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

Audrey

***

Gail left on a Friday when I was 8. She gave no reason, she gave no apology. It was supposed to be a three-day writer’s conference which turned into a nearly twenty-year haitus from my life. Sure, she called on my birthday and wished me Merry Christmas. She even wrote to me a few times. I guess I should feel privileged that the great writer Gail Barns bothered to pen me anything at all.

When Gail first left, dad was lost. He cried and pounded his fists on his thighs in anger. He walked around in a daze. Aaron, ever the jokester, tried to cheer him up with funny tales from school. Dad would always laugh and hug Aaron for his efforts. I would wiggle my way in for a hug too. Those first couple weeks, I call the hugging weeks. My dad hugged us more in those few weeks than he did in the entire year before. I guess he wanted to make sure we knew we were loved. Or maybe he wanted to make sure he was loved. He would gather me in his large hairy arms and squeeze, the entire time, his body was shaking with sobs.

He did his best to hide his sorrow, but I could feel it. Gail always said I had a gift for feeling the emotions people were trying to hide. Like that day when she said “goodbye” it stunk with smell of finality. I have always held that goodbye against her. Why couldn’t she be honest? Why couldn’t she be brave? Instead, she hid behind our hopes and then destroyed them like a coward.

Gail was always self-absorbed, more into her characters than the flesh and blood in front of her. Images of my mother include her in sweats and reading glasses, slouched over her computer periodically yelling at my brother and I to keep it down. She suffered from chronic headaches and unbridled narcissism. On occasion we would have one-on-one time with Gail which was never as pleasant as it sounds. If she was feeling social, she would sit us down and go into a diatribe of how spoiled and selfish we were. No, she never spanked me or my brother. She didn’t care enough. Father did the discipling and the nurturing.

Dad, unlike Gail, was always there; every PTA meeting, birthday party, Aaron’s football games and my dance recitals. At my recitals he would sit in the front, a full mustache trying its best to obstruct a smile so large that in my little girl mind, there was nothing that could stop my father from being proud of me.  Gail would come to recitals too as dance was my mother’s favorite thing about me.

“One day I’ll write a book” she would say, “and I’ll show the world what a beautiful dancer you are”.

I used to be excited to be a part of my mother’s world, Gail’s world. If I could just be interesting enough, good enough to write about then I could snuggle with my mother in the written word. But she would never let me get that close and only ever smiled at me when I was dancing.

After she left, I almost quit dancing. I didn’t want to do anything that would make her happy.

“What makes you happy Audrey? Does dancing make you happy?” Dad asked.

“I love to dance” I replied my little voice barely above a whisper. When I’m dancing, the world goes away, I am in the movements, telling a story, lost in another universe.

“Then you just dance. Do it for yourself. Do it because you love it” he opened his arms for a hug and I melted into him.   

After a few weeks, Dad had gotten a system down. In fact, he was doing well without Gail. We all were. Sure, somewhere in my heart I missed my mother, but I also resented her for leaving. I wrapped myself in my resentment like armor. I threw myself literally and figuratively into dancing.

*** 

The morning cut into him obliterating his image into a mere dark speck within an omnipotent glow of light.  The small beach was glazed blue-gray with the final breaths of night as Audrey squatted next to the fire boiling water for tea.  She watched him sprinting up the beach as she placed two porcelain cups onto the sand.  Nick bent down to kiss her, water droplets from his morning swim falling onto her hands.

            “You look beautiful”

            “And water’s dripping all over me” she said playfully as she pulled him down to her.

            “It’s so peaceful out here, I almost don’t want to go back” said Nick.

            Audrey looked out across the bay to where the land seemed to fall into the sea.  The high rise buildings and cinder colored smoke was almost imperceptible at this hour.  The endless line of rush-hour cars seemed like glinting prisms atop long asphalt plains in the smoky sfumato of the morning air and her lover’s voice.  Everything looked better albeit heavily shrouded in bleary mysticism when she was with Nick.      

            “What if we just left?”  His eyes grew wide and excited, “We could leave the company, move to some other place, some small town by the beach.  We could have a small house, one of those that have the shower next to the kitchen sink.”  He chuckled.  “We wouldn’t have to worry about traffic only the little squirrels that might be hauling nuts to and fro.  We could grow watermelons as big as yoga exercise balls.  We wouldn’t need anyone.  No more bills or late night rehearsals.  No more trying to make enough so that we can survive an ugly town that only thinks the company is “mediocre at best”.  Only thinks we’re mediocre at best.  Audrey, we could do that.  We could break away”.

            Audrey looked lovingly at him.  He would never leave the city and she would never leave dancing.  The thought of living with Nick alone and subsisting off their own crops was a romantic idea.  It was a beautiful fantasy; one of many Nick had painted on the snow white walls of her mind.  At twenty two Audrey taught her head to ignore these dreams of grandiose and unimaginable bliss.  And, as it is always the way with the young and naïve, at twenty two Audrey’s heart became more and more infatuated and entangled in his verbal poetry.

            “There’s really only one problem” she said with tight happy smile.

            “And what’s that?”

            “I don’t know where on earth we are going to find real estate that is both on the beach and has squirrels scurrying to and fro.  Besides, I don’t really like watermelon.  In fact, watermelon that size is a bit scary.”

            They both laughed. 

            “But the kitchen sink/shower thing doesn’t bother you?”

            “No just the watermelons”.

            “Could you pass me the sugar?”

            Audrey reached into the small picnic basket and pulled out several packets of Splenda. 

            “Splenda?” he questioned squinching up his nose.

            “What’s wrong with Splenda?” she asked.

            “Well the name for one.  And well, I mean, sugar is just so much better”.

            “Well it’s Splenda or nothing”

            “Fine, fine I’ll take two”.  He shook the packets into his tea.  “You know, I was serious about that moving thing.  In fact, I think it’s about time we start looking for another place”.

            “Why?  The apartment we have now is cheap and it’s close to the dance studio.  We have decent neighbors”.

            “I’m tired of living in that shit hole.  Sorry to say it.  But Audrey, we deserve better than that.  I’m thinking about leaving the company”.  He took a big sip of tea, “I mean I’m certainly not one of the top guys anymore, not after all these other commitments”.

            “What other commitments?”  Audrey nervously asked.

            “You know, just making things work out.  Being there for loved ones and I’m just having a bad season I guess”.

            “Taking care of me?  Is that what you’re implying?  That because you’re in a relationship you’re not able to be your best anymore?”

            “No” he quickly answered.  “It has nothing to do with you.  I mean it does, but not in a bad sense.  I’ve wanted to leave the company for a while and it wasn’t until you that I felt brave enough to do it.  I want to devote more time to us.  I want to move up in the world.  I want to drive a car that has people turning their heads and be able to buy nice looking things when I want to.  I want to get what I want, when I want it”.  He smiled to himself and took another sip of tea.

            “You’re confusing me Nick.  What is it you want?  First you said you wanted to live in solitude on a beach with squirrels and frightening large watermelons, now you want Ferraris and penthouses and a high-brow life style.  Am I missing something?”

            “I want all of that I guess.  I dunno.  All I know is that I don’t think the company is where I should be.  I want to be with you.  I want to get out of the dumps.  I don’t want to be “mediocre” anymore”.

        “Well if you truly don’t want to dance anymore you shouldn’t.  But babe, you can’t go around thinking that what one toothpick thin, balding, hooked nose critic said about the company’s last performance can be applied to you.  You’re wonderful and a great dancer.  I know things have been tough and Mitch hasn’t really been giving you the parts you deserve, but trust me it will all get better.  As for our life, I love it.  I don’t need a fancy apartment or a house on the beach.  All I need is this.  This” she said kissing him.   

***

 

“Audrey!” said the woman closing her laptop.  “I feared you had been killed off by rabid ermines” she chuckled, “beastly creatures”.

Audrey looked at her, impressed that she remembered her name, “The company’s got the annual Nutcracker coming.  It’s been madness”

“Ah I see.  I sure missed you.  Nick’s pieces are doing really well.  But I’m sure you know that”  The woman steeped her tea bag.  “Nick’s been an absolute brute about keeping me updated on the wedding.  Tell me how’s the planning coming?  If you need any help, don’t hesitate.  I’m here for you”.

This sentiment almost made Audrey barf. 

Audrey looked down into her coffee then back up into the woman’s eyes.  Something flashed wildly in them.  She had to have known.  But how?  Moreover, why would she pretend not to know?

“We broke up two weeks ago Gail” said Audrey accentuating the ‘g’ in Gail with a sneer.  “There was never any planning for a wedding”.

Gail pretended to be shocked. “Oh Audrey” she said in scolding tone, “what happened this time?”

“Nothing. That’s precisely the point. Besides I’m not giving you any material to use in your next little bit. I came to tell you the wedding has been cancelled so you can go on with your life and I will go on with mine.”

“Little bit? Audrey, these pieces change people’s lives. You should be grateful that I would include you in that.”

Audrey scoffed, “You’re unbelievable. That’s all you got from what I said. Well let me spell it out a little more clearly Gail” again the hard ‘g’. “I don’t want to see you or talk with you and I don’t want you using my life for your writerly gain. I wanted a mother. Someone that wants to know how I’m doing with no other agenda. Is that so much to ask?”

“Oh Audrey, don’t be so dramatic, it never looked good on you darling. I know you’re upset with Nick but that’s no reason to lash out at me. I love you” the words felt hollow like the space inside a tube.

“I really have to run” said Audrey as she reached for her to go cup.

“Ok dear. I understand. I’m having a reading next Thursday and the Page Turner, 9 pm if you can make it.”

“Will I be in it?” said Audrey caustically.

“Well of course. You are me and therefore are in everything I write” said Gail with a big smile feeling completely pleased with herself.

“I can’t imagine you had much to write about since you spent so little time with me” fired Audrey.

“Not back to that are we Audrey. This one has been so overplayed”

Audrey huffed and grabbed her cup. 

 ***

 

            She wasn’t all that worried.  She was always the healthy one.  She took care of her body, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink excessively.  Her family had a long history of excellent health most living well into their late eighties and nineties.  So she didn’t worry.

            “Miss Barns” called the receptionist.  Audrey put down her magazine and followed the receptionist into a waiting room.  As was customary for doctors visits, Audrey waited in the tiny examination room for what felt like hours.  She sat on the examining table and having looked around briefly and reading all the posters on the wall, she laid down.  But everytime she closed her eyes she would hear walking and thinking it might be the doctor she would open them and prepare herself to get up.  Finally she gave up on opening her eyes and stayed peacefully at rest on the table.  The door creaked open, but Audrey hadn’t noticed.

            “Miss Barns?” said the older gentleman.

            She bolted up and extending a long slender arm replied, “Doctor Harmen”.

            “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long”.  The sincerity in this statement was all lost to Audrey for she could not seem to believe that doctors were truly sorry about keeping you waiting.  If they were truly repentant you wouldn’t be waiting hours for a short visit.  She was already aggravated, having to come down to the office and missing half a practice all so he could tell her nothing was wrong and send her on her way. 

            “Well as you know, we ran a multitude of tests and”.  Get on with it said Audrey’s twitching leg.

            “I’m afraid we’ve found several tumors. We will have to biopsy to see if its cancerous”.  The words seemed to come out slow, like time expanded and no matter how fast she tried to cover her ears, the words had sliced in. For a moment she thought surely she was in a play.  That her character was afflicted, but she, Audrey Barns would remain.  She, Audrey Barns, with her family’s health history and her excellent physical condition, couldn’t possibly have breast cancer.  She saw herself surrounded by rose pedals, deep red rose petals and a bright light as the darkness applauded.  It was a lovely performance, and while her character had expired on stage she was there when the curtain lifted to receive roses by her adorning fans.  She saw herself bending down to scoop up some rose pedals, but suddenly her cupped hands were full of deep red blood.  Blood pouring out of her right breast. 

            “Miss Barns” he said taking her arm because she looked like she was going to faint.  “Miss Barns the good news is it could still be benign”.  But this supposed assuring comment did not make her feel any better.  She could very likely, have cancer.

            “Now there is always a risk of some of these things spreading, but luckily you caught it pretty early”.

            “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked meekly.

            “Well, we are going to have to remove your right breast, because the tumor is quite large, we don’t want to risk not getting all of it”.

***

Audrey walked slowly from the doctor’s office, mindful of every step. She had never thought of her life being limited like this. Was it cancer? And if so, what was she going to do? She would have to remove her right breast, she instinctively touched it at the thought. Then imagining the tumor was some kind of explosive, quickly pulled her hand away.

She wanted to tell Nick but she couldn’t get the words out. It didn’t seem real. She was 28 years young, her career was taking off, she had a man that she loved and would probably marry and she had future children she hoped to meet.

She thought about the chemotherapy and how sick she was going to get. Would she be able to dance? Would she be too weak to do a pirouette? She shook her head again, “Focus. One step at a time”.

She clenched her fists and furrowed her brow. Anger seeped warmly throughout her body. Her mind  raced and the faster her thoughts went the more angry she became. Why her? Why now? The rage welled inside of her and adrenalin spread throughout her limbs and chest.

“Fuck!” she said suddenly, and tears began to form in her eyes. She held her anger tightly then leaned back and let it consume her. She opened and closed her fists. She wasn’t even walking in the right direction. But it didn’t matter as long as she was moving, breathing, alive.

She rounded the corner and stopped outside a small coffee shop. She caught her reflection in the glass. Her face was red and her fists were white. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Anger wasn’t going to protect her this time and she knew it. She looked into her reflection and said to herself, “I can beat this. If anyone can beat this, I can beat this. Sorry Dad” she chuckled, “but I’m not quite ready to meet you in heaven”.

And with that, she dialed Nick and proceeded to tell him about her doctor’s visit. 

***

 

Commerciality consumed the small coffee shop.  The cups had printed on them duplicated Zen sayings and where made from an earthy paper, not because it was better for the environment but because environmental concern—a sort of wilderness sheek—was all the rage.  Meghann stepped inside and stood in the absurdly long line.  Upper-middle-class white men and women rattled off orders to the sharp adolescents behind the counter.  As if ordering an important tonic one women requested a single shot mocha cappuccino, with non-fat milk and no foam, 12 ounces but put into a 16 ounce to go cup so as to have room for cream, with an extra shot of hazelnut syrup.  Meghann looked down at her watch; she couldn’t believe that she had yet again forgotten her coffee this morning. 

When it was time for the women in front of her to order there was a large commotion.  The tan young women, whose cropped feathered hair interrupted the intriguing tattoo of a tiger poking out of the back of her tshirt, was slow to order. Meghann watched her shoulder blades which were drawn down her back and her muscles flowing freely under her skin like waves. 

“What’s your coffee of the day?” asked the tiger woman.

Without saying a word the employee rolled her eyes and with a loud sigh pointed her finger up toward the sign behind her.  The woman shifted her weight so that it was balanced between both feet and her stance was exaggeratedly erect. 

“Oh I’m sorry,” she said caustically.

“Our coffees of the day are on the ‘coffee of the day’ board." said the barista in a bored tone. "I was just pointing it out to you”.

The woman was silent. She must have been giving the girl quite the stare because her tone quickly changed to be much more polite. 

“What could I get for you?” she managed her face red with chagrin.

“I’ll have your regular coffee, the Italian Roast, 16 ounce, no room for cream” she pushed her body over the counter slightly into the girl’s space.  There was something combative about this beautiful woman, a disfiguring mark on her countenance, a violent rhythm in her muscles, something powerful and admiral yet bitter and disparaged.  She was at once unshakable and rooted, and then fractured, splintered. 

As Meghann walked out to her car she noticed the same women sitting on the cement block in front of her parked car.  She looked distressed as she dialed slowly on her cell phone.  Meghann made her way to her car but then thought again and completely out of character Meghann approached the body. 

“I don’t mean to intrude, but are you alright?”

The woman looked up at Meghann whose long blonde hair was not yet confined to its tight bun, her large briefcase making her look like a little girl dressed up for Halloween. 

“My car won’t start.  Blasted battery” she replied dismayed and chuckled at her state.

“Could I help you jump start it?”

The woman released her squint, tight eyes opened as she for the first in a long time looked at someone. 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble”

“Of course it wouldn’t.  I’ll bring it around the front”

The dilapidated jeep looked especially pitiful when connected to the muscle of Meghann’s BMW.  The two women stood out the sun as their arms laced through the movements of the other, entwined, became tangled as they tried to untangle the jumbled cables.  Once connected the energy sparked through the cables.  The jeep moaned with the effort while the BMW purred politely.  Final after several tries the jeep’s engine wailed as it awoke. 

Audrey began to unhook the cables, “I’m sorry but I don’t believe I got your name”

“Meghann and yours is?”

“Audrey”.  The two shook hands.  “I really appreciate you offering to help me.  Thank you again.  I hope I didn’t put you out, make you late or anything”.

It was a good thing that Meghann was always early.

“No, I’m actually going to be right on time”.

“Look” said Audrey as she fumbled in her purse, “I’d really appreciate it if you would allow me to buy you coffee the next time.  Do you come here every morning?”

“No, not everyday, but close.  The coffee isn’t all that wonderful, but I come for the customer service”. 

Audrey chuckled.  “That’s great.  So is tomorrow same time okay?”

“Sure”

Meghann got into her car and drove away rather quickly.  She turned on the air conditioning and flipped on a Dave Matthews, “Crash Into Me” started playing. 

 

***

 

            “I bet you were an ‘A’ student all through high school right?”

            “That’s not true!” said Meghann her pursed smile indicating flattery.

            “What?  Did you get like one ‘B’ or something?”

            “Two”

            “Yeah?  In what?” Audrey playfully questioned.

            “Well one was in French and the other was Ceramics” she started to laugh, “I remember one time in Ceramics class, I was sitting at the wheel and I didn’t properly fasten my clay so when I started it, the heavy mass just took off and almost decapitated a boy in my class”

            Audrey started laughing.

            “It’s a good thing it didn’t or else I’d probably be the one in therapy!”

            “You need to be in therapy!” joshed Audrey.

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah”

            A young man in faded jeans and snoopy t-shirt came up to their table.  “Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt but are you Audrey Barns?”

            “Yes” said Audrey and with a new found arrogance smiled as she put her hand out into the air for the young fellow to kiss.

            “I thought it was you” he said taking her hand and shaking it roughly.  Meghann let out a small chuckle then realizing that she had made some noise went back to moving her lettuce about on her plate.

            “You were the lead in that ballet” he was struggling for the name.  “What was it called?”

            “Swan Lake?”

            “No”

            “Romeo and Juliet?”

            “Umm…No”

            “La Bayadere?”

            “No don’t think so”

            “Are you sure it wasn’t any of those?” questioned Audrey in slight irritation.

            “No I think it was something a little less tragic and had aliens, big bird and took place in Bangladesh I believe”

            “Mork and Mindy meet Big Bird in Bangladesh?” said Meghann excitedly.

            “Yeah, that’s the one!” he looked over to Meghann for the first time and his voice grew soft, “Thank you” he said sincerely. 

            “Welcome” she replied and went back to shuffling her lettuce. 

            Audrey’s face was visibly red, whether it was from anger or embarrassment one couldn’t really say.

            “I absolutely loved it!  I think you should have received more credit.  It must be hard to fall that much and not hurt yourself”.

            “It is a skill” said Audrey sarcastically.  “So you’re a slapstick comedy guy?”

            “On the contrary.  I’ve just always been a fan of yours and I was tickled pink when I could actually afford to go to one of your shows”

            Could this lunch get any worse thought Audrey.  “Well I’m glad you enjoyed it.  But if you don’t mind we were in the middle of lunch”.

            “Sure of course” then he looked at Meghann, “pardon me”.

            Once he was out of earshot Audrey sneered, “The nerve of that guy!”

“I thought he was rather nice.  He was only complementing you”

            “Complementing me?  He came up to me in public to comment on the worst ballet I have ever been in.  He might just as well have pooped in my hand fore it was the same as saying falling takes talent”

            “Oh eat your crab you old crab”

            Audrey viciously tore open her biscuit to butter it.

            “I still thought it was sweet”

            “Sweet as a needle to the balloon of my self esteem”

***

 

The party would officially begin at 8 pm but Audrey playing it cool as usual wouldn’t be there until 10.  Audrey walked around naked in her kitchen, her soft feet sticking to the cool linoleum.  Led Zeppelin blasted from the living room as she pulled some organic lotion from the refrigerator.  Unlike most people, Audrey rather enjoyed the feeling of cold body butter.  Stepping into her bedroom with bright satins hanging from the ceiling mimicking clouds, down comforter spread out messily over her small bed on the floor, Audrey contemplated her outfit.  One of her walls, the one opposite her bed, was composed entirely of mirror panels.  She drew out a pair of worn jeans with tares that exposed the glinting tantalizing skin under them.  Without bothering with underwear she slipped them on and examined herself in the wall of mirrors.  She sprayed her stomach with a nearly empty bottle of Chanel and put on her modified black bra.  She dawned a red satin blouse whose appearance suggested a red ribbon draped about Audrey’s taught, firm form.  Led Zeppelin gave into Macy Gray.  Her eye lids lightly brushed with gold and her lips a sultry pink, Audrey gelled her hair into spontaneous wisps radiating from the side and back of her head.  She brushed her teeth for a good five minutes and then flossed…twice.  She threw some gum in her mouth and chose a pair of stylish shoes.

 *** 

            The phone rang.  Assuming it was David, Audrey paused her pilates tape and answered the phone a bit breathlessly.

            “Hello?”

            “Hello,” came a soft voice, “May I speak with Audrey?”

            “Speaking.  Who is this?”

            “Oh hello.  This is Meghann” the voice said nervously, “Meghann Vardern.  We had coffee once about a month ago”

            “Meghann!” said Audrey delightedly.  “I was wondering when you were going to call”

            “Oh sorry I’ve been pretty busy” said the voice guiltily.

            “Yeah.  I can understand that.” said Audrey with a chuckle.  “So what can I do for you?”

            “Well I feel so foolish”

            “Why?” asked Audrey puzzled.

            “Well I just wanted to ask you.  I know we only had coffee once, but well I wanted to see you would like to go out to dinner?”

            “Dinner?” Audrey replied surprised.

            “Yes, Greg and I were going to the Crystal Chatteau and I thought since you were so nice to invite me to coffee that one time, that perhaps you and a friend would like to join us.  Or you could come by yourself.  Whichever you would like.”

            “What day would this be?”

            “The 11^th of this month at 8pm”

            “Let me check my schedule” she glanced over at her calendar that was cramped with scribbled obligations and dates.  Josh was on the 11^th, not to mention a very important audition.  The audition would be in the morning though, and having thought this all out she answered, “Yes I would love to come.  So the Crystal Chatteau at 8pm, Josh and I will be there”.

            “Great!  That’s really great.  So I’ll see you this Friday”.

            “This Friday”

            “Good-evening Audrey”
            “Bye Meg”.

***

Who are you beautiful stranger? Typically so stiff and upright and yet so yielding when we touch. Who are you? I've never seen a woman as beautiful as you. Somehow you make everything light. You warm the darkness in me. It feels both pleasant and painful. You pull me like gravity. What am I doing? What am I thinking? 

I took you skating, it was your first time and it showed. But you were so cute trying desperately to cling to your balance. I'm starting to notice that I'm noticing everything about you, like I want every piece of you. I'm cataloguing your smiles and facial expressions and I play them on repeat when I can't sleep at night. I look forward to my days, trying to find some excuse to call you. We talk every night now. Is that normal? It feels right. I can't even say what we talk about, we just do, so effortlessly. The excitement I feel in the pauses between your words is new and scary. The rush is addicting.

I want to see you all the time. In my waking and in my dreams. I feel lost and yet so completely focused. Are you feeling any of this? Have I fallen into another doomed romantic fantasy? And yet, the kiss, oh that kiss! My lips still burn and I draw my fingers across them harkening back the memory. How could a kiss make me lose all sense? And what did she feel? 

***  

We stopped by my apartment to pick up my coat. In my rush and excitement to meet Meghann for our walk, I completely forgot to grab a coat. It was late October and a cold snap hit the city. Meghann looked beautiful as always with coral earrings a fitted black pea coat and black ballet flats. 

Diving with Dad

 

We ramble along unmarked 4WD dirt roads in my father’s silver Ford Bronco as we make our way to the Kohala coast. I’m 13 and bad with directions. My father knows exactly where we are going as our tires kick up the dirt leaving clouds in our wake. My father knows these roads like the lines on his hands. “Rambling Man” by The Allman Brothers Band is appropriately playing as the Bronco leans and lurches down rocky drops and steep slopes. My dad drives deftly, cutting corners and bouncing over bumps, a childlike grin on his face. I grip the arm rest and brace myself. He laughs and accelerates, dust spewing behind us. He enjoys giving me a fright, he was always playful like that. I give him a look and he slows down. Still, I hang on like it’s the ride of my life because it is. I’m with my father, just the two of us, laughing and looking forward to the day to come.

He takes a turn into a grove of mature keawe trees that opens to a cliff where the ocean tumbles into the basalt below. The vista treats the eye to 180 degrees of wild open ocean. Impenetrable dark blues dissolve into an aquamarine paradise which is ruffled with white water. In the shallows near the edge, boulders and sand appear slightly distorted in the undulation of the surf. Our company are the sun, birds and bugs.

Dad backs the Bronco to the edge, not too close, but still at the edge. You could say he approached his wild life the same way, always at the edge, on the precipice of being completely engulfed and at the same time, completely free.

We unload the Bronco, pulling out fishing poles and tackle, diving gear and snacks. Dad always packed the best lunch. Long before I rubbed the sleep from my eyes in the morning, my father was up drinking black coffee and making fresh spam musubi. Fresh fruit, canned juice and Maui style shrimp chips. Ah, shrimp chips, so delicious and crispy, deceivingly shrimpy without actually having a trace of shrimp; no diving trip was complete without shrimp chips. It’s funny how your taste buds can conjure up memories, like how Maui style shrimp chips always reminds me of these dive trips. I stuff a few chips in my mouth and hop out of the Bronco to help dad unload.  

Dad is geared up with his weight belt and baggy surf shorts clinging desperately to his non-existent butt. His fins, mask and snorkel in one hand and his spear in his other he motions me to follow him down the rocky coast to the water. I take each step with my tobies carefully as the rocks are slippery and my reflexes aren’t exactly cat-like. Dad throws his spear into the water and gently dives into the surge. I follow like a little duckling though I look more like a baby seal. I swing in and out of the surge trying to put on my fins. Dad waits patiently outside the surf.

Dad taught me to spit in the mask to help defog it. I hawked up a big wad of something and smushed it around on the lens with my fingers. I rinsed it in the ocean and plastered it to my face. I put my snorkel in and transformed into a true beauty of the sea! Dad would call me his “little puffer fish” and with the stomach I had on me at the time, I’ll admit there was a striking resemblance.

Make no mistake though, I was a predator of the open ocean when I put my dive gear on. No more nice puffer fish! Listening to my breaths underwater makes you feel like you’re listening to yourself from the inside. I could hear every inhale and if I closed my eyes I could see my respirations. Of course with such auditory power comes the desire to elevate to the highest possible emotion. For me that meant exhaling to the tempo of the Jaws theme song. Something about hearing your breath thrum ‘duhn, duhn, duhn, duhn, duhn, duhn’ makes you feel like a powerful predator. And its true, small fish feared me.

While I was kicking around and humming the Jaws theme song, my dad was spearing wiki and uhu and omilu. I watch him effortlessly cut through the water, unload his three prong into an uhu and bring it to the surface. He pulls the fish from his spear and takes out his dive knife from his belt. He jabs the knife into the top of the fish’s skull and wiggles it around, essentially scrambling its brain. He called this “braining” the fish. I never had the stomach for that part or the part that came next. Holding the fish tight in his left hand he shoves a large metal rod through the eyes. Once the rod is through, dad pushes the fish down along a line that secures the fish, the rod then slides back and rests on the fish’s head at a 90 degree angle. The rod and line are attached to a 40ft line and an empty Clorox bottle that acts as a buoy. The other end Dad holds as he tows his “stringer” of fish behind him.  

When I wasn’t terrorizing small reef fish, I was usually dwandling behind my father. Swimming along his stringer, I watch the hollow eyes of the fish as they are dragged through the water. I inspect their scaley bodies and foreign mouths. I watch the blood flow and mix with the water like ruby ribbons. I’m in my own world, wondering what the fishs’ lives were like, amazed that I got to be so close, admiring their beauty even though they were dead.

I hear shouting underwater and it pulls me from my fishy trance. My father’s waving at me. “Get away from that stringer!” I put my head down and paddle as fast as I can. I reach him and he looks upset. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from the stringer? If sharks want to come they are going to go right for that stringer of fish. I don’t want you anywhere near that. Understand?” I spit out my snorkel but only nodded. I was now afraid there might be sharks. He smiled at me and resumed swimming.

Sometimes dad would spot a moray eel and he would spear a small fish and feed it to the eel. Our diving trips were like National Geographic epics to me. The underwater world is so fascinating. That’s what it is, a world, a mysterious, seemingly enclosed great big world. On the surface I am an intruder with my funny face plunged into the surface, big tube sticking out of my mouth. I don’t belong here. And yet, all this life accepts my presence perhaps because they know I’m not permanent.

And nothing is.

Listening to Dreaming Man by Neil Young

The Receipt

 There's a medium black 3 ringed binder I keep with my dad's medical paperwork. There is a loose sheet of paper folded in half, a prescription receipt from our local pharmacy. The receipt is unassuming, typical, except for the fact that I've saved it for nine years. 

The words "Hospice HomeCare" have been manually highlighted in green. There are 3 prescriptions for my father. Levetiracetam 500mg, Risperidone 2mg and Lorazepam 2mg dated 5/14/2015. The first is for seizures, the second is an antipsychotic and the third is for anxiety. These were three medicines out of a cornucopia of medicines my father would take. His pill tray often reminded me of skittles if the candy were misshapen and pastel colored. This seems like an inconsequential piece of paper so why did I save it? And why does it make me cry now? 

There's scrawl of numbers near the bottom each with a dash in front: -3.6 x 3.6 x 4.7 and -4.4 x 4.6 x 5.3. These are measurements of my dad's tumor. The first set of numbers represents the size of the tumor during radiation treatment. The second set is its size after we returned to the Big Island. Seeing this receipt, I'm transported back to the day my mother wrote out those fateful numbers. 

My elbows pressed hard into our dining room table as I leaned in to hear the radiologist on the other end of the line. My mom had the phone slightly away from her ear, but I only heard a mumble. She decisively wrote the first numbers onto the receipt. I held my pen lightly so as to be in confidence with her. I began to sketch out a triangle, I wanted to do everything with her, be there in every way. 

Since I couldn't hear what the radiologist was saying I focused instead on my mother's hands. Her beautiful, slender fingers wrapped tight around the ball point pen. Each decimal was punctured into the page because this was life or death. She wrote out -3.6 x 3.6 x 4.7.

I can't remember if she started crying before she wrote the next line or while she was writing it. I could have burnt that receipt with the intensity of my stare. She started with a 4. I began to cry. I'd known from as long as I learned to count that 4 was bigger than 3 and in the case of brain tumors, bigger is never better. Each number she wrote was bigger than the last, 4.4 x 4.6 x 5.3. I gripped my pen in anger. I could have snapped it in half. I drew some hard squares at the bottom of the receipt. What else could I do? I drew an angry maze of squares, each line pushed in harder than the last, each square engulfing the other. I felt myself grow tight, snap and then go slack like drawing these squares was the only thing I wanted to do. Nothing seemed real or important. I wanted to draw the squares through the paper into the dining room table and then I wanted to sit with my mom and dad in the kaleidoscope of grooves I cut out with my anger. Inside the smallest square we held each other in love and despair.

I looked over at my dad in his hospital bed, Kapa radio playing in the background. That was the last call we got from the radiologist. You know how some things are so finite? That's why I kept this receipt. It is finite. A physical representation of when we learned that dad have unequivocally lost. Though the memory is painful, I cherish it because it is a part of my life and dad's life and mom's life. It may be the most cherished receipt I have. 

House

 I used to be a very nice house

or at least I thought I was

but I learned a hard truth:

I’m not a home on my own.

In fact, I’ll tell you

I’m not even a room.

At night I am building

new walls

tearing down old ones

patching places once gaping

wide and wind blown.

Everything hurts.  

Nails stabbed into siding

doesn’t sit square

ramshackle and wasted

despite the persistent efforts to get it right

and straight

and level.

Everything has been blown apart

But where is the storm?

No splintered studs 

broken beams

collapsed chimney.

Stained glass centerpiece 

partially finished

and lacking all originality

laughs

as light struggles 

to illuminate floors

empty.

Nothing feels good

and I’m always behind

despite how hard I try

to build myself back up.

Once I was a house

and I never thought it would be any different

but you flew away

and took your bones with you. 

At night I am

illuminated

three walls

and empty.