad, she is so pretty.  They had to remove one of her breasts.  I can’t imagine her ever being the same after that”.

            Meghann never jotting a note of this down, comforted Gail with cool blue eyes.  She sat silent carefully awaiting Gail’s next words.

            “Besides it doesn’t work, not having a tumor.  It belongs, you know?”

            “I’m not sure I know what you mean” said Meghann uncrossing and switching the position of her legs.

            “Sometimes things happen and not all of them are good things, but they need to happen.  They need to happen so that the building can progress.  Much like creating a story is to the writer, or to take your profession, excavating other’s emotional truths is to the psychologist, certain events, elements must fall in place to ensure its success" she was loquacious and in love with the sound of her own voice.  

"The lovers don’t always remain together, the villain doesn’t always die.  It’s not like that in here.”  She makes a circular motion with her two arms.  “Too many people write stories that can never be realized because they can’t face the fact that they are disposable.  Someone has to die Ms. Vardern, someone to keep the story alive, to keep it breathing; you need both birth and death.  The structurally unsound walls must be torn down to make room for stronger ones.  That’s what this story is all about”.

“Make no mistake Ms. Vardern you are not entire, you are, just as I am, fragmented, pieces in the larger work.  You could be swept away on the winds of change and realization”.  She paused and took out a small notebook, “mortality, Ms. Vardern.  Both you and I are apart of the same body.  Structures of the same house”.  She fumbled for a pen, “I’m not talking about God.  I’m not talking about the house of God.  But a structure, a living, thinking, multifaceted, introspective story that we are all telling.  Telling it right now” she finished as she wrote in her notebook.

Meghann finished scribbling on her legal pad, “Who or what is this higher power that you speak of?”

“There is no higher power”.

“What is this structure, this story you speak of, then?”

“It is both you and I.  There are other women too.  You won’t know them until you see them.  You’ll feel it, like you’ve been staring at them your whole life.  They are so beautifully familiar.  You’re drawn and draw them.  It us collectively.  And if I go, the woman who replaces me will be the final piece to complete the house”.

Multiple personality disorder thought Meghann and yet there was something about the old woman’s message that had struck her.  She was indeed interested with the erratic woman who began to jot things in her own little notebook. 

“How many women are apart of this house?”

“I think there are perhaps two or three more not counting you and I”.

            Noticing that Gail was still very intensely writing, Meghann asked, “Dr. Harmen tells me that you’re a writer”.

            “Yes I write”.

            “What sorts of things do you write about?”

            “I write mostly about my role.  What I mean in the larger context and I try to trace the progress of mine and the others’ existence.  I don’t want to die Meghann, but I know that the house simply cannot remain with me.  It’s changing, expanding, and I’ve become outdated”.

            “What do you mean by ‘outdated’?”

             “All this is making me tired.  You don’t understand because you haven’t been realized, haven’t been found out.  You won’t know until the winds of change knock against you and you see that you’re splintering.  I don’t want to talk anymore Ms. Vardern and I do believe that I have been here much longer than my scheduled fifteen minutes”. 

            Meghann quickly looked at her watch utterly surprised that she had actually let an appointment run over.  She quickly got up and escorted Gail to the door. 

            “Ms. Porter it was very nice talking to you today.  I do hope to see you next week at the same time.  Please check-out with our receptionist Leanne and she’ll make sure that you’re scheduled for next week”.

Gail gathered her things and got up. “You know, Ms. Vardern, it’s much easier to understand than you think. I’m not crazy, I’ve simply accepted that we are all connected, that some of us die young, and some, despite all their bad choices in life, live into their 90s. There’s no reason other than whatever happens changes us in ways we don’t expect but ways that were meant to be”. She smiled at her own cryptic speech.

“Have you ever lost anyone Ms. Vardern” Gail asked.

“Yes” said Meghann solemnly.

“Ah, then maybe you know a little bit about the house and how its always in need of repair. Walls are always falling down and yet we all carry on. If we all collapsed at once there would be nothing left.”

“Lets talk about this next week”

“Yes, Ms. Vardern, there is so much to teach you” said Gail with a knowing smile.

 

*

 

            “Oh Gail don’t tell me that you threw away another one!” said the round little woman, her big blue eyes obstructed by the large globs of mascara.

            “I didn’t throw away anyone”.

            “You mean to tell me that Michael just left and you had nothing to do with it?”

            “Yes” looking at her friend defensively, “do you think I like men leaving me?”

            “So what happened?”

            “Marty, I already told you, Michael and I had a falling out”

            “Yes, well that’s fine to tell your counselor but Gail I’m your best friend.  We tell each other everything”

            “And I am telling you everything”

            The woman straightened her back, then leaned against the red vinyl diner booth seat.  Then crossing her arms she pursed her coral red lips and looked casually out the window.

            “Okay, okay” said Gail.  “It’s just that I didn’t want to have sex with him”.

            A young waitress passing by gave a quick, interested look, but moved on to take the order of a young out-of-town couple.

            “It wasn’t that the sex was bad” Gail continued, “it’s just that I didn’t feel attracted to him.  I’d rather him keep his clothes on, you know?”

             Marty stared blankly at her friend, then taking in a deep breath she leaned in closer and said, “Gail, honey, are you blind?  Michael was gorgeous and I’m not the only one to think that, I seen many young gals sizing him up”.

            “Oh be serious Marty!”

            “I am being serious.  I don’t know what sort of man you’re looking for but Michael was the best match for you yet.  I mean, I hate to break it to you Gail honey, but you ain’t twenty anymore, you’re not going to get young fellas”.

            “I know I’m not twenty.  I don’t know Marty, I just needed a change I suppose”.

            “Well it’s a damn shame if you ask me.  So there’s no chance of you two getting back together?”

            “I don’t think so.”  She took another sip of her coffee and face lightened up, “I got another five or so pages this morning”.

            “Gail, honey, I think I know what you’re problem is”

            “I write much too slow?” she said with a smile.

            “No” Marty waited for the young woman to finish refilling Gail’s cup, “Have you thought that you might be you know?” she hesitated then continued uncomfortably, “you know, umm a lesbian?”

            “A lesbian!?” she repeated creating a dead silence in the busy little diner.  Lowering her voice she continued, “Just because I’ve had a few rough tumbles when it comes to getting a man, does in no way mean that I’m a lesbian!  I’ll be honest with you Marty, I have no problems with lesbians, in fact I have a rather good rapport with them.  And yes I’ve had a few intimate relationships with women, one fairly serious one in college, but I do not and never have considered myself a lesbian”.

            Marty clutched her chest half in amazement and half to feel if her heart were still beating.  Could what she just heard actually be real or was it a figment of her imagination?

            “I’ll tell you something Marty.  I haven’t told this to anyone”

            “You mean there’s more?” said Marty worried.

            “I’m not a good writer.  I’m mostly all dramatist with a smidge of writer.  Some people are writers, others dramatists and still others who are both.  I write what I know.  My life is only a means for my writing.  Michael, Bill, Arthur, that woman in college, they were all means to an end.  I needed to experience what my characters were experiencing.  In order to understand them, I needed to become them.  This meant falling in love, this meant not feeling attracted, this meant breaking up”.  She drank the remainder of her coffee and after a long pause continued. 

            “I didn’t want to fall in love, because eventually it ends.  Someone dies, you get bored.  I couldn’t wait that long to feel what my characters feel.  I wouldn’t get anything done that way.  This Marty.  This, right here.  What we are doing right now, is for my story.  My life is a story.  I craft it how I please.  I keep it interesting”. 

            Marty’s eyes grew small as her eyebrows fell in a state of pity.  “That’s too bad Gail.  Really that’s too bad.  You’re a good writer, but is it really worth wasting away your life?  Is it really worth it?  Until you decide to live for living’s sake, and before I become another traumatic end in one of your stories, I think I’ll leave you to finish your coffee”.  And with that the rotund woman got up and left.

 

*

 

The publisher was a short, speedy man.  When he spoke his words seemed only a blur on the listener’s auditory record.  He had soft hands, androgynous hands.  He spent most of his time swept up in one project or another.  In fact, in her whole twelve years of knowing him, Gail couldn’t remember a time when he just stood still and spoke to her.  His eyes were always wide and darting about anxiously.  It wasn’t until you realized that they were framed with two deep, dark circles of skin, that perhaps his energy was the last ditch effort for success by a tired man.  It wasn’t that the company was going under, it just wasn’t going up and in this day and age a publishing company that kept breaking even would soon be gulped down by a larger more successful business.  Gail took a deep breath and prepared herself for the worst.  She tapped lightly on his door and he was soon holding the door open asking her to enter. 

            She sat silently in the arm chair opposite his desk. 

            “Coffee?” he asked. 

            “Sure”.  He poured her a full cup.

            “The story was” Gail could already sense the rejection that saturated his vocal cords, “good but I don’t think it’s exactly what we should be putting out at this point in time”.  He walked back over to the coffee maker to fix himself a cup. 

            “What was wrong with it?”

            “Nothing was ‘wrong’ with it”

            “Okay, well what made it wrong for the company”

            He walked back over to his desk and paced in front of his window.  He searched for the correct words as his eyes moved incessantly over the bricks of the adjacent building.  So much for a view, he thought for a moment then brought his mind back to the matter at hand.  “We are looking for something a little less convoluted.  People these days are not looking for pieces that are too cerebral.  They want a book they can lay with at night and enjoy.  They don’t want to be troubled by a book that attempts to search one’s soul.  They are reading to get away.  Your average Joe wants mystery or adventure”.

            “In short you think my story is too confused.  Well I can tighten it up a bit.  Change around the order”

            “It’s not you, it’s them”.  Where had Gail heard that before?  Her last three manuscripts had all fallen to the same unlucky fate.  “People” he continued, “they just don’t want to work at a book anymore.  They want something nice and easy”

            “If they want something nice and easy they can read children’s books or the newest Stephen King novel”.

            “That’s the thing.  People are eating up King’s novel and yours are simply not selling”.

            “So what does this mean then?”

            He looked sadly at her, “You’re going to have to find another company.  I simply cannot afford to try and push another of your books”.

***

My neighbor is a mousy woman whose husband has left her. A housewife since she got out of college, she has no real skills save for some writing she does on the side. I don't know if she's any good as she's unpublished. She is utterly fascinating to me with her lonliness, a hollow woman. She comes over to my apartment on Tuesdays for tea. I let her rattle on as I examine her. 

I suspect she cannot have children though I'm unsure. A lonely woman like that would want children, I would suppose. I broached the subject briefly and it was met with some hostility. That's how I know it must be true.

Having had both my son and daughter, I am fortunate to know what it is to be a mother. But I want to know the pain of wanting to be one and not being able to. I think this piece could be a comeback for me. The editor wanted real pain, wanted the heart of humanity? Wait til he gets a load of Dora, well I'll have to change her name, maybe something sweet like Mary. I like that Mary.

***

Dearest Audrey-

Despite numerous emails that I know you must be getting, you still refuse to talk with me. I can't see what I did wrong and me trying to guess is getting tiring. Dearest, I only want to see you happy. Somethings are made to last and others dissolve. I'm sorry about Nick but this too will pass my love. 

I've been writing. I'm working on a new short story about women's fertility. Its difficult to write about what one doesn't know intimately but I've found a muse in the form of my neighbor. What luck! She's sweet and simple. They don't make them like that anymore. 

I didn't get to ask when we sat down for coffee last time, but how's your health? Is everything alright? I'm here if you want to talk about it. I would love to hear what it was like and what it is currently like living with cancer. And if there is anything I can do, please don't hesitate to ask. 

Anyway I wanted to reach out and tell you that I plan on attending your next performance. I know I haven't been around much and I want to change that. I know you're so talented and I can't wait to be there to support you. Please respond and let me know you're alright. I'll work on getting tickets. I'm so excited. I may even bring my muse. She's never seen a live ballet and you know me, experience is everything. A writer must experience life!

Love always your mother,

Gail