Walk Away

His head, ensconced as it was, inside his man’s hands, gleamed, inviting her to study its irregular surface, an assortment of irregularly shaped freckles, and a day’s growth. She remembered how it felt; and his scent.

“I don’t get it.” He shuffled his running shoes. “I just don’t get it.”

“Of course you do!” She leaned across the table, stretching her arms the width.

“It’s just so much bullshit…”

He straightened and reached for a cigarette, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Then walk away….just walk away!”

“How do you do that? Walk away…” He paused to suck on his cigarette. “How do you just walk away?”

And then, “I wish I was more like you…”

The words swam between them.

She felt them on her eyes, before she stood,

and, walked away.

A Way Out

Four inch heels impeded her progress to the entrance of the building, and November winds whipped the tail of her overcoat, whispering of winter.

A Mercedes passed, piloted by a man clutching a cellphone. She shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other. The bag contained her life; a carefully detailed, pored over, poetically enhanced regurgitation.

Most days, she hardly felt the weight of it. She carried it, and cared for it, guarding it against intrusion from any but the most accepting eyes. On long, lonely nights, it provided comfort, just by being there. It offered proof of her existence and answers to questions; in hopes they might be asked.

She crossed against diesel fumes, and hurried up concrete stairs, hoping the winds wouldn’t “undo” her. The weight of glass and steel paled in comparison to that of the artificially warmed air that greeted her upon opening the door. She hurried through the anteroom and breached a second entrance, while her eyes scanned the landscape for an alcove leading to a bathroom.

Satisfied that her morning ministrations had survived the crossing, she shouldered her burden and struck out, in search of a receptionist.

She left her name at the desk, and surveyed the glass-enclosed space for a seat, choosing a chair opposite the desk in an unoccupied row. Her cellphone trilled, giving her something to do with her hands. It was her son, home from school. “Just checking in…” She smiled in appreciation of the sound of a young boy’s voice, knowing she hadn’t much longer to hear it.

Her smile faded quickly as she pocketed the phone and lifted the tote to her lap. She glanced at the receptionist’s desk as she removed a document from the front pocket of the bag. A striking young man approached; his carefully manicured hands striking the desk twice before he unleashed his artificially whitened smile. The receptionist, at once bored, and barely breathing, reacted as expected by reciprocating. A conversation ensued, uninterrupted by the approach of a second visitor.

She shifted the paper from one hand to the other, uncrossing her legs, and re-crossing them in the other direction as she watched the trio. The young man bent over the counter, reaching, as the receptionist giggled and the visitor cleared his throat. They answered with laughter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while adjusting his cap.

“Ahem…” She wondered why he thought it would work, this time.

The doors behind her yawned again, sending a blast of cold air through the empty chairs, and an arc of reflective light after it. Irritation marred her painted features, as the receptionist tilted her head. The second visitor moved to block the light, giving his name, before turning.

She plucked at a dog’s hair, caught in the weave of her skirt. She checked her watch. Metal scraped against linoleum. A sigh escaped him as he sunk into the synthetically covered chair, and warmth, generated by the proximity of his body, told her he was near.

It was her turn to clear her throat as she cast her eyes past the reception desk in hopes of spotting her prey.

“Ain’t love grand?”, he started.
She looked up, before meaning to, allowing him to lead her eyes back to the desk.

She smiled and shifted the paper.

“Whatcha’ got there?” He shifted against the firmness of the seat, pulling his jacket together and turning, slightly, in her direction.

“I have to get this document signed…” She held it out, slightly, before training her eyes on him.

“And, you?” She lowered her hand, moving slightly in her seat.

“Meeting with a client. I’m a writer.” His voice carried pride.

“Oh? Really?” She smiled as she let one hand drop to the bag on the floor at her feet.

“What do you write?”

“Ad copy, mostly. And, I blog.”

“Really? Great!” She re-crossed her legs, wishing she had taken off her coat.

“Are you a writer?” His eyes, behind his spectacles, were kind.

“Oh, I write…some. I have a blog.” She shifted the paper, again, watching as it moved from one hand, to the other.

“Cool! Where are you? I could look you up!” His voice carried enthusiasm.

She laughed, self-consciously.

“It’s not public.” She said quietly, before clearing her throat, again. “I mean I’ve been working on it, off and on, for about a year, but only one person has access to it.”

Confusion, as it crossed his features awakened her insecurities, giving her pause.

“Why?” The word was spoken softly.

Her eyes searched the multi-faceted linoleum at her feet as she considered the question, and, as she turned them on him, spoke before she did.

“I don’t know…” She stopped, as he pulled back his head and shifted his weight. “It’s vulnerable, you know?” Her voice trailed with the last syllable and she mentally berated herself for her weakness.

“But…” He started quietly, before sitting up taller in the inhospitable chair. “Isn’t that the point?” The words were direct, and clear, and spoken by his entire being; and, his face, earnest.

Footsteps approached her chair, and she hastily collected her bag while smiling in his direction. She watched him watch her.

“Thank you…” She efforted to bring her voice above a murmur as she pulled the heavy, oaken door closed before clicking her way down the hallway.

“Hey, kid!” It was the man.

“Yes.” She spoke through a smile, as she shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other.

“Walk you out?” The bounce in his step repeated in his eyes as he led the way out of the building.

Between the Pains…

When does it get better?

Does it stop?

Am I destined to a life of glimpses?

Do you care?

Wanting…

He bent to kiss her, before drawing back…

“Is this what you want?”

His chest heaved; convexly filling her…

Rules of the Game

I’ve realized that my answer to his question, “What are you wearing?”, really doesn’t matter…
What’s important is that the men he’s sharing breakfast with heard him ask.

To Tell…or Not to Tell…

On first sight, his cerulean eyes put me in mind of an open sore, compelling me to touch his hair and tell him…“It’s ok…”

As we shared a couch in my living room, we sipped “sweet tea” in front of the television, as he remembered the morning they came to “get him”, and the long ride through artificially lighted streets that ended at the door of an orphanage. He was three.

His younger brother had the good fortune to be adopted. His older sister was reclaimed by his older brother. His mother visited occasionally, leaving a sock-full of dimes in her wake.

The recounting came in fits and starts. Nights filled with stories were followed by canned laughter, as time rocked on, and lives changed. By the end of the year, we were more than friends.

In the ten years we spent together, he talked often of the camp that would shape his life without ever naming it, though I never realized it, until now. He has been dead for 3 years.

Reverence colored his voice when he spoke of Dr. “P”, the camp director; the same man accused of child molestation in 1986. I listened as he spoke of his mentor, never mentioning the charges. And now, as I read and uncover the atrocities visited upon the children relegated to Dr. Poetter’s care, I wonder if my silence was in deference to his pain, or to mine?

The information I have gleaned has shed new light on his pain, his demons, and his personality. He never explained that the gloriously primitive canoe trips he spoke of, so often, were part of his therapy. And, he never mentioned the back-breaking labor of hauling hundred-pound rocks or digging latrines. He never told me that admission to Anneewakee meant complete isolation from family and friends, and he never told me that home was a tee-pee, or that baths were taken under a pail of mountain-cooled water, regardless of the season.

When the compulsion came to me to research the camp, I had no idea of why, or of what I might find, and the results lead to questions that can no longer be answered.

For ten years, he did the best he knew how to do, as did I, with the information provided.

Would things have been different had I known?

He is with me, still, in his final form. His spirit lives with us, even as his ashes lie, dormant, in the container his childhood friend, Beau, reverently handed me, inside a quiet funeral home, on a cold December evening.

The expression on his face told me Beau had information he wouldn’t reveal, while his hands performed in a way long-since taught, and honed, by years of practice. He chose not to give details, sharing only what was necessary, but the pauses between his words filled in the spaces, making the picture complete.

The call came from his sister, once reclaimed, and the picture she painted, expected, yet, still jarring. A newly purchased, red pick-up truck sat in his driveway; a sign of reclamation. And, inside, two pictures adorned his walls; one of me, old, faded, and dated, and the other, of his son.

If

“You haven’t cared in over three years….”

The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.

A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow, while a corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.

As I rise, I’m vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before I spit, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” And, as I turn to walk away, fluttering candlelight accents ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.

If only, I could have been a little quieter…

If only, I didn’t have an opinion…

If I could hide my feelings…

If I could be a little less intelligent…

If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.

If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.

Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.

If I could have done that…

But, I couldn’t.

And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.

And now, even that, is not enough…

Some Things Just Never Go Away….

It may have been precipitated by sharing war stories with Sylvia, in between plays, at our sons’ football game. I hadn’t seen her since she graduated, and it was interesting hearing her take on things, especially since she ended up on a cardiac floor, where I, too, spent my first year in nursing. It was amazing to hear how little had really changed in the last, twenty-plus, years.

She finds the work less than stimulating, and the politics, driven by a matriarchal dominated hierarchy, maddening. I suggested a change of venue, as it had taken me almost ten years to find my niche in maternal-child medicine. She countered, by sharing that she had told her husband she didn’t know how much longer she could help make ends meet by emptying bedpans, to the accompaniment of a whining baby-boomer showing no compassion for the octogenarian occupying the neighboring bed. Many of her patients are there for open-heart surgery, and she cares for them before, and after.

“The older ones are quiet and appreciative. It’s the younger ones; you know, the forty-year-olds, who whine all the time.”

“The kick is up,,,,, and, it’s good!”

As I listened, I envisioned the floor I had worked on, so long ago.

Most graduate nurses drew the night shift. The lighting was soft, and respectful, against rust carpeting that covered every available surface, in an effort to muffle the sound of crash carts rolling, and the inevitable herd of rubber soled feet running towards the door of a patient “in trouble”.

Our environment called for lowered, softly feminine voices, which I always imagined offered extra comfort to a predominantly male population.

The patient load has not changed. Like my friend Sylvia, I usually cared for four or five every night. But, I remember one, in particular.

He was young. I suppose Sylvia would have thought of him as a complainer. I remember him as large; large and dark, almost bear-like. I can’t remember his reason for being there, but I’ll never forget his presence.

Working nights, if you are lucky, you see your patients only twice; once at rounds, when you begin your shift, and next, as you turn your wards over to an older crew, who have earned the right to sleep at night.

I entered his room on the third night of his stay. He lay, as always, hulking, and wide-awake, on a bed made tiny by his mass. As I padded inside, he turned; reaching for the chair his wife must have occupied only hours ago.

“Hey…” Gravel garbled his unused voice, as I rounded the opposite side of the bed.

I stopped, and bent forward to find his brown-bearded face in the swath of light provided by the door, left ajar for this purpose.

“Yes?”, I whispered.

“Take this.”, he offered.

Laboriously, he maneuvered his bulk in my direction. I struggled to make out a mass of fabric swinging from his outstretched hand. Taking it without speaking, I moved towards the door, and light.

Folds of Carolina-blue knit fell about my hands, as I struggled to shape the mass into a form I could recognize. Not until I saw the tiny, green, alligator emblem, did I understand what I held.

I turned, startled, away from the light to face him sitting amongst a web of tubes and wires.

“No!” My whisper was strident. “No, I couldn’t!” And, as I turned, my hands, without direction, began to fold the valued garment, reverently, in preparation for placement back in the chair. It was 1980, and Izod was king…

“But, you’re always so cold! I want you to have it!” The energy it took to whisper the words seemed to have sapped him, as he sunk back against the pillows, where his distended abdomen rose and fell, rapidly. One meaty hand rose to brush his curly, dark mane off his brow; and he sighed.

I stood in the cylinder of light for several seconds, feeling the expensive weight of the sweater in my hands, before I turned, and, observing his frustration, made the decision.

It was easily four sizes too big. Stretched to it’s full capacity, it encircled me, more than once. And I gave thanks, repeatedly, for ribbing on the end of the sleeves that kept the voluminous knit above my hands, and out of my way, as I entered data on patients that came after him.

Today, as I left the office, Don met me, circling cubicles in an effort to assure himself that all our computers were detached from the main-frame.

“You might want to check the ultrasound computer!”, I called as I turned the corner.

Realizing my blunder, I stopped, and turned to see him looking at me, quizzically.

“I guess some things just never go away!”, I said with a laugh and a wave, as I hefted my bags onto my shoulder, and headed for the door.

My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps

Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.

Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”

Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”

Lilly’s litany played as a round, sung in a sing-song voice, inside her head. And where was Lilly now? Lilly was where she always was, in the center of a large crowd of costumed admirers, or sharing gossip behind Jackie O’s white, kid gloves with a friend who had done a pretty good job of impersonating Amy Winehouse, complete with beehive.

Hoping not to appear desperate, she surreptitiously scanned the colorful crowd for her friend’s baby-blue, pillbox hat. There were at least ten Barack Obamas in the mix. Peyton Manning was shooting darts with Pink, and several members of the Fantastic Four had challenged The Justice League to an inebriated limbo contest that threatened to knock an appropriately oblivious Paris Hilton right off her five inch stilettos, and into a bowl of guacamole. Just as she caught sight her friend, Captain Jack Black blocked her vision momentarily in a flurry of ruffles and satin, and as she withdrew her sensible pumps as far under the chair as she could get them, she felt cold moisture begin to spread on her polyester covered leg.

“Dammit!”, she cried before she could stop herself ,as she jumped from her chair while self-consciously pulling down the jacket of Hillary’s sensible pant suit. Jack turned and studied her for a moment before laughing in true pirate style, and maneuvering Lindsey Lohan away from the mess. Looking down, she could see the stain was spreading, and judging by the color, pirates fancied imports. Lilly was, now, nowhere to be seen.

She started out into the crowd in the direction of the bathroom and cold water to stymie the stain. She kept her head down, in hopes no one would notice her, while knowing she really needn’t bother. She had been invisible from the moment she entered the room. Despite what she had judged to be a clever costume choice, no one had connected her drab blonde hairstyle and polyester pantsuit with a former presidential candidate. The few interested looks turned her way were questioning, at best.

“Hey!”, a voice she recognized cried out, just before she slammed into Michael Phelps’ gold-medal bedecked chest. Thickly applied pancake makeup smeared against bare skin as she lost her footing and fell further into the voice.

“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.

Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.

“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.

“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.

She knew he was saying something in an effort to make her feel better, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her sobs. She felt his arms around her shoulders, and became aware that they were walking, but horror at the thought of many hundreds of pairs of creatively made-up eyes staring at her, in disgust, buoyed the flood of tears, forcing her to keep her head buried in Phelps’ side.

A blast of cold air told her they had left the party, and as she looked up, her hands went immediately to her face, in a fruitless effort to repair the damage. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed T.J. jumping up and down in place, in an effort to conjure some warmth against the chill of night air.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.

“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk

Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.

“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.

“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.

“No! It’s ok! I’ve got an exam tomorrow, anyway. Get in the car!” He didn’t ask questions. He made statements and gave orders. He was used to getting what he wanted. Her feet moved before she made a decision, and as he clicked the locks open, her hand was on the door latch.

She slid, silent, into the passenger’s seat without uncrossing her arms. Two doors slammed as the engine roared to life, and T.J. carelessly threw Michael’s medals into the backseat. Settling himself against leather, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, and leaned in her direction.

“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”

She looked at his shadowy features, and wondered how she came to be there. Had he ever spoken to her before? Well, maybe…when they were toddlers, when their mothers’ scheduling of play-dates placed them together on the playground while they, the mothers, sat closely, exchanging stories of women who were not there.

Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?

“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.

One long arm stretched between the bucket seats, as T.J. maneuvered the car into reverse. She squirmed at the thought of that arm around her shoulders. Had it been? Had everyone seen? What had they thought? Had SHE seen?

The car lurched forward against loudly crunching gravel, as T.J. barely missed grazing the halogen head-lights of an oncoming pickup truck. Lowering his window, he stopped, and hung his head out to meet the other driver.

“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.

“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.

More laughter accompanied his “See ya, bro!”, as T.J. good naturedly slapped his friend’s hand, again, before withdrawing it to turn up the dial on the stereo, as the car lurched forward again, sending up a wake of randomly shaped gravel.

“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.

There were lights, lots of them, in varying colors, and noises she knew only from television crime dramas; the crackle of two-way radios, passing traffic, sirens, voices giving orders, and moans, incoherent moans in a familiar-sounding voice.

“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…

Breaking the Fall

The autumn air carried a chill, forcing us to pull sweaters over our t-shirts, and giving me a new appreciation for the warmth of his hand surrounding mine.

Our quiet voices mixed, musically, with the earthy sounds around us as we talked easily of little things.

To the left of the trail, irregularly shaped stones pointed the way to a swelling of the ground, inviting us to climb.

As my rubber-soled feet struggled to gain a foothold amongst jutting rocks and rolling stones, I thrust both hands in front of me in preparation for the fall before I feel his, larger hands around my waist, pulling me away from the rocks, and into his chest.

Climbing the rest of the way, without incident, we reached the top of the rising and stopped; to breathe, and to survey the landscape we had just traversed from a new perspective.

Standing on the apex, there is a renewed sense of hope in the clearness of the air, and gratitude that I didn’t make the climb, alone.