UNREQUITED LOVE I can recall the first time we met as if it was yesterday. It was at the Drummond’s on the occasion of their daughter’s birthday; Edwina, the younger, if possible, even more obnoxious of the two Drummond girls. What I can’t remember is how old I was exactly. Thirteen? Fourteen? My mother, already, though we did not know it, evincing early signs of the dementia that would gradually reveal itself in all its horror, convinced herself that, as the Drummond family hailed from Scotland, I should do homage by attending the party dressed as the bonny Prince Charlie of historic note. Can you imagine? A house full of young girls, all dressed in their prettiest party frocks and I get deposited at the front door dressed in a tartan kilt, sporran and tam ‘o shanter! Before the door had even been opened by Mrs. Drummond, I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me as I watched my crazy parent speeding off down the gravel driveway like a bat out of hell in her Triumph Herald. Mrs. Drummond did not disappoint, breaking into hysterical laughter as the party girls gathered around her, taking their lead from that awful woman, forgetting their game of pinning a donkey with a tail and, instead, pinning their brutal scorn on my costume fail. How maliciously cruel children can be. Why is that, I wonder? Through my tears, I saw this ethereal figure; a fairy queen, complete with wand and gossamer wings, push her way through the mocking crowd, their sadistic laughter growing ever hysterically wilder, and taking me by the hand, lead me away from that house, down the driveway and into the house next door; her house I soon discovered. I’ll never forget, as I glanced back, just the once, through misty eyes, the stupefied look of the Drummond matriarch as she saw the object of her derision disappear from view. As soon as we turned into the adjoining driveway, my saviour, Emma, took me by my arms and looked me in the eyes. “They are horrid, horrid people. Take no notice of them. Until you arrived, it was my fairy outfit that was being made fun off. Come on, we can play in my room. It’ll be much more fun”. I had seen Emma around the town occasionally, a couple of times at the library that I could think of, but we had never met. I knew, from the uniform that she had been wearing on those occasions, that she attended the fee paying, private school, Rutherfords, while I, of course, went to the local public school, St. Sebastian’s. If it hadn’t been for my mother’s chance encounter with that dragon, Mrs Drummond, at the only hairdresser in the high street, I would never have found myself invited to a party at this end of town; the posh end. Yet, from the moment that Emma had rescued me, we two became the closest of friends. Emma lived with her father, Henry, just the two of them, her mother having died when Emma had been too young to really understand the pain of losing a parent. I never quite understood what it was that Henry did, something mysterious for the government but, in contrast to my own father, he seemed to treat Emma as an equal and there were no rules or restrictions in their house; they simply co-habited. Emma never referred to her father as anything other than Henry which, at first, I found disconcerting but I soon fell into this same easy rhythmic style. For his part, Henry seemed to be pleased that his daughter had found a real friend in myself and he left us to ourselves whenever I visited, which was often, after school and, at weekends, often staying overnight. That’s not to say that she did not visit me, also; she did. What I loved about her was that she never, ever, passed any comment on the difference in our living arrangements. Not that we lived in squalor but our house, although detached, was situated in a much less salubrious area and was a far cry from the splendour of the almost mansion in which she and Henry resided. My own father was a tax inspector; a fastidious, bookish man, constantly switching off lights that had been left on, straightening rugs, curtains etc; you get the picture. He was a good man, I have no doubt, but he struggled to cope with the dual burden of a daughter and a wayward wife. I don’t believe he had the slightest idea of how to raise a girl, being the youngest of five boys himself. Which, unfortunately, left me entirely in the hands of my mother. She, God bless her, still only in her thirties, had her own struggles: disappointment at how staid her marriage had become, a longing for something more... exciting... and a slow descent into madness. Somehow, Emma slotted straight in and, while unintentionally charming the pants off my father, also represented, to my poor afflicted mother, a glimpse of the life she, herself, had always longed for. For myself, Emma became the friend that I had thought I would never find. She was, though not conventionally beautiful, attractive enough to warrant the attention of boys as we wandered around town. I noticed this, of course, for it was not an asset that I possessed; my red hair and freckled skin, not to mention my poor eyesight, necessitating glasses, having the opposite effect. But, more than looks, Emma was a genuine friend. She never lied, detested patronisation, was intensely loyal and inspired in me a desire to be better. My school work improved dramatically as a result and my father was quite startled by my reports as I rose in the ranks from being an average student to the top of my class. All through our school years, though at different schools, we shared things that we had respectively learned, only serving to enhance our education. Literature, especially, was a lynchpin. We both adored reading and would pass books back and forth, spending hours discussing various plot lines, dramas, tragedies and romances. For both of us, the outside world simply didn’t exist. We needed no other companions, content, solely, in each other’s environments. Obsessive? Possibly. Possessive? Definitely not. At least, I don’t believe so; the question of having to share Emma with somebody else simply never occurred so it was not something that I had to deal with and, I assume...would like to believe... that she felt the same way about me. Even when it came to vacations, It just seemed to evolve naturally into Henry expecting me to be a part of their holiday plans. In this way, I discovered new countries, languages, customs, food. I remember, after returning from one magical trip to Italy, when I first introduced pasta to our household and my father thought it had to be eaten in its solid form; our usual meals, up until that time, emanating mainly from cans. It was a wonderful time of discovery for me and, I can honestly say, for Emma, too. Though quite different to the type of holiday that she had become accustomed to, she absolutely loved being a part of my family trips to the seaside, the British fare of fish and chips, jellied eels, cockles, candy floss and funfairs, staying at cheap boarding houses, my father’s perverse habit of placing a knotted handkerchief upon his balding head as protection from the sun, my mother’s ever more daring bathing costumes. It was a world hitherto unknown to her and she revelled in it and we became ever closer. Then, of course, talk of university threatened to interrupt our idyllic world. For the first time, it appeared that our single path would start to veer in separate directions. As this realisation began to take hold of me, I felt quite calm, reassuring myself that we would still have our vacations to look forward to and, perhaps, could visit each other occasionally during term time although my ambitions were geared towards a lesser university town somewhere in the north of England while Emma, as per Henry’s wishes, was destined for the more auspicious, hallowed halls of Oxford. To my surprise, it was Emma who seemed to be the one upset at our forced parting. Why, she pleaded, could I not apply to attend the same colleges as she? The thought had never occurred to me; nobody from St. Sebastian’s had ever aspired to Oxford. It simply did not happen; we knew our place in the hierarchy of 1950’s English life. Yet, after Emma had begged me to, at least, try, the thought grew within me and I asked myself: why shouldn’t I have the same opportunity? There really was no difference between Emma and myself. In fact, because we had shared so much of each other’s education, our trips abroad, the countless books that we had jointly read, intellectually , we were exactly on par with each other. My joy at opening my acceptance letter from Balliol was as nothing to Emma’s when I broke the news. She had been accepted at Magdalen but it meant that, for the next three years, our lives would remain entwined and we began to speak of sharing lodgings in Oxford. My father’s reaction to my acceptance surprised me greatly as he burst into tears. He had never before shown such emotion. As for mother, she celebrated by purchasing a bottle of “plonk”, the cheapest kind, imbibing the entire contents herself and, then, running half-naked down our road proclaiming to all and sundry that her daughter had been accepted for Oxford. Unfortunately, at the time, father was at work and I was at Emma’s and there was nobody to stop her. A policeman discovered her, comatose, on a park bench in broad daylight, surrounded by gawping onlookers and, thankfully, covered her exposed parts, before another passerby recognised her and she was returned home, oblivious to her actions. Sadly, this compulsion at public exposure was to become more and more prevalent. Oxford brought about a great deal of changes to my life. For the first time ever, I found myself sharing a flat with, not just Emma, but two other girls. The reality of “digs” had come as a harsh surprise to both of us as we discovered that two girls, alone, could not afford the exorbitant cost of a flat in a university town. We were forced to take in two lodgers and both girls seemed to be good choices, one from London and one from Surrey. They were not party girls and, like ourselves, were intent on making the most of their university education and achieving good careers once they had graduated. At that time, it was not quite the norm that it is today and men ruled the roost in business. As well, of course, I, especially, had to adapt to this new way of living. At first, I was intimidated, I freely admit, by the intellects of those other students around me and it took me some time to really find my feet and come to terms with the fact that, actually, I was just as intelligent, if not more so but, gradually, I found my tempo and began to embrace my new existence. But another far greater change was happening; one that I found totally unexpected. It was the age old tale of the ugly duckling evolving into a swan as I found my body changing alarmingly. I had, of course, experienced menstruation pre-university but no noticeable differences in my bodily structure had accompanied my periods. Yet, now, it was as if I was possessed by a living organism; something inside of me was altering. Each morning, as I stared into the bathroom mirror, I noticed another change. My facial structure began to adjust; my cheekbones becoming sharper, my lips more pronounced. Suddenly, I found the face staring back at me to be, dare I say it, attractive. My flat chest began to sprout; at first, slowly but, gradually, developing into full blown breasts. For the first time in my life, I had to purchase bras. It is hard to explain fully what this meant for me, the perennial wallflower; a person who had never thought herself to be attractive in any way. Now, it was I who attracted admiring glances from fellow students and I liked it. This feeling was enhanced when, on a trip back home, I persuaded my father to pay for the cost of contact lenses. Back then, they were what was known as the “hard” kind. Not only were they made of hard plexiglass but they were, also, hard, as in difficult, to become accustomed to and, many times, I almost abandoned my efforts but I persevered and, upon my return to Oxford, the effect was startling. Emma, of course, had noticed all of these alterations, not just in my looks and my bodily shape but, also, in my newfound confidence as a result of my late development. She embraced it, encouraged me, loaned me a bra until I could purchase a new one. She it was who gave me advice on new clothing, designed to enhance my looks. But another change had begun to take hold of me. As if all of this was not enough, I also began to develop feelings...feelings of desire. To my consternation, I found myself having secret thoughts; thoughts of nakedness, sensuality, a longing to kiss and embrace. Despite all of the admirers who now surrounded me, only one person was the object of my fantasies, the person I had loved platonically for all these years: Emma! It is difficult to express my torment; the agonies I endured each night as I lay in my bed thinking of her, so close yet so far way in an adjoining room. So many times I thought of rising and tiptoeing into her room, laying beside her but I could never find the courage. My studies suffered as a result of this all consuming lust. I felt exhausted, depleted, such was my passion. Throughout it all, her devotion to me never wavered. She was the same lovely girl who had rescued me that day, taken me under her wing, welcomed me into her family home, learnt to love me, share with me, encourage me. She it was who had pleaded with me to apply for Oxford. Could it be... possible... that she might harbour similar thoughts for myself? Oh, not the bookish, skinny thing that I was but this new, feminine form that I had become. Was there even a chance that our special relationship could develop into something more passionate? How many times I asked myself this question, searching, ever searching, for clues; in her eyes, the way she spoke, the hugs she gave me. How many different interpretations I came up with. She did, she didn’t. She did, she didn’t. On the last evening of our first full term, several students from Balliol were gathering to celebrate at Marlborough and we were each assigned specific foods or drinks that we had to bring with us. I invited Emma and she, of course, accepted. I had been tasked with supplying a bottle of champagne and, to compensate for my Magdalen intruder, I brought two bottles along. Having never before visited Marlborough, both Emma and I were entranced by the beauty of our surroundings on this warm, early, summer evening. In particular, we were both fascinated and mesmerised by the incredible design and shape of the maze that took up a huge part of the grounds. Having consumed one bottle between us, we wandered through the maze, the tall, dark hedges towering above us, determined to find our way to the centre. Round and round we went, in and out of verdant channels leading to dead ends and forcing us, giggling hysterically, to retrace our steps and start again. At some stage, I popped the cork on the second bottle and we took sips, froth running over and down our dresses. As I looked at Emma in the moonlight, the bubbles of champagne dribbling from her mouth as, intoxicated, she chortled with joy, I felt an overwhelming urge to take her in my arms and kiss her wet lips. Impulsively, I moved closer and locked eyes with her. It was now or never. For one bittersweet moment, I closed my eyes and experienced such ecstasy, such a sense of achievement as our lips locked. Emma; my Emma. As I opened my eyes, I was appalled to see the look of revulsion on her face, the sheer incredulity, a look of... betrayal. As she pushed me away and staggered back, still staring at me as if I was some monstrous thing, I tried to reach out, stammered my remorse, attempted to explain my feelings but she turned and ran from me. The greatest friendship I had ever known, over , disappearing from sight, never to be revived. Half drunk, I tried to gather my thoughts, my head spinning. She mustn’t speak of this; my perversion. I lunged disjointedly after her, realising that, inadvertently, she had taken a path to a dead end, one we had only just returned from. I came upon her crouched on the grass, her back against a hedge, sobbing mightily. “Emma...” “Stay away from me”, she screamed. “How could you? After all these years. I trusted you...” I don’t exactly know what came over me at that point. A sense of enormous loss, of course. But, more than anything, the realisation that the one thing I wanted, the only thing, would never be mine and nothing could fill that void. If I couldn’t have her, I would make damned sure that nobody else would. I raised that heavy bottle and brought it crashing down upon her unprotected head...again...and again...and again.


(WP) Pride Versus Greed Part One: The First Sin Everyone knew who Tessa St. Claire was. She was one of the best politicians that had ever lived, and she knew it. But her ambition alone hadn’t been the blessing she needed to achieve her dreams, as much as she liked to believe so. It had been the ring. It had transformed her from mousy, meek Tess, keener to hide out in the library than socialize with her peers, to Tessa, the woman who stood with the world at her feet and her arms opened wide, eager to take everything it offered her. When she’d found it, abandoned on a bookshelf, it had twinkled like a secret, hidden star, just for her. Without thinking much of it, she’d slipped it on her left ring finger, which had been naked since her fiancé had left her. Suddenly, everything changed. She was being invited to parties, getting asked out by men and women alike, her curls smoothed straight, her acne vanished, and all of her clothes were shiny, new, and designer. She quickly rose up the ranks, and with her social success, her grades rose as well. She was the top of her class by the end of her senior year. Graduating from Yale that summer, she quickly landed a job at a top-tier law firm. But with her newfound beauty and silver tongue, that wasn’t enough anymore. She was soon an assistant to a politician, and then she became one herself. She was a rising star, and she told herself that the ring had nothing to do with it. Maybe it had given her a little nudge in the right direction, but it wasn’t solely responsible for everything she’d reaped and wrought. She was the author of her own destiny and always had been. \*\* Tessa St. Claire boarded her own private jet, ringed by her entourage and bodyguards. She was due to be in Chicago in the morning for her campaign run. She was shooting for the Senator’s seat, and she knew, deep down, that she could do it. Anyone could be fleeced; it was all a matter of saying something in just the right way. She ordered her assistant to go get her tablet; she wanted to constantly be updated on her opponents. She curtly thanked her and sent her to fetch some other things. Powering on the device, she tuned in to CNN, and found herself looking at her opponent, a fetching older man with salt and pepper hair and a fine goatee. Preston Culpepper, her former assistant. Traitor. His suit was Hugo Boss, a black and white pinstripe that hugged his bulky frame. He looked as though he was giving a speech. She turned up the volume on the tablet, and the man’s rich baritone came through the speakers, honeyed and genteel. “I am known as a man who keeps his promises,” He was saying, smiling out at the crowd, working them as only a politician could. “I will be happily anticipating your votes, folks, when I run for Senator of Massachusetts!” The last of this sentence was drowned out by roars of approval, and Tessa pinched the screen, zooming in on Culpepper’s right hand. On his ring finger glinted a bright, golden ring, and her own finger began tingling in response, as if it could sense its brother, even so many miles away. It appeared she had competition in the one place she’d never expected.


The snow was the type you weren’t supposed to drive in, period. Especially not during the heaviest part of the storm, when white fluff was dumping at an astonishing rate. Meg was at the wheel, navigating in her minivan, which was the absolute worst type of vehicle to be in at this point. I listened to her chatter, looked over my shoulder at Beth, wondering why neither of my cousins seemed to be frightened beyond belief like I was. I was half-wishing I had gone with my father instead, safe inside his four-wheel drive SUV, confident in his winter-driving skills. But. Meg, Beth and I were cousins, all the same age and raised together, born in a decidedly fertile year for our family. As adults, my cousins and I saw each other rarely—the occasional death seemed to be it. So I wanted every single second with them, even at the risk of crashing on a snowy back road. We were on our way to the memorial service for our great-aunt, Libby. The title always seemed too long, so she was just Libby to us. Although she had died almost a year ago, the memorial had been postponed to allow southern family members time to coordinate travel plans. I’m not sure why we picked the dead of winter, but here everyone was, driving one behind the other on back roads while wet snow stuck, a chain-reaction pileup just waiting to happen. “Remember the elephants?” Beth said, and it had been anyone’s guess who would bring that up first. The elephants and Libby went hand in hand, a simultaneous thought, one that couldn’t be born without the other coming into play. Of course, we remembered the elephants. In attempt to keep my mind off the sliding van and Meg’s complete obliviousness to the treacherous roads, I elected myself to be the one to retell it. It was Christmas 1988 or some such year. We were all gathered at my grandparents’ home, a place that seemed to have been the setting for Normal Rockwell’s inspiration. Little had changed since the 1960s, not in décor or progressiveness. It was as though time stood still at its most idyllic point. With the exception of the semi-new television and the rabbit eared Casio radio in the kitchen, everything else was a relic of the past. The mustard yellow corded phone, the sunken living room with brown patterned wallpaper. The camaraderie between my father and his family, me and my cousins, and Libby. Libby was as eccentric as one could possibly be. Even as an adult—when I understood that her job as a museum curator indicated intellectuality, and her work as a Red Cross nurse during wartime indicated versatility, and her knowledge of countless subjects indicated that she was educated—even then, eccentricity was her stand-out quality. On Christmas Day, she dressed in billowing satin clothing, rainbows of bright colors, gifts from her friend Amari in Africa, she told us. It was her standard holiday wear. She always wore Birkenstocks, long before they were trendy, and long after they were trendy. She kept her hair short, her lips hot-pink, and her fingers adorned in turquoise and silver jewelry. A mashup, she was. Her home, a brownstone in New York City that she owned outright, was filled with objects that didn’t go together. It was a mashup just like Libby. Full of oriental rugs, first edition poetry books displayed on floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves, ancient pottery with tiny chips inlaid with gold. Paintings worth more money than I can imagine and an abundance of plants suspended in macrame hangers. Her financial independence was a nod to a state of being that was yet to become vogue: a successful, single woman. No husband necessary. As kids, we all sort of knew Libby was well-off and that’s where the elephants come in. Perhaps the most eccentric thing about Libby was her style of gift giving. Single, childless, and rich—she should have been the relative who indulged us with expensive gifts. Cash in envelopes, hard to score Cabbage Patch Dolls, or the brand-new, much coveted Nintendo system that was all the rage. Libby’s gifts, however, ran a different gamut. One Christmas, it was eagle feathers for all of us! She had spent the year collecting them on walks and hikes in upstate New York, and she was just over the moon that she had enough to present one to each of us. Something to tie us all together, she said. We spent the day playing Davy Crockett and tickling each other under the chin, but it was a strange gift to eight year old girls. Another year, she donated an extraordinary amount of money to MOMA, dividing the total by however many of us there were and giving us each a handwritten certificate stating that a donation had been made in our name. Gifts like this were usually accompanied by something small, a token to offset the disappointment in our little faces, I suppose. Her go-to was a coupon for a free Frosty from Wendy’s. One year, my dad decided to best her. On a summer visit, she commented on the loveliness of our rose gardens, and demanded to know what kind of witchery my father was using to produce such succulent blooms, such deep color. He explained that the cow farm next door allowed him to fertilize his roses directly from their manure pile. Libby was beyond excited about this, imagining what cow poop could do for her little terrace garden. But there was no time that day for my father to take her on a field trip next door. “I’ll wrap it up for Christmas,” my dad joked. And when that Christmas came, he wore a grin on his face that stretched from ear to ear as she opened the box and the read the note he’d attached to the bag. Ten pounds of cow manure, all hers. Quadruple bagged, though if you leaned into the box, you could still catch a faint whiff. Which of course we did, over and over. “Yes!” she cried out, punching her fists in the air like a small child. She was beyond tickled that my father would go to the trouble to bag up manure for her, let alone present it as a Christmas gift. Meg, Beth and I rolled our eyes and plugged our noses. That year, we learned, Libby was just as weird of a gift recipient as she was giver. Anyhow. The elephants. The kicker was the year that she’d spent months abroad in Africa with Amari, who we secretly gossiped was her lesbian lover, after overhearing the adults whisper their own suspicions. They were doing some type of missionary work with poverty-stricken children that seemed unreal to us cousins, living our spoiled, sheltered lives. While there, she’d become invested in the preservation of African elephants. Their herd numbers were declining, poaching was a problem, and help was needed to protect them. Libby couldn’t save the children and the elephants with her own two hands. So she fed malnourished toddlers rice on spoons (so I imagined) and bankrolled the elephants Through some program or other, she adopted three elephants. One for each of us—Meg, Beth, and me. Each year, she told us, she would continue to donate money towards the efforts to preserve the herds near the area that she and Amari had spent months living in bush-like conditions. In our names, of course. As we each opened our card, reading the handwritten notes to ourselves, I think we all felt a collective sense of disappointment. The three of us were nearly teenagers, so we smiled politely and said thank you. In her excitement about the three elephants, Libby had forgotten to include our standard Frosty coupon. “She was so excited about those elephants,” Meg laughed. We listed the other various gifts: wooden African beads, sent to her by Amari one year. Season passes to the Bronx Zoo (that one was actually pretty cool.) Original hardback copies of Nancy Drew mystery books, long after they were age-appropriate for us. Eventually, after she entered Sunset Retirement Community and later, a nursing home, the gifts became recycled Christmas cards. Slipped inside would be a five dollar bill and a note encouraging us to spend it on something special , whatever special thing five dollars could possibly buy. The Frosty coupon seemed to go the way of our childhood and the elephants...in the past and forgotten about. “You know, I missed getting those damn Frosty coupons,” Beth said. I looked back and smiled at her appreciatively. I knew exactly what she meant. “Did you ever look up the elephants?” Meg asked, as she slid her van into the parking lot and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ironically, as Meg turned the van off, the snow stopped and the clouds began to reveal patches of blue behind them. “No," I said. "Why, did you?" “I did,” Meg said. “Did you know they’re still alive? Well, mine is anyhow. There’s a website. I’ll send you the link later. We'd better hurry.” We hopped out of the van, following Meg and the throng that was trickling into the building, the rec center of Sunset Retirement Community, where Libby had spent a large portion of her retirement years. I couldn’t seem to get Meg's words out of my head. How many years ago had the elephants been? Had Libby’s money directly kept those three bad boys alive all this time? I had never, not once, thought to ask about or investigate saving African elephants. I glanced back at Beth, who seemed to read my mind. She was teary-eyed. “Our elephants are alive! That just makes me…” She couldn’t find the word. “I know,” I said. Inside, we found ourselves surrounded by family. Not just our immediate family, but the extended family. Libby’s other nieces and nephews, second cousins we knew in name only, their children our age but complete strangers. Everyone smiled tentatively at one another. But there were more people than could possibly have fit on our family tree. I elbowed my dad. “Who are all these people?” He smiled. “Her friends.” The memorial got underway quickly. One of Libby’s nephews thanked everyone for braving the snow, and explained that this was a day for us to remember Libby. No agenda, just an open forum in which anyone who wanted to speak about Libby was free to do so. I looked around the room. I was in disbelief at the amassed crowd. My dad had said they were her friends, but these were people of all ages—some younger than I, some wrinkled and elderly in wheelchairs pushed by aides. There were quite a few people in scrubs. I expected that my dad would be the one to stand first and speak, but I was wrong. As I turned forward again, I realized a line was forming at the lectern. My dad was maybe tenth or eleventh. I nudged Meg and Beth, each on one side of me. “I don’t think we’ll have to speak,” Meg whispered, as awestruck as I was at the crowd and the line. "Just look!" The first person at the microphone was an attractive man wearing scrubs. He introduced himself as Daniel, one of the nursing home employees. He was perhaps thirty, and I was shocked to see tears openly run down his face as he described what a joy, what an absolute light Libby had been in his life. He was unabashedly emotional as he spoke. At the end, he pulled something out of his pocket. “She gave me this a few weeks before she passed. Just a polished rock from a souvenir shop, she told me, but it was still special.” He held his palm out, just enough that we could see the shiny jade-colored rock he cradled. He chuckled and then spoke again. “She gave it to me because, she said, ‘it’s pretty and so are you’.” Daniel laughed and along with him, so did all of us. The next person at the microphone was one of my dad’s cousins, who spoke of summers spent with Libby in New York City when he was a troubled kid, an attempt by his parents to set him straight. “There I was, fourteen and trying to score drugs and Libby thought the antidote was to take me to the museums and teach me about the Renaissance.” He shook his head, the second grown man in ten minutes to choke up. “Well, she was right,” he said, quickly stepping down, his emotions all too much for the moment. I looked back and forth between Meg and Beth. We were all crying. Beth passed us a little packet of tissues. Next, the head of Sunset. She spoke eloquently about Libby’s presence in the community. She talked about the monetary contributions Libby made each Christmas to the food pantry that the retirement community was involved with. She talked about how, on Christmas Eve, Libby snuck around like Santa Claus and left little coupons on each resident’s door. “You know,” the woman said, “Those ones you get at fast food places? For free fries or a Frosty?” Now Meg was laughing and crying at once. I reached out and clasped her hand in mine. There was no way I was going to be able to talk, nor were she and Beth. But this? Listening? Was a tonic for grief. Was a balm on the empty space left in each of our worlds. It felt like Libby was right there with us. Probably watching all of us with her hands clasped together, her mouth open in sheer delight. My father’s words of his Aunt Libby began with a story from childhood, when Libby was the only adult who went sledding with them, no matter how wet and cold it was. Who taught them how to lay low and gain speed on their wooden sleds with metal runners. Who was there at every Christmas, with her silly and weird and wonderful gifts in hand. “I guess we all know what Libby’s gifts were like,” my father acknowledged, and the crowd collectively laughed. He wiped his own tears—my father!—and shook his head. “How lucky was I,” he said, “that she was my very own aunt.” On and on it went. The friends from the retirement community—too many to count. Employees of Sunset. Neighbors from the New York City days. The final woman to speak was Lucy, the daughter of Libby’s cleaning lady in New York City, who was the recipient of her numerous fur coats when Libby finally sold the brownstone to move to Sunset. “My mother and my sisters and I had so little, we really struggled. Libby always wildly over tipped my mom, and then, when she left, we had the fur coats!” Lucy said. "She had no way of knowing, or maybe she did, that my mother didn't have enough money for winter coats that year." It was not lost on me that while I, a privileged child in suburban America, received only coupons and feathers, this young lady's family was the one to get the fur coats. Their worth was accentuated in warmth over monetary value. In fact, it seemed, for all the money she had, she only invested in things that really needed it. Supporting the arts. Food pantries and hungry children. Elephants in danger. After Lucy stepped down, Libby’s nephew instructed us to move to the next room, where there were light refreshments for us all. We began to shuffle out, the hum of the crowd rising, tears dissipating and replaced by laughter. In the room next door, in a large, glass-paned stand-up freezer, a man reached in and out offering everyone one of the dozens of child-sized Frosties from Wendy’s. Ice cream in a snowstorm in the rec center of a retirement village, a hundred people gathered together for Libby. It was perfect. People began to mingle outside of their collective circles. I wanted to talk to Lucy, to tell her I remembered meeting her once, when I was visiting Libby, and Lucy's mother brought her along to clean. I wanted to see if she could recall playing with me on Libby’s terrace, pretending we were in a jungle amongst all the growing plants. As I looked for her, I saw that others seemed to be doing the same. My dad was shaking hands with the head of the retirement community. Daniel and Meg were laughing over the stone, which Daniel was showing her. Meg, no doubt, would tell him about the elephants. Old people, young people, relatives, friends, employees—every single one of us, connected only by Libby. Each of us at one time or another a recipient of a gift from Libby—more than once, if we were lucky, like my dad said. As I watched the connections being made and ate my Frosty, I realized this was the gift--this was the ultimate gift. I could not imagine anything that would have delighted Libby as much—not saving the elephants, not cow poop, not eagle feathers or shiny stones or collectible books. This. The people of her life together, right here. The culmination of her existence in terms of love. This, along with Frosties, was her final gift to us. And what a gift it was. Tossing my paper cup, I reached into my purse as I scanned the room. I felt my fingers touch the African beads I had long since taken to carrying, letting them serve as a worry stones. I rubbed them while searching the crowd for Lucy. I wondered if she had worn one of Libby's furs today. I hoped she had.


I have always loved the man-made sounds that break the quiet of the night: passing cars, train whistles, the morning newspaper being delivered. These sounds, particularly in my youth, offered me comfort and safety, someone else was awake, alert, standing guard without any knowledge of their appointment to this powerful and protective role. My fear of the night was well-known in my family and lasted inappropriately long–well into my late teens–dissipating only when I entered college and moved into a dormitory that housed more than 500 wonderfully nocturnal humans. But before this Heaven-on-Earth housing assignment, deviations from my nighttime routine were rare: Fan, check. AM radio set to the staticky overnight talk shows that were broadcast from Cleveland, check. Corner lamp on, check. TV off, check. That last requirement may seem counter-intuitive but it was the 1970s, and to be awakened by the National Anthem and subsequent sign-off tone at the witching hour of 2:00 AM was the kiss of death for me. The parameters of acceptable waking times were rigid- to be awakened before midnight or after 4:00 AM were safe; after all, my dad got up for work at 4:30 and then dawn was close enough to allow me to slip back into my slumber. If, God forbid, I opened my eyes in that 4 hour window of terror, my fate was sealed: I would lay motionless, paralyzed, sweating from a combination of fear and now-suffocating blankets that I refused to come out from under, listening for unexplainable noises, and waiting for some unknown force to find me. I wanted to cry, but my silence hid my presence while I prayed for dawn to come. What was I expecting might happen? Who or what was I waiting for and hiding from? Many years would pass before I understood the cause. My sister, Heather, was my loyal companion throughout much of my introverted childhood existence. She was two years my junior and always included me in with her circle of friends. Her devotion extended into my nightly wee-hours requests for accompaniment to the bathroom, and it rarely took more than a light tap to get her to rise, without speaking, to join me on the trek down the 1970s avocado shag-carpeted hallway. On one particular night, timestamped only by the matching nightgowns recently sewn by our mother (Simplicity circa 1976), our nightly journey would quietly but profoundly transform the rest of my childhood. To set the stage, picture a split-level middle class Midwestern house that sat as the neighborhood anchor where all the tar-covered streets converged. We were the only house with a swimming pool in the yard, albeit an above the ground find from the local salvage store, but it was the summer yard where neighborhood bikes would lay as plans were organized for the day among the young riders, and neighborhood ladies would gather for some sun, cigarettes, and chatter. Inside, shades of orange and green dominated, with a velvet sofa and chairs in the living room, and a brown and yellow plaid couch that paired well with the fashionably-paneled walls in the den. All floors carpeted and all walls papered in florals, trellises or bicentennial charm. A black wrought-iron rail led up the stairs and wrapped around to a balcony landing on the second floor, with a spectacular mirror-tiled wall for the backslash. It was this mirror that reflected the image of my sister and I in matching nightgowns, ages 6 and 8, as we walked from our shared bedroom side-by-side that night. The first hint of oddity came from the flood of light that blinded our night eyes as we made our way to the bathroom in those still pitch-dark hours. The living room glowed. Every light was not only on but also seemed much brighter than usual. A child’s mind rationalizes quickly, and I dismissed the strange illumination as the result of forgetful parents. As Heather and I got closer to the wrought iron railing that separated the elevated hallway from the living room, I saw something moving… walking actually… from the living room toward kitchen. In sync, Heather and I kneeled down in front of the railing, our hands holding the cold metal rails while our faces peered through to see the creature that stood down below. It was a very large white rabbit, standing upright. It stood at least 7 feet tall and if I had stretched my hand out through the rails, I could have touched it. It stopped instantly when it became aware of our presence and turned its head quickly to meet our now-frozen faces. The massive creature had a colorful poncho of some kind over one shoulder and a sack over the other, amusing enough that I don’t remember feeling frightened; what I do remember were the rabbit’s large eyes–almond-shaped and onyx black, like the darkest waters of the ocean at its deepest point. The eyes were the whole of the creature, not the costume it had wrapped itself into. It communicated with us and the message was clear, “Get up. Go back to bed. Never speak of this night again.” I heard the message from somewhere in my head, but not through my ears. No sound was ever made and the rabbit’s mouth never moved, but I knew Heather had received the message too, because we stood up together and followed the clear instructions we had been given. It must have been something about the safety of that dorm, the distance now placed between my childhood home and this college town, that allowed the memory of that night to catapult from its hiding place and into my conscious mind some 10 years later. It was there suddenly and completely, and I shared it with my roommates–one of whom was an art major–and soon she had sketched, almost perfectly, the creature she named “Demon Bunny.” It was a vividly detailed memory without question, and my roommates and I brainstormed the rational and the irrational possibilities: a dream? a nightmare? an alien? a burglar? The weekend following my revelation, I headed home for a visit that included a shopping trip with my mom and sister. Demon Bunny was now alive and well in my mind but its message was still firmly fixed–”Never speak of this night again”–and I was fearful of the consequence that might follow if I violated that pact. I had decided to share my story with my mom and Heather, and I finally threw caution to the wind as we drove along on our shopping trip, “You know, I had the strangest memory come back to me recently. I think it was a dream… haha… but here it goes…” I told my story to my mom and sister, both with very different reactions. My mom’s concerned and confused stares alternated back and forth from the road to her narrating passenger and back again. Heather, who had been relaxing in the back seat now slid her body forward and leaned her whole head into the front seat space between my mom and I, her face drained of color. “That wasn’t a dream. I remembered it a few years ago. ” she said. My mom nearly drove off the road, asking why she hadn’t mentioned it before this moment. I already knew the answer. My sister, just inches from my head, and with a now deeply accusatory and worried tone directed her response at me, “Because we were told not to.” With the cat, or more accurately the rabbit, out of the bag we compared stories, matching detail to detail the events of that night–the lights, the colored poncho, the sack, the eyes, and the message. My mom, who had just finished the alien-based book Communion: A True Story, was convinced that the rabbit was an extraterrestrial. My sister committed to silence on the topic after that weekend and today remains hesitant to discuss it any further. I have done some research into the topic over the years and while I felt ridiculous entering the search words “big white rabbit in my house”, “rabbit with eyes that spoke to me”, and “do shape-shifters exist?” into my computer, I did stumble across a concept from Celtic folklore that seemed to check many of the boxes: the Pooka. The word “Pooka” is believed to have come from the old Irish word for Goblin (puca) or perhaps the Scandanvian word “pook/puke” meaning ‘nature spirit’. According to the lore, it appears only at night, enjoys creating mischief, and it is often inclined to conversation. They can take the form of any animal, although most commonly they appear as horses with glowing eyes. Pookas are credited with being benevolent, protective, and sometime havoc-wreakers. They often leave those who encounter them with a questioning of whether or not the visit was even real. One of the first things I ever read about Pookas was that when they appear to a child, they seek to forever alter the perception of reality for that child. Hollywood has borrowed the Pooka for now-famous films like Harvey (1950), Donnie Darko (2001), and Pooka (2018). I’m still not sure what we saw that night, but I don’t think was a “demon” and I certainly hope it wasn’t an alien. I can live with the idea of the Pooka so that’s where I landed.


Vijay pulled his car to the pavement with a grumble. The noise and chaos in the market overwhelmed him. Cars honking, carts rattling on the uneven mud pavement, motorbikes revving with fumes, and people’s loud voices filling the air. The narrow streets were packed with vendors selling their harvest. Buyers weaved their way, examining fruits and vegetables and looking for bargains. The smell of wet mud and the soil from the roots of vegetables filled the air contrasting with the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers and the aroma of ripe fruit, creating a potent blend that pricked his nose. His chin twisted with a frown as he grumbled with disdain at the idea of buying flowers. "I don't understand why people bother spending their hard-earned money on flowers," he muttered. "It's a complete waste if you ask me. Flowers belong in nature, on plants and trees where they're meant to be. That's where they're born. That’s where they blossom and mature. Why pluck them and bring them indoors to wilt and die? It's senseless," he wiped the sweat on his forehead and looked away from Rani, his wife, daring anyone to disagree with him. “Well, you don’t know how to admire beauty,” Rani retorted. “Flowers are a gift to humanity. They symbolise beauty, grace, and purity. Their vibrant colours and fragrances transpose you to another world,” she snapped back and got out of the car to the flower stall vendor, who was busy screaming his bargains. He could see her admiring those flowers. She picked a pink rose with soft petals, savouring its fragrance and texture, and turned around with a twinkle in her eyes. Oh, she is doing that to annoy me. He turned away as if something more important caught his attention. Driving home, he gripped the steering wheel tight and manoeuvred the traffic recklessly. His heart was beating at a high pace. He was agitated. He didn’t know why. Was it the noise and chaos of the market or the flowers? He wondered. Later at home, he stared at the package lying lazily on his desk. It was from his parent company in Japan. Every year they give a gift to all their employees. He doesn’t care much about them. He ripped it open and saw a calendar inside. He was curious to see the images. The first one intrigued him. It’s so beautiful, he exclaimed. He brought it under the daylight and looked closer. The pastel pink flowers with small petals against the blue sky looked stunning. He was mesmerised by its beauty. He flipped to the next page, and the photograph had zoomed into the flowers, unveiling intricate details of a deep pink base and thin filaments holding precious saffron-coloured pollen ever so delicately in a tight bulb. He moved to another page and was more astonished at the velvety carpet spread on a hill covered in pink. That is a beauty, he marvelled. He read the one-liner note underneath about the significance of Sakura and Cherry Blossom for the Japanese people. He gazed at the images, lost in thought. He realised how these small delicate flowers could emanate so much beauty, purity, and new life, entwined into spiritual life and celebration for humanity. These flowers have the magical powers to bring a smile and uplift a wilting soul. As his lips stretched wide with a sense of bliss, he couldn’t help but think about how we use and abuse flowers. We pull each one ruthlessly from the stem and tie them into a knot like a bunch of criminals punished for being beautiful and weave them into a garland. And we garland idols and politicians with these. Women use flowers on their hair to enhance their appeal beyond. Flowers are used in functions to show the surrounding freshness and vibrancy of colours to distract. As his concerns for flowers were battling in his mind, he turned around and looked at the flowers his wife had bought. The bouquet was leaning against the wall of the vase. Rani hurriedly ensured it was in the vase with water before she rushed out. He took the bunch out of the vase and stared blankly at them. A deep sigh came out of his lips as he shook his head. He couldn’t bear to see them held tight by a rubber band. He felt they were throttled in a cage with a tight noose suffocating them. He sprang into action and quickly loosened the noose by snapping the rubber band. His mind drifted to the realities of the world. He thought of all the people trapped in misery and looking for freedom. If he had the power, he would do everything to free them. His eyes gazed back to the bouquet. The stems had just come out of a noose. He had the power to do something about this. He took a rose stem and brought it close to his face. The sweet fragrance flooded his nose. He closed his eyes and savoured the moment. His lips extended wide into a smile with an air of pity. He whispered, “As I free you from this noose, I am thinking of all people trapped in human misery, poverty, and senseless wars, and with the power I have, I am freeing you from that.” He then trimmed and tidied the stem and placed it in the vase. He did the same ritual for all the others, thinking of all enslaved people because of human greed. He would then set each one free. Though symbolic, it gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. He trimmed them all to perfect symmetry and positioned them into the vase. Each flower stood high and found a unique place in the arrangement. As he continued doing this, he whispered softly to them, “You and I have a limited life in this world, like the Sakura. This is your freedom. You have been brought here for a purpose, to emanate your unique beauty. I am still searching for mine.” With a gentle touch, he carefully placed the last stem. He leaned back to admire his work and felt goosebumps. A sense of satisfaction adorned his face. He carefully placed the vase on the coffee table as a centrepiece. It was prominently visible to anyone who entered through the front door. More importantly, he wanted Rani to notice it when she returned.


Where Were You? I had never made a therapist cry before.

“Inappropriate” was the word Judith, my therapist, used to describe my father. I sucked on that word as if it were a lifesaver, but not the good cherry kind. This was a yucky green one. I had always known something was not right in our family. I had witnessed the interactions of my friends with their families and relished sleepovers where I could feel like part of another family, even if just for a night. At one sleepover, my friend Laura’s father had yelled at her, but then apologized a few hours later, driving us to Chinatown late at night for a conciliatory meal. It was strangely wonderful and a favorite memory I bring out and savor from time to time. In elementary school in the 1970s, I watched reruns of “The Munsters” and identified with Marilyn Munster, the niece who lived with the ghouls. She was a beauty by societal norms, but unattractive by the Munsters’ standards. Though Marilyn was not a very well developed character, I felt in tune with her outsiderness, living in a family of werewolves, vampires and other monsters. Marilyn was my soul sister, sometimes even more so than my real twin sister was.  *** It was hard to be honest with Judith in therapy. My grandma said, “When you speak of your troubles, people look down, not up.”

My family was like a skein of yarn knotted with secrets that we kept from others and ourselves. My older brother was not mentally ill — he was just lazy . That heroin rig I found in the bathroom and showed to my parents did not belong to my sister – it was her friend’s .

 In time, I was able to play for Judith the cassette tape that ran in my head.

“Y ou’re a prude ,” dad said when I told him to stop making comments about my budding breasts.

“She wouldn’t even know what to do with him ,” dad chuckled when mom did not want me alone in the apartment with my high school boyfriend.

(You think you’re) “Smart, smart, smart — but you don’t know anything. I would never take you on a bank robbery,” dad spat whenever I said anything that proved that I did not have “street smarts” like he did. He was a scammer, putting scotch tape on counterfeit coins to use in parking meters, ditching his non-working car and reporting it stolen for the insurance, and sneaking into a second movie for the price of one ticket.  *** My parents, my twin sister and me, my older twin brothers, and our Cairn terrier occupied a two-bedroom apartment in a pre-war building in Brooklyn. Years of too many coats of paint meant that no door ever closed completely, not even the bathroom door. My sister and I stuffed socks in our bedroom door to help it close, but mom always told us to stop stuffing shmatas in the door.

Growing up in this household, I knew nothing about boundaries, but my body knew.

I kept guard constantly for perimeter breaches by my father. Doorways featured in every one of my recurring childhood nightmares — like the one where I went to open the apartment door and a big, amorphous blob-man fell on top of me, smothering me. In another, little men would enter my bedroom, put me on a conveyor belt and handle me roughly while my mom and sister would be watching from the doorway, unable to hear my pleas for help.

The truth is that in my day-mares, Dad’s eyes were always piercing my sister and me through the crack in our bedroom door. He made no bones about his constant surveillance and would say things like “You sleep with your butt in the air” to my sister. “Stop dad! You’re lying,” we protested.

Nevertheless, the next morning my sister awoke to find a Chiquita banana sticker placed on her butt cheek and a smirking dad at the breakfast table.

 *** I wish I could say it was not always this way, but it was. I buried a lot so that I could survive. My sister has an eidetic memory, well able to see things long after they happened. She has a catalog in her mind, an easily accessible collection of injustices, and dad and mom always said “ That never happened.” when she brought out her memories. When I would tell my sister I could not remember what she described, she would shake her head and utter three words: “Where were you?” I know what you are thinking. How was my mother complicit in all this? How did she not do anything? How did she not know? All I can say about that is that the science of gaslighting is serious business. Dad manipulated us all.  *** As a child, I had frequent nosebleeds. When I had my tonsils out in elementary school, the surgeon cauterized the inside of my nose, sealing blood vessels to stop the bleeding. But it did not stop. Mom had a bad neck after being mugged. After that, dad did more than just leer through the door crack. He slithered into our beds many nights so that mom could “ sleep bette r”. He reminisced years later that we used to fight over who would sleep with him. However, when I play the cassette for Judith, she hears me fighting with my sister over who had to sleep with him, our skinny little bodies unable to move under the weight of his legs wrapped around us. I would smash my nose into the wall trying to escape his breath on my neck, his greasy skin pressed against mine, leaving drops of blood on the wall and staining my nightgown From then on, when my mom removed the long green pillows from the living room daybed my brothers slept on, she placed them on my bed to cushion the wall at night. Problem solved. My sister ran away at fourteen to follow the Grateful Dead on tour. I can’t blame her. Two years later, it was my opportunity to run off to sleepaway college. Before she left on her real trip, my sister first took a bad acid trip. She was in our bedroom when, suddenly, the two drama clown masks hanging on the wall above my bed terrified her. Tragedy clown had a tear falling from one eye, its lower lip pushed out in a pout. Comedy clown had crescent moon eyes and dad’s grotesque smile – mocking, contemptuous, and smirking. I admit I could be projecting here, like the Ancient Greek actors did when wearing the masks to exaggerate emotions. Whatever it was, my sister fled.  *** I thought going to college meant leaving my family, but I brought them all with me. I started therapy senior year and then tried psychoanalysis with Judith after college. It was the whole shebang – Judith sat behind me and I laid on a couch talking to the paintings on the wall in front of me.

During one session,

I heard her sobbing behind me and she confessed that hearing my story moved her deeply.

She taught me the vocabulary of abuse, but it was a long time before I could even utter that word.

Though it was not as comprehensive as my sister’s catalog, I explored my own catalog of memories, played my cassettes for Judith, and started the work.

 *** After a couple of years with Judith, I started seeing Linda. Linda was like a mother to me, only one who could see. Linda encouraged me to face my childhood clowns. I started by writing apology letters to myself from my father as practice. I was an FBI profiler, trying to understand his manipulation, his deception, his narcissism.

It helped some to read the apologies I wrote from him, but I wanted the real thing.

In my mid-20s, Dad took me to Chinatown.

We ate Lo Mein and shrimp with lobster sauce and at the end my dad had us do a dine and dash and leave without paying, which, as always, exhilarated him but embarrassed me. Over the meal, we talked for the first time about my sister’s accusation some years earlier. She had been jailed briefly in Toms River being caught with heroin in her purse at the front gate of New Jersey’s Six Flags Great Adventure park. As part of her release, she had to enter a drug treatment program and attend family therapy. After a few sessions, she announced matter-of-factly to the family therapist that our father sexually abused her. Dad said, “ That’s not true. How could I abuse one daughter and not the other ?” He then asked me directly if he had abused me.

All eyes on me, I choked.

I did not have the language yet to describe what happened.

I shook my head no. Just like my sister fled into the night years earlier, she fled again out of the room and out the door. We never returned to family therapy. I was complicit with my father in my sister’s abuse, even though I, too, was abused.

I could not let this continue and gave him one last shot to make it right. I told my father over Chinese food that he did and said a lot of things that made me uncomfortable – made both my sister and me uncomfortable. He said neither of us could take a joke and that he was only teasing when he did and said those things. When he gave us “the business ” by pinning us down on the floor and pressing his face and his prickly mustache all over our bodies, that was just tickling .

I guess I had my day in court and I did not get my closure then, or ever, but he did acknowledge that my sister and I may have been uncomfortable. Uncomfortable .

My sister does not speak to me anymore and my parents are both dead. When my father was riddled with cancer, I remember helping my mom change his diaper days before he died. He was aware that I was doing it, and I could feel his humiliation at having his daughter wipe him like a baby. His defeat was a small victory for me. Now, I listen to Leonard Cohen’s song, “Anthem” and it feels like he wrote it for me.

The chorus goes: “Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in” I am still confronting my brokenness, the crack in my door. To this day, I bolt awake screaming if anyone touches me while I am asleep. Sometimes I still find myself putting my arm behind me when I walk up stairs so no one can touch my rear. Life is flawed, and while those eyes

peeking through my door terrorized me, that crack also let some light in. Wading through sewage is sometimes necessary before you can allow joy and hope to come in through the cracks. You’ll never know unless you try.


He watched in his rearview mirror as the dusty sand swirled behind their SUV. The home they shared for the first five years of their marriage quickly faded as they drove away for the last time. Sneaking in as many glances as he could before it disappeared, taking in the last glimpses of their street. How many times had they traveled this road together? He drove along, reminiscing when they first walked through the house, before it was completely their own. How in love they had been, with each other too. Now, their house keys rested in the hands of the realtor. He sighed. The sun was hot and bright, sending bursts of blinding light through the tropical trees. Reaching for the visor was tempting, but he didn’t want to miss a single view, in any direction, from any angle. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Brilliant blue without a speck of white. Punching off the AC, he rolled down the window, letting the warm breeze rush through his sun-kissed, blond hair. He closed his eyes behind his aviator sunglasses, only for a moment, to feel the wind on his face as if he were still at the beach. As a direct reflex, he wiggled his toes within his shoes, wishing there was sand between them. He sighed, again. “Jake!” His wife yelled from the passenger seat. He veered the SUV back into their lane. “Sorry, I had my eyes closed.” He didn’t have to look over to know she was glaring at him. He could feel her stare burning hotter than sun rays into the side of his face. The oceanic byway connecting to the mainland stretched out before them. The slight incline brought more of the bright sky into view. Seagulls squawked overhead. With two fingers guiding the steering wheel, his arm rested on the sill of the door in the hot sun. The wind tossing their hair about. Soaking up as much as he could before the temperature would drop, the sun would cease to exist, and the clouds would block the blue sky forever. At least, that’s how he painted it in his mind. Northern Vermont, the brink of Canada. The bridge was congested. Without letting his wife notice, he flashed his eyes around in all directions every chance he got. Taking it all in for the final time. As the vehicle descended down the other side, the island sunk out of sight in his mirrors. He looked out at the water, the gentle waves, one more time before gliding onto the mainland. The ocean was gone. He knew not when he’d see it again.

While Jake let out another sigh, his wife took a deep breath, reinforced with elation. What he couldn’t understand was how she was unperturbed to leave this beautiful island. Their beach life, the salt life. Weekends spent in the sand and seasons in the sun. Kissing in the waves at sunset. Midnights whispering on the shore. Just them, and the ocean. Their balcony door would lay open while the ocean breeze rolled over them in their slumber. His chest tightened with emotion. If he glanced back in his rearview mirror now, there would be no sign left of what he was already missing. Jake loved the heat. The hot sand. The hot sun. The sweat. The humidity. His tan skin turned bronze in the summer with a sheen of blond hair over his body. Emma could never understand what there was to love about being hot all year. Even though she grew up on the island, she never got used to it. Sure, beach life was wonderful, but the heat was not. The only break she got from the heat was from November through March. It wasn’t nearly long enough. Now, they were heading north, where three months a year would reach the upper 70’s. It would be cool or cold for most of the year. She could hardly wait. Each mile felt like a hundred. Every molecule in her body was swarming with excitement. Autumn, she would finally experience autumn! Winter and snow. They'd be arriving right at the beginning of the fall foliage.

Emma reached over, placing her hand on his arm. “I know this is hard for you. I know how much you love the ocean. But we’ll be happy in Vermont. You’ll see. As long as we have each other, our home is wherever we are together.” Gently giving his firm forearm a squeeze, she offered an encouraging smile. She was right. He flipped his hand over, palm up, and she entwined their fingers. Emma had an unfailing ability to see the positive side of anything they faced. With her, and God, there was nothing they couldn’t get through. Though this hurtle made his heart ache, she was with him. That was all that truly mattered.

They took their time heading up north, turning the twenty-four hour drive into several days. There was no rush. Emma was anxious, of course. Nevertheless, they wanted to enjoy the journey. Jake had plans to stop along the coast, anywhere they could, to use up every last chance at a glimpse of the ocean before Vermont.

He loved his job, but now he resented it for uprooting his feet from the sand and planting them in the mountains along the upper edges of the country. Landlocked. Except for maybe a lake. There would be no more pristine, white beaches. Just mucky waters littered with dead fish. At least, that’s how he painted it in his mind, again.

He tilted his head, “You know what isn’t fair?” He said to his wife. “That two blonde beach babes had to move to Vermont.” He tittered. Emma let out a huff of laughter. “Oh stop it,” she smiled, “you’ll be fine. You love your job, you’ll love it up there too. Now we’ll be blonde lake babes.” Laughing at herself, she snorted, making her laugh more.

A smile crept across Jake’s face, he adored his wife. He snuck a peek at her, she was more beautiful than the ocean. What was he complaining about? Once they entered into Vermont, their journey home would be three more hours. Neither of them were willing to stop until they reached their new house. They wanted their first steps in the state to be on their own property. As reluctant as he was, he couldn’t deny the nipping sensation of adventure. Emma made the suggestion of stopping just before entering Vermont so she could change into a new autumn outfit. Thrilled she had been when shopping for her new wardrobe for the new seasons they’d experience here.

The drive grew increasingly more beautiful. Even for Jake, it was hard not to notice. Nearly at every bend Emma would say, “Look how picturesque!”

The repetitiveness of the statement grinded his gears. If she says ’picturesque’ one more time... he thought to himself as he clenched his teeth.

The green leaves slowly faded the more north they drove. Emma’s face was nearly glued to her window, mouth gaping, as they wound through the hills and passed through mountains. “Look, Jake! Look how beautiful that tree is!” She shouted as she pointed to a tree which turned to shades of golds and reds, earlier than the rest. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” He chuckled to himself and looked at her, her face pressed against the glass. “Yes.” He said as the corner of his mouth tipped up. She was. They rode in silence once they turned on to their new street. For several moments they both stopped breathing as the numbers on the mailboxes grew closer and closer to theirs. Emma gasped when their home came into view. Placing her hand against her chest, “Oh, Jake, just look at it.”

He marveled in her excitement before turning his gaze to their homestead. He sucked in a breath. It was beautiful. A white, colonial home towered over him, with blue shutters and a white picket fence lining the yard. Much more stately than in pictures and videos they'd seen of it. It was the kind of house and yard people imagine when they hear the words American Dream. Shoving the door open, her boots hovered over the freshly fallen leaves on the driveway as she slowly slid off the seat. She heard the crunch of the leaves under her feet for the first time. Closing her eyes, she took in the moment. Jake watched her from his driver’s seat, cherishing her child-like innocence. Letting out a puff of air, he opened his door and stepped out. Surprisingly, the leaves had a satisfying crunch. The slamming of the door was the only sound. It was so quiet . The air was different. Thicker. Richer. On the wisp of the back end of a breeze, there was no scent of sunscreen, tanning oil, or lemonade, but of leaves, pine, and earth.

He filled his lungs and closed his eyes. There were no crashing waves, or lapping of water. No voices of mindless chatter. No seagulls screeching. He turned in the direction of fluttering wings. A bird he didn’t recognize flew away, probably secretly mocking the newcomers. Looking down his light-colored, ripped at the knee jeans, to his canvas boat shoes, he kicked an acorn across the driveway. Then noticing the sticks, twigs, leaves and other natural debris that littered the driveway and yard. His shoulders slumped. He’d have an actual yard to maintain now.

They walked the red brick walkway leading to the front door. He slid the key in, pushed the door open, and gestured for his wife to enter first. But she didn’t, she gave him a blank stare. “Aren’t you going to carry me over the threshold?” She asked. He opened his mouth to protest, and thought better of it. Just because he was miserable, doesn’t mean he had to drag her down too. Scooping her off her feet, he carried her in. A smile couldn’t help but fill his face. She would always be his bride. As Jake unpacked his suitcase in their bedroom, his eyebrows flickered. “Hey, Emm?” She stepped out of their master bathroom. “Hmm?” He raised his hands, a fistful of plaid shirts in each grip. “Where did my regular shirts go?” “Your regular shirts are beach shirts, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb out here. I packed them away and replaced them with attire you will actually need.” “But I’m going to look like a lumberjack.” He whined. “We’re not beach bums anymore.” She said with a smirk. Over the next several weeks, they unloaded, unpacked, and unboxed their belongings. Slowly and surely, their house turned into a home. Emma picked the paint, he picked the supplies. She hummed and buzzed around the house. Her happy spirit and her outlook on life began to trickle into him as well. One afternoon she overheard Jake whistling, an expression of happiness. It had been months since she last heard his pleasant tunes. Every morning there was a chill in the house. Even the chill felt different. Not the kind of chill from an AC unit, but one that came with the changing of the leaves. The kind of chill that made a spouse want to curl up with their loved one under the blankets. Jake scooted over, and Emma, sleepily and instinctively, nestled into him. He liked this newfound chill. Never had either of them ever had a fireplace in their house. Keeping up with chopping firewood was a thought Jake dreaded. Much to his surprise, little by little he enjoyed the task. The days he didn’t work, he lumbered out to the backyard to do his lumberjacking. The misty mornings brought a sense of calm and tranquility. Much like the crashing of the waves once did. Out here he was in the wilderness, not on a crowded beach. The silence from the hills engulfed him. It was the sound of silence he was beginning to appreciate. Comfort in the quiet. With each swing of the axe, and the cracking of the wood, he felt more manly. Two slices of wood flew to each side, he swiped his beading forehead with the back of his hand. He felt something staring at him. Probably some wild beast ready to pounce and sink its teeth into him. He looked around. No beast. A figure on the porch caught his attention, and he turned sharply. His wife was leaning against the wooden rail of the porch. With that look in her eyes, she looked ready to pounce. “Why are you smiling?” He asked, wondering how long she’d been watching him. Emma took a sip from the warm mug between her hands before answering. “I knew those handsome beach muscles weren’t just for show.”

Rolling his eyes, he dismissed her comment, and continued chopping. She took the opportunity to take in her fill of her husband. His black v-neck hugged his body. His broad shoulders tapered into a trim waist. With every swing of the axe, the short sleeves snugged around his biceps. And those jeans. They hugged his thighs during his axing stance.

“Let's explore something other than the town today. I heard about a hiking trail.” Hiking? He thought to himself. “Do we have to?” She arched an eyebrow. He huffed. “You’re right. Let’s explore.”

The trail winding through the forest was beautiful. The cliffs. The rock formations. The autumn colors. The leaves covering the pathway. All of it. Whether he liked it or not, Vermont was growing on him. The thought perplexed him. He couldn’t stop it, and could no longer deny it. This was his life now.

They rounded a horseshoe bend in the side of the mountain. A wall of rocks and ledges jutted up out of the ground along to their right. And on their left, was a long way down. Jake leaned over, and gulped.

They came across no other hikers. Jake felt oddly alone. Did everyone else know something they didn’t? What if they got lost? What if they got attacked and eaten by a bear? Emma’s perky voice pulled him from his unsettling fears.

“Autumn has the most gorgeous colors I have ever seen!” She turned to him, her face written with pure joy. “These colors didn’t exist where we came from. Look what we’ve been missing.” She said, looking up at the trees growing out from the rocks towering over them. It was nearly impossible for Jake not to appreciate what she adored. Her enthusiasm reached the depths of his being. Ever since they received the news his job was relocating him, her zing for life made up for his dispirited moods. His current entertainment came from watching her discover her autumn soul. A rumble of thunder stopped them dead in their tracks. No wonder there were no other hikers, all must have known there was a storm brewing. How foolish of him not to think to check the weather before venturing out. He put Emma at risk because of his carelessness. Emma turned to him, as the thunder trembled the ground beneath their feet. A worried look replaced the jovial smile. “We’re in the middle of a mountain, what are we going to do?” No sooner did she finish her question when the rush of rain could be heard sweeping through the trees. They whipped their heads around in the direction of the sound to see the rain coming for them. Jake grabbed her hand and began running the way they just came. Did he really think they’d outrun the rain?

Seconds later the cold rain hit their backs. Darting under the nearest rock ledge, he and Emma attempted cover. For a moment, Jake was in awe of the sight unfolding in front of him, the rain pouring from the clouds through the center of the horseshoe bend. He saw through the rain as if he were behind glass. Watching the rain plummet through the gorge. The moment of awe ended when the rain water began to spill over the rock ledge, splashing fresh mud on their new hiking boots and trickling water from the rocks soaked their heads and shirts. Staying dry was out of the question. Something let loose in Jake that changed him. He relinquished. His life came to fruition. All that he’d been trying to deny erupted through the surface. How could anyone not love a life such as this? A life of change, as with the seasons, he would now come to enjoy. With every season comes change and acceptance of the inevitable. So gone was his life of predictability. Eager to look ahead. Eager for the next mountain to climb. Rain water rushes forward, and never looks back. His sudden outburst of laughter startled Emma. She stared questionably as he laughed harder. Pushing himself off of the rock wall, he stepped out into the pouring rain, threw his hands out to his sides, palms up, and tilted his head back. Smiling, he let the cold rain soak through to his soul. Everything was out of his control. He was at peace with his new life. Emma remained under the rock, baffled. “Have you gone mad?” She shouted over the rain. “No, just the opposite.” He looked at her. “Come here.” He tugged her wrist, pulling her into the rain with him. He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her with all the passion he’d been lacking.

Emma melted. Nothing existed but them, the rain, the mountain, and God. She pulled from his lips. “What’s gotten into you?” She asked as she fingered his hair dripping with mountain rain water.

“All of this has gotten into me. This is the great outdoors. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” Her eyes widened. “Even the beach?” “Even the beach.” A life looking forward, instead of wanting the reflection in the rearview mirror.


He moved briskly on the path to his home,thrilled with the refreshing air and his performance in school with the test he took, he sang joyfully. On getting to his home's doorstep after opening and closing the compound's gate with his spare key, he happily pushed the door open and greeted mum as he entered, although having not set his eyes on her. He moved further into his house as he closed the door behind him and there was mum coming through the back door and heading for the kitchen( always in the kitchen) with some vegetables in her hand. "I'm back mum" James said as he greeted once more, smiling. Mrs Smith just looked at him, smiled as she noticed the kind of unusual aura around him. James continued smiling and Mrs Smith had to speak out "Why are you so happy?" Mrs Smith asked. "Nothing really...just happy" he answered as he followed his mum to the kitchen. He took his seat on the kitchen's dining table as he left mum to continue her cooking. "I passed awesomely in the school test I took today" he told mum willingly " That's good of you...what was your score?" Mum asked him. He immediately unbaged his bag and placed it on the dining table, almost hitting a bottle of ketchup that was left to cool off on the table by mum. He immediately unzipped it and brought his test result out and immediately ran to show it to his mum. She saw it and was

"Wow....that's good...almost 100 percent good" Mrs Smith said and returned her attention to the vegetable soup she was preparing. He returned to his seat and redid his bag to it's former.

"Let me change and come down to eat your delicacies" he said as he alighted. He ran upstairs with the speed of joy, counting the steps up his room with style and finally pushing his door open widely. She covered the pot and absently inhaled the aroma coming from the hole in the pot's lid. She shifted to the pot of rice and realized it was ready to be sieved..as she moved towards it she heard a door bang and immediately realized and recovered after halting, that it was from James. She smiled and halted again, placing her gloves hands akimbo.. "I can't believe I am a mother" she said aloud to no one in particular. She smiled again as she stopped the fire under the rice cooker as she unseated it, she immediately moved it to the sieve that was already placed in a suitable position for the action to take place successfully, she sieved it hastily but perfectly. She returned the sieved rice into the pot after braining the water from it successfully then placed it on an inactive position on the gas cooker. She checked the vegetable pot and realized she still have to wait for 5 minutes till it gets cooked finally. She took this moment to dish the rice. While preparing the dishes she heard James sing loudly and then he was not heard again. Suddenly soaked and stuffed with the joy of motherhood she smiled once again and suddenly fell into a throwback as she held a dish in her hand *** "Why did you say I'm on a fifty-fifty chance of having a child" Mrs Smith asked the doctor " You have a problem with fertility" the doctor replied with expertise. Mr Smith looked at Mrs Smith and

"Hope it is not what I am thinking.." Mr Smith told the doctor as he slowly shifted his gaze to him "No it isn't... Abortion right.?.. whether I have had an abortion in the past...firmly NO!" Mrs Smith replied with confidence, almost standing "Yes Mr Smith...it is not abortion..it is a cervical issue..it can be solved" "Okay" Mr Smith answered as he patted Mrs Smith to calmness.... **** "Thank God" Mrs Smith said as she came back to the present. Her attention was suddenly moved to the food on the fire. She placed the held this on the table and headed for the food on the fire. She immediately halted the fire burning beneath and headed to dish the rice. As she was about to start this she saw James appear behind her,already dressed in his house clothes. She took a look at him and she saw the look of a James ready to eat. "How's the food going?" James asked her and she answered " It's ready... love" she answered, smiling Ben closed his room door behind him and waltzed to through the sitting room where his mum and his dad were watching TV, his dad has a day off and as he do with his off days, he is spending it in front of the TV with his wife beside him. Ben looked at them and focused back on his goal, as he passed the doorway that led into the dinning area he crushed his phone against the pathway but was lucky it was not damaged. He recovered and moved to the unsheathed a dinning chair, took his seat and placed his phone on the table. Since his mum did not serve his food he had to head to the kitchen and help himself ' she could not even serve my food even though she knows I just arrived from school's he thought as he headed to the kitchen. After dishing his food he returned to the dining table, carrying a glass of water alongside his plate of baked beans. He took his seat carefully as he placed his victims on the table, ready to consume them. But first he took his phone and read some pending telegram messages from his friends. And after that he settled down to eat his food in silence, taking one spoon after the other in an almost simultaneous but balanced manner. Few minutes later he drank from his glass of water and had an interference as he returned the glass cup to a seating position; his mum came to him and "We need to reach somewhere real quick...I and your dad" she told him and then continued " We'll be back soon..." as she said this he could see his dad walk out of the door from a space left by his obstructing mum. Going to prepare the car, he thought.. "Hope you understand?" His mum asked "Ma?" Ben asked,he was lost already "What were you thinking?...let me repeat myself... don't leave the house" " I ain't going nowhere" Ben answered as he continued eating. Not paying attention to his mum anymore he heard her footsteps walk out the door and then the bang of a closing door. "There you go again" he said as he returned his full attention to the lunch afront him


“What’s the matter with you today?” That’s what my boyfriend asks me as I, irritably, pace around the room, shoving keys, cards and my works name badge into an already over-packed handbag. The last thing I want to do is fight, especially on the eve of a 13 hour shift for which I anticipate having 6 hours sleep beforehand but that’s only if I can get all my shit together and drift off in the next 30 minutes. “Is it cause I asked you to do something?” I can’t tell if he does it on purpose but he always seems to know the exact words to drive me crazy. I have to assume I’m overreacting, it’s what girls do after all and more often than not these kind of petty discords always come to a resolution with rolled eyes and a knowing smile: typical woman getting worked up over nothing. We’ve been together for 8 years now. That’s an estimated number because I can’t pin point the exact date when we became “official”. I had been desperately smitten with him for many years before our relationship developed. We worked together and became friendly almost instantly. I liked his humour and the way he wore his hair and how he showed both rows of teeth when he smiled. I used to tell myself I was in love with him and, don’t get me wrong, I still do. The day he asked me in an offhand, noncommittal way; “so...do you wanna go out then?” I was sure I would never feel happiness like it again. People talk about stomach butterflies but my own gut seemed to habitat a pack of excited puppy dogs, all leaping around one and other and yapping, giddily. I cherished every touch, every moment of close proximity, every smile he bequeathed on me. This was it, I had found my soulmate, I was sure of it. I never saw anyone else, could never notice the friendly gestures of male co-workers and friends as anything more than that. Funny how time changes everything. It certainly changed me. I never realised how much I hated the word “love” until I was sure I was “in love”. It’s such a stupid term; something tossed around so often and carelessly it was filled with tattered holes through which all meaning and sincerity would trickle out. Any time he told me he loved me I cringed. It’s not that I don’t reciprocate the feeling, more that I don’t connect to the word. I had the sensation; the uneasy tickle and almost panicky rush from my stomach to my chest. I knew I “loved” him but I could never bring myself to say the word. Maybe that’s where things really changed for us. Maybe he felt that resistance and misconstrued it as something more literal. His response was to tell me, all the more, that he loved me and I was able to repeat the phrase back but my hesitance always tumbled out with the words. We were still affectionate. I enjoyed his embrace and the warm, comforting feeling of having his thick arms wrapped around me. I could drown in his hold, could live right there wrapped in his existence. Those were the good moments. The times when we would be close and enjoy being close with one and other. Other times we fought. I maintained that all couples fought occasionally while he insisted it wasn’t right. We spent a lot of time around the house occupied in separate endeavours and he tried, so stubbornly, to pull me into his pastimes. “We have different interests,” I would say, unconcerned. “We still do stuff together but we can’t be in each others company all the time.” He disagreed and soon I found him at my heels, all big, watery eyes and petted lips like a neglected animal yearning for attention. It got on my nerves and I would tell him so but it just spurred him on all the same. He seemed to gather most humour in his days from winding me up, poking and prodding until I snapped and let the frustration and exasperation burst out of me. He would laugh most of the times but other days he would look pained and implored that he only wanted my attention. But he didn’t have it, undivided, anymore. I had started a new job and my workmates talked, ceaselessly about a man in an opposite unit who had worked with them all for quite some time and seemed to be the most bizarre, awkward, clumsy and clueless person they’d ever come across. I was hooked on him at once. I listened to their tales of his embarrassing endeavours with rapt attention. I had never laid eyes on him, never stood in the same room but he occupied my mind fleetingly throughout the day, making brief appearances whenever I never read much into it until I was asked to cover staff shortages in the other units for a week. I was sat in the office of the opposite building one day when he walked in. There they were again; the puppy dogs cavorting around inside me. When he introduced himself to me I could feel that excited tightness in my chest, the familiar thud of blood in my ears. It all happened so quickly and soon I had it all played out in my mind; our first date, introducing him to my parents, kissing in the dark corners of work parties, our first home together, pets, marriage, children... ...and guilt. The guilt came over me so suddenly and unexpectedly I was sure it had been held being a rotting damn somewhere at the back of my mind for some time now. Well the damn had broke and the hot, stinging shame flooded every inch of my being. I felt sick at myself and filled with an overpowering grief at the thought of turning away from my boyfriend. How horrid could I possibly be? What a cruel and disgustingly selfish person I was. So there it had happened. Love. I could accept it now. I felt pure and undying love for the man I had shared so much of my life with and I told him so at every opportunity. He seemed pleased with my newfound heartful-ness and our relationship maintained. I forgot about the thrilling mystery man from the other unit as quickly as I had conceived the entire course of our imaginary relationship together. That should have been it. Happy ending and all that but time, once again, is like an endurable parasite nibbling away at the foundations of my emotions. A whole day of affection and enjoyment came crashing down in a heartbeat. All I had wanted was to watch the end of my show. It was nearly there, only six minutes left and then I could get everything prepared for work tomorrow. He had been talking all the way through it; he hates most things on TV and, somehow, this culminates in having no understanding or awareness of other people’s enjoyment. Now, suddenly, he appears before me with a laundry basket filled high with clothes. “Can you do me a favour and fold these while I switch the clothes over to the tumble dryer?” Far from feeling any resistance to coming away from my TV show now, I had been the one to put the very pile of clothes in front of me into wash in the first place and that was after I had washed, dried and folded two other loads. I told him so and earned a whiny lecture about helping each other out and joint responsibility and a whole host of other condescending life lessons that bore, quite effectively, through the last moments of the show. So I did the only thing that seemed reasonable at the time. I flew into an exasperated rage of exaggerated actions and irritable grunting. Clothes became folded so violently I was surprised none of them ripped. He was so mesmerised by my display of mad righteousness he didn’t even switch the other load over to the tumble dryer. So I did that too, just to prove a point and when it was done I began gathering everything together that I would need for work the next day while he followed behind and rambled off a ceaseless chorus of anxious questions. “What’s the matter with you today?” “Is it cause I asked you to do something?” “Are you mad at me?” “Is it cause you have to work tomorrow?” “Are you sad?” “Are you angry cause your show finished?” How many times can I expect to fall in and out of hopeless infatuation with one person? Love. I really do hate it.