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