The Year of the Rabbit

The stairs to the basement creaked loudly.  The light switch at the top had stopped working earlier that year so the light had to be turned on at the bottom.  Jin had been meaning to fix it for months, Danielle too nervous to walk downstairs in the dark while she was pregnant, avoiding all trips without Jin leading the way.  He cursed himself for waiting so long as he stumbled down in the dark carrying the heavy and awkward glider. 

“There are always miracles.”

It was the year of the rabbit.  Danielle didn’t believe in signs or God or fate, but Jin did.  He prayed to both the Christian God and to his ancestors every day since finding out about his son.  She called him old-fashioned.  He could picture his son, James, a strong and handsome and funny young man.  Her due date was on Easter.  She had chosen the name for her father.  He liked it because it was the name of Jesus’s most beloved disciple.

“He is a fighter...”

There were dozens of bags from Danielle’s most recent shower.  He set the last of them down in the corner of the basement, overflowing and haphazardly filled with blankets and onesies and crib sheets and diapers.  He began with the bedroom because he knew it would take the longest, and there was very little time. 

“…but we want you to be prepared.”

He moved on to the kitchen.  He couldn’t decide if he wanted to put the champagne that had been chilling in the kitchen’s refrigerator into the one downstairs, or allow it to come back up to room temperature, or throw it away altogether.  The checklist in his head was getting crossed off, one room after another.  He found the box for the breast pump and the Baby Bullet broken down and folded behind the washer.  He reassembled them and carefully placed the equipment back in their boxes.  Danielle had given him such a hard time when he came home with the Bullet.

“He isn’t even going to be able to eat solids or baby food for months.” Jin remembered their small fight perfectly. 

“Why did you buy that?”  They were folding all of the recently washed baby clothes they had been given in the basement, when suddenly Danielle let out a little “Oh.” 

He remembered her looking down and then up again, her face sheet-white.  She looked so scared.

“We never really know why things like this happen.”

He scanned the house once more, looking for all traces and triggers.  He grabbed the What to Expect When You’re Expecting book from her nightstand, leaving nothing in either of the bedrooms.  As he turned to head back downstairs, he noticed the overnight bag sitting by the front door, forgotten in their haste.  He slung it over his shoulder and headed down.

“I would give him about a week.  His liver is no longer responding.  His organs are beginning to shut down.”

Danielle would be home tomorrow.  She hadn’t spoken since they had taken his small body away, all 800 grams of him, just under two pounds.  Jin had tried to comfort her, praying silently to whomever would listen, but she would not be consoled.  Her eyes staring empty, her mouth set.  The tears never stopped streaming down her cheeks and into the soft creases between her neck and chest and engorged and useless breasts. 

“Sometimes these things just happen.”

After coming back downstairs for the last time, Jin sat down in the glider, surrounded by everything they had bought and been given and made in preparation for their first and only son.  He began rocking slowly back and forth when he noticed a small gray rabbit lying face down on the floor.  It must have fallen out of one of the bags.  He remembered buying it a few weeks earlier, gently placing it in the corner of James’s crib.

“Lay your hands on him and let him know you are there.”

He got up and walked towards the toy.  Picking it up, his breath began to shorten as he felt the softness of its ears and arms and legs, reminding him of the gentle blonde fuzz all over his dying son’s body.   He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the rabbit to his chest, sucking in a shallow and sharp breath and then letting out an anguished sob.  His head hung low, a stabbing pain shooting behind his right eye.  He started wringing the rabbit’s body, twisting it in opposite directions.

“He can hear your voice.  The ears are some of the first things to develop.  Talk to him.”

He threw the rabbit with all of his might.  Silently it fell to the floor, as if caught by something invisible, too light to carry the weight Jin needed.  The unimpressive result of this violence enraged Jin.  He turned around and picked up the glider and heaved it at the entertainment center.  It crashed into the TV and dented the wall deeply.  He moved on to the boxes and bags, swinging them in every direction.  Onesies with “Mommy and Daddy Love Me” and “Little Rascal” stitched on the front, blue bibs and tiny hats and swaddlers and pacifiers falling all over the floor.   He grabbed the bottle of champagne he had decided to leave out to warm, and hurled it against the wall near the stairs.  It hit the switch and the light shut off, leaving him in complete darkness.

“He isn’t in any pain.”

  

Sunday Best

It looks like a beautiful day out there.  I'm sure it is hot and muggy, the breeze only strong enough to annoyingly move around the pieces of hair not sweating and clinging to your neck.  But it looks beautiful.

I was able to spend a glorious thirty minutes in the hospital's courtyard this morning.  I had been up for over three hours, but it was still early and cool and the birds were out, flying all around the enclosed space.  Before that, I had blood drawn, prenatal supplements and iron distributed.  I had been visited by three nurses and one attending doctor.  All of them asking me the same questions I hear every morning, afternoon, and night.  Any tenderness when I press here?  Any nausea?  How about blurred vision?  Can you still feel the baby move?

I read an article last night about birth control.  Apparently, my situation happens in only 6% of cases.

The bracelets on my wrist make me look like some sort of ACL attendee.  Except instead of getting me backstage, they alert doctors of my penicillin allergy, my blood type, and a bar code which is scanned a dozen times a day when any one of my fifteen nurses flushes my IV or gives me Tylenol or hooks the baby up to a heart monitor for 20 minutes (which always turns into over an hour because they have other patients too).

I have finished two books so far.  I wasn't very impressed with either of them.

I am trying to keep my spirits up, read books, write and think about baby names.  I'm trying to do my best.  But this week, I am going to allow myself to wallow a bit.  Just this week though.  Because had my life continued on the way it was supposed to go on, the way I thought it was going to continue, the way any just and kind God or universe or supreme being would allow it to go on, would still have allowed my boyfriend and I to be driving somewhere through Arkansas at this time.

I can still picture it.  I would be driving and looking for a friendly, grassy area to stop and walk Roxy around but edging myself just a bit further on,

Make it to 6:00pm.  

Keep going until you get to the next exit.  

Go another thirty miles and then you can stop.

I would be so excited and anxious to get there, to have a vacation from both of my jobs, to be able to get out of town and the heat and spend days and days with my family and old friends I haven't seen in years.  We would stop in Nashville tonight.  We would check into a cheap hotel, sneak Roxy in and walk around the city for a bit.  Then we'd crash and sleep hard but not long because I'd want to get on the road again.  We'd go to this little restaurant the boy had found, Biscuit Love (http://biscuitlove.com/) right as they opened and I would have bought a coffee mug.  We'd push the critter around the block once more before hitting the road again, our bellies full of benedicts and coffee.

Then it would be a race.  I wouldn't want to waste any time.  There is so much I have to do as the MOH and I would want to see my sister.  I would want to get this wild circus of a wedding week underway.  I would want to get everything started that we have been talking about for a year.

But instead, I can do little more than pick up a new book, read the first few pages and put it down again.  I count down the hours until I have to order another meal from the cafeteria.  I wonder what everyone else is doing today.  I've texted many; the boy, mom and sister and a few friends but haven't heard back from anyone yet.  It's so quiet.

My flowers are starting to die.  Some still look great and happy and beautiful.  But some have given up, no one to change their water, the window probably very warm there as they sit with nowhere to go.  It's been a week since they've all arrived.  But I don't want to get rid of them yet.  They add a lot of color.  They remind me of those who sent them, still out there, living their lives.

Unexpected

Of all of the posts I've written, of all of the words, these will absolutely be some of the weightiest and life-altering.

There really is no other way to say this except: I am pregnant.  I will be having a child.  It wasn't in the plan and any of you who has known me for more than five minutes knows that having children was not in my future vision for my life.  At all.  But, as many of you and now especially I know, life doesn't really care what our plans are.  My boyfriend and the father, is the only one I could imagine to be the one who is here with me now, next month and for whatever happens for our little family in the future.

My due date is September 17th.  Which is just shy of three and a half months away.  Without going too terribly far into the medical details but to also ensure I'm not grouped into the MTV-class of women eligible for a ridiculous reality show (Toilet-babies, anyone?), I had done everything I was supposed to, taken every measure to guarantee this didn't happen.  But, I ended up being the 1 in 100 for whom preventative methods just don't work, the less than 5%, the miracles or the ones who end up in a room being told something they never thought in a million years they would hear.  But I was that one.  I am in that small percent.  I heard those words at 1:34 p.m. on Wednesday June 8th telling me I would be a mother.

At this exact moment, I am listening to my baby's heartbeat.  It is sticking to a steady 145-160 bpm and much to my nurses' chagrin, he or she moves around a lot making the monitor unable to read as it should.  It is so surreal and so strange and so not at all what I thought I would be doing one day before my twenty-ninth birthday.  What a present, right?

In addition to being told I would be a mother, I would also be staying in the hospital...until the baby arrives.  We are both healthy at this moment but because of a small complication, I cannot go home.  I cannot work.  I cannot be out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time.  My full time job will to work through my reading list, write the next great American novel, and keep this little critter in my belly as long as possible which, best case, is two months but could be in the next two days (let's all not hope for that).

Someone, something, some great universal being or power or God himself wants me to have a kid, wants me to be a mom.  And know I am embracing this shift, this life-altering reality.  I am excited to TRY to be the kind of parent I've always said should exist to create the most incredible and respectful and just downright cool kid (because all any of us can ever do is try).  I have such an amazing support system and there are many things that are going to happen and plans (tentative because, well, you know, those can't always be counted on) we are so excited about.

I'm sure there is much to be figured out, steps to take, things to buy and favors to be asked but for now, know I am happy, we are healthy, and we couldn't be in better hands.

Much love to you all, from the three of us.  More to come...

Reentry

It has been months since I have visited this site, let alone written anything to be published and shared.  So much and so very little has happened, nothing really of note.  But I am peeking my head and my heart out once more to reenter this world of the written word.

I have been trying my hand at novel writing.  I will not say much about it because it is still so new and so precious to me that I feel I want to hold it close until it (and I) grow in strength and confidence.  But suffice it say, it feels very much like my own, and something I am excited about and feel I will be proud of.  And if nothing more happens to it than its completion and possible self-publishing on Amazon, I will be satisfied and continue trying my hand at other things and exercising my writing mind and muscles regularly.

The weather is perfect here in Texas.  It is warm with a cool breeze, the skies are nearly always blue with big puffy white clouds and the days are long, stretching late into the evening making the darkness so quick and fleeting that I feel like a small child again heading to bed not long after the sun has set.

I missed speaking here.  Writing this small bit out, I am realizing how much it did for me.  Even if there isn't anyone out there reading these words.  Even if they are simply dumped out into a void.  Even if nothing comes of it other than my typing fingers strengthening, I will find myself glad to have been here.

Happy Monday, everyone.  I hope you are all filled with as much hope and inspiration for things to come as I am today.

V

Bad Grownup

What makes one a good grownup.  How is it decided you are an official adult?  A 401K?  Children and a spouse?  Graying hair?  I have none of these (the last thanks to my brilliant sister - stylist and colorist), but does not having those things mean I am not an adult?

I remember my mother saying she would forever be 28.  It didn't matter how many times the calendar read October 30th, she always said she felt 28.  If asked, I bet she would still stand by that statement.  I also now know exactly how she feels.  Except I feel a little bit closer to 19.  

There is a running joke between my fella and I that I am a "bad grownup."  I forget to buy toilet paper, I fall (ahem) a year behind in filing my taxes, and recently have begun what I thought was only characteristic of teenager: bailing on perfectly good jobs without anything else lined up and no real plan or reason why.  

This June, I will enter the last year of my 20's.  And it's scary and depressing and I am filled with all kinds of insecurities about it.  

But I also feel like good things are going to happen this year.  Big things.  Life-changing things.  Because they have to.  Because things have been really really shitty.  And all things must come to an end, this too shall pass, blah blah, etc., etc.

And, I have decided I am the only one who determines what kind of adult I should be.  So tonight, I will eat ice cream for dinner.  Tomorrow, I will set the alarm for 8am but forgive myself if I want to hit snooze a few times.  I will start the day with lemon water and morning pages.  But most importantly, I will try to be present (because all any of us can do is try).  I will try to enjoy this week, this day, this moment because no matter how we may feel on the inside, the days will continue to pass, and we were never promised many.  

Sparkling Gold - Flash Fiction Challenge 2015 Story 2

Genre: Fairy Tale
Location: Funeral Home
Object: Spaghetti with Meatballs

 

 

 

Sparkling Gold

Rapunzel died on Monday.  Angela hadn't had someone this noteworthy in a long time.  It had been over a year since she prepared Sleeping Beauty.  But, because of their track record and tendency to only seem to die, various tests needed to be administered to any royalty, celebrity, magical creature or historically significant person before they were deemed “officially deceased.”  That was Angela’s job.  She was the resident Death Tester and mortician for the kings and queens and godmothers and just once, a beloved squirrel.

 

Rapunzel’s hair had not been touched by time.  It had stayed as golden as the straw she spun until the day she died at 104.  Only her face and hunched back showed her age.  She had deep lines around her mouth and crows feet branching out from her eyes.  But her hair still held the luster of youth, the golden trusses hanging low over the cold metal table.

 

Now Friday, Rapunzel had passed most of the tests.  Her body had been cleared for poison and sleeping elixirs.  Frogs and toads were pressed to her stiff lips.  Magic harps played on a loop.  Enchanted birds were brought in to whistle her favorite tune.  Spinning-wheel needles were confiscated from witches’ homes and screened for spells.  Prince Rupert had just left, the fourth and youngest prince of the current royal family.  It was his job to kiss each dead lady to rule out any bewitchment that might require a prince to awaken them.  He kissed Rapunzel quickly.  Needless to say, this “duty,” wasn't his favorite. 

 

After all the tests were complete, and the dead remained dead, Angela would prepare them for their glass coffin.  They were celebrities even in death.  Their stories remaining real as long as their bodies could be seen.

 

Now that Rapunzel had been officially declared dead, the world could begin grieving and await their chance to stand before the glass coffin, and say their farewells to the woman who inspired a century of blonde hair color and floor-sweeping lengths. 

 

But a year before, almost to the day, Rapunzel had come to Angela and asked her to do the unthinkable. 

 

“I want you to cut it all off.  And then I want you to burn it.”   The wrinkled woman had to look up at Angela during their meeting at the funeral home, her head weighted down, her neck no longer strong enough to support the weight of the hair. “Please, you must promise.”

 

Angela didn't want to do it.  She had been told her story as a little girl and she loved picturing the prince climbing up her strong braid to rescue her.  Angela fought within herself, holding onto the magic of Rapunzel and her hair, but also felt pity for the old woman and what had become of her.  She could hear the desperation in her voice and the fear that her hair would keep growing, turning her into even more of a spectacle than she had been when she was alive.

 

"I swear."

 

After receiving Rapunzel’s body, she spent five days combing it, running her fingers through the never-tangling locks.  It was cold, the telling chill of dead hair.  She thought while administering the potions and spells to safeguard against burying one of the famous too soon, that the temperature of the hair was the only test they ever really needed.  Living hair retains heat, stretching down to the very tips. But once a person dies, the hair will forever be cold, lifeless and still. 

 

She thought of their meeting a year before, and remembered her promise to do as the old woman had asked.   She waited until the end of the night, the harps and singing birds quiet under their covering sheets and cages.  She pulled out a pair of scissors, the same ones she often used to trim and style hair and beards and the curling mustaches of the villains.  She held up a handful of gold, allowing it to slip through her fingers like cool water.  Then she put the blade around the thin ropes that raised a man to his love, strong enough to support his quest and magical enough to inspire a story to be told again and again, imprinting a picture of true love on every girl’s heart.

 

“What are you doing?” Griffin asked while clutching a stained Tupperware of reheated spaghetti he brought in for his lunch every day, a half-chewed meatball in his mouth.

 

“Nothing!” she said, startled and dropping the scissors.

 

“Don't do anything stupid.” he said, eyeing her suspiciously.  Griffin was her assistant and a distant cousin to Sleepy, one of Snow White’s infamous seven.  “Whatever you're doing, you won’t get away with it.  You can’t sell it, you'd lose your job.”

 

“I was just trimming it.”

 

"Ya, whatever." He turned and left to finish his meal in the front parlor.

 

She knew she would never get away with what she was about to do, and she wasn't exactly sure what would happen to her.  But despite her hesitation to destroy something so famous, so integral to a story known by thousands, she felt compelled to lift the burden from the old woman trapped beneath the unbearable weight of her golden hair.

 

So she began to cut slowly, worried Griffin would come back.  But with each lock that fell to the floor, she felt more confident about what she was doing.  Soon, there was nothing more than a rough inch of hair sticking straight up on the crown of Rapunzel’s head.  And for a moment, she thought she saw Rapunzel smile.  But before she could worry she had been declared dead too soon, the old woman started to disappear and fade into nothing.  Only the pile of hair remained.  Angela stood quiet, and then slowly started gathering it up.  She walked to the furnace, careful to not miss a strand, and dumped it all in.  It burst and crackled like straw and sparked like gold. 

Nowhere to Hide

I read an article moments ago entitled "Why the Fuck Are You Writing?" and it made some really hard-hitting points.  It did away with the good-feel-y statements that most writers make about their motivations for writing and tapped into their true reasons.

And I related.

In the deepest of places and the basest of reasons, reasons that I don't often (or never have) told people:

I want to write to be validated.
I want people to know how smart I am.
I want people to know how much I have suffered and pity me.
I want to make money doing this and not ever have to work in a restaurant again.
I want my college years and DEBT to mean something.
I want to write something that I would like to read.
I want followers.
I want recognition.
I want.
I want.
I want.

The article's point was we should stop writing like the selfish and conceited assholes we really are and actually try and put something out in the world that helps people.


And after reading this article, and realizing I am a selfish and conceited asshole writer, what could I write today that would help other people?  What could I do that would be more than just my whiny anecdotes about just how hard I had/have/will always have it?  Still not totally sure but let's see how this goes:

Sometimes I have to remind myself of the most important lessons I have ever learned: you are your own barometer for happiness and the reason for my arrow tattoo, if you feel like you are being pushed or pulled or held back, sometimes it means you are about to be launched into something better, greater, bigger, and more wonderful than where you are now.

And I've been feeling pushed, pulled and held back recently.

I have never been very good at hiding my emotions.  If I am upset, angry, sad, tired, joyful, annoyed, excited, or bored, it shows up on my face like a bright flashing sign.  I walk into a room and I might as well scream "Hey!  I'm fucking pissed!" or: "I am so incredibly excited for x to occur that I can't even stand it!" or most often: "Am I the only one that's working right now?"

And it's a problem.  I wish that I were a better poker player or I didn't let things upset me so much.

But what I am going to attempt to do today and tomorrow and for the rest of the week and month and year is realize that we are exactly where we are meant to be.  I am learning something, whether I realize it or not, from where I am living and working.  I will live in the moment and stop wishing away the here and now because the then and future will be so much better.  There are good things about this moment right now - even if I can't see or feel them.  And the better and greater and bigger and more wonderful "something" that I hope to be launched into will arrive in its own time.  Why waste this moment being miserable?  Things are never really that bad.  So here's to my attempt at turning my frown upside down.  And here's to trying to contribute something.  (Even though I still feel this post was nothing more than a selfish rant and inward pep talk.)