The Rebirth of Clayton Powell - Part 1

     Clayton Powell had decided to die. He hadn't all the details together yet, but the seed had been planted and he decided it wasn't an altogether frivolous idea, given the circumstances. Friday's issue of the local newspaper lay splayed out on the table beside a tepid mug of Nabob.

     “Gem with a changing luster...seven letters”.

     He bounced the pencil on the table, eraser side down, bidding his frontal lobe to the agility and speed it once knew. C-a-t-s-e-y-e. It fit. It rather fit his life, too. Mark and Andrea, grown and gone; his job long acquiesced to a younger version of himself. And now Rhonda, his long-time consort, dance partner and travel mate gone too. His luster had moved beyond “changing” to dulled and opaque.

     He wasn't sore at her for leaving. Given the gene pool she'd been swimming in she really didn't stand much of a chance. Other than a younger brother who drowned as a child, every one of her family had succumbed to the cancer piranha with which the family pool was infested. Clayton was past mourning, grief moving on to where grief goes when it's done with you.

     He stirred at the buzz of his cell phone.

     “Hello.”

     “Hey dad. Mark here. What are you up to?”

     “Oh, living the dream, Son. Got up this morning and clipped my toe nails, made myself a big plate of scrambled rubber; you're mother left a ton of that egg replacement stuff in the pantry.”

     “Jeez, sounds like a regular Mardi Gras going on over there.”

     “Yeah, well, my golf games been a bit off these days so I thought I'd pursue some other excitements, like seeing how much smoke it takes to set off the kitchen fire alarm.”

     “Guess Mom should have taught you to cook. Actually, the reason I'm calling is cause Lizzie and I want to invite you to spend the month of August with us. You and I can swing a few holes. The kids need to see more of you, you know?”

     “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate you looking out for me but I've gotta learn to fend for myself around here. It's been almost six months, you know. Besides, I've got that trip to D.C scheduled in August, remember?”

     “Dad, you didn't cancel that?”

     “Hey, you're mother may be gone, but I'm still alive. I've gotta do something other than give myself pedicures and watch Charlie's Angels reruns.”

     Mark chuckled. He knew Clayton hated Charlie's Angels.

     “I just thought...well...you and Mom planned that trip together. It was her dream to stand on the National Mall and get a glimpse of the Great American Bird.”

     It was Clayton's turn to laugh. He remembered how they'd sat around the dining table, Washington brochures laid out like jigsaw puzzle pieces. She joked about the Washington Monument; it looked like a giant middle finger, built to monolithic proportions so the Russian satellites would pick it up as they passed over American skies.

     The truth is, Clayton had almost cancelled the flights, twice. Right now, it was an easy out. He loathed the idea of spending too much time with Mark and Lizzie. They were busy and his extended visits were suffocating, making him feel more vacant than the house he'd left behind.

     “Well, I guess I'll have to go and salute it myself; for her. Don't worry, Mark, I'm all right. I've got to learn to fly solo sometime.”

     “O.k. Take care, Dad. Will we see you at Christmas, then?”

     “Sure...Christmas. I'll call you before I fly out.”

     Clayton shuffled the slippers off of his sweaty feet and turned his attention back to the crossword. He tried to focus but the black and white squares stared blankly back at him. A game of Snakes and Ladders, and he kept sliding down the snakes back to start position. Coaxing his reading glasses from his ears he rubbed tired eyes, leaning back in his chair.

     Championship For Lonely Seemers. 

     The headline jumped out from the page, opposite the crossword, a muddled mix of nonsense. Clayton dropped his glasses back onto his nose and leaned in. Companionship For Lonely Seniors. He chuckled; isn't that what crosswords were for? He read on. Seniors dating service – looking to fill that emptiness - non-threatening environment– plenty of other lonely seniors waiting to meet you.

     Clayton glanced up, a bead of sweat pilling on his forehead. Rhonda watched him from atop the mantle, a curl of salt and pepper hair sweeping across her brow. He stood, drew up to the mantle and flipped the photograph onto its face, paused, lifted it up again and turned her to face the brick facade.

     He sat down to the paper and scanned through the ad again. A short interview – a photo taken for your personal companionship file – a professional match-maker to ensure your match is ideal for you.

     Who was he kidding? Yesterday he'd decided to end it, hand in his resignation to the Great CEO. Today he's checking out the personal ads like a teenager looking for a quick shake in the sack. My gosh, is this what it had come to?

     Pencil back in hand he doodled around the perimeter of the ad, happy faces, frowny faces, curly-cues. He scrawled into the margins – old man – lived your life – let it go. The pencil point moved to the emboldened phone number at the bottom of the ad and drew a bold bubble around it. Clayton closed the paper, folded it and carried it to the recycle bin, listening as it slapped to the bottom.

Continued...

The Rebirth of Clayton Powell - Part 2

     Clayton squeezed exactly one half inch of Crest onto his toothbrush and replaced the tube to the cabinet. The Oxycontin bottle caught his eye. It was the one thing he didn't flush down the toilet after Rhonda died. He was well aware of the dangers of the opiate with all of the press it was receiving lately. The doctor issued strong warnings too - “used with extreme caution even when the pain is at its worst.” He'd hung on to it for one reason or another. This could be his best option which is why it was still there, awaiting a purpose.

     The internet was helpful in his research on self-administered dying but he had an aversion to blood and pain which, to him, made lethal doses of Oxycontin a viable option. The drug had an effect similar to heroin, affecting the pleasure centers of the brain leading to euphoria. Not a bad way to go in his estimation. The pills could also be crushed and administered by injection giving them a more rapid entry into the bloodstream, but Clayton also hated needles. The bottle was still near full, surely enough to affect the results he was looking for in a short period of time.

     Living alone meant he'd not likely be found for days. Unpleasant but necessary to prevent the interception of medical personnel. He'd wait till after his D.C trip, though. A plan was in place for that too. Scheduled to be gone for three weeks he'd fly home after the first, take the pills and have two more weeks before the kids expected him to be home. By that time, they'd have received the news. There was a handsome inheritance tucked away for them. They'd get over his death soon enough.

     Fences had to be one of North America's most distinguishable icons; pointed, painted, impregnable or insubstantial, tall, short, straight or crooked. Every front yard in Clayton's neighborhood was enclosed by one, all sending a similar message – no trespassing. He jogged on, recollecting Sophia Loren's famous line, “A woman's dress should be like a fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view.”

     With clock-work timing the Martins' dog slammed against his wire enclosure, lips peeled into a toothy grimace just inches from the sidewalk. Clayton had no doubt that his bark was indicative of his bite, flesh-ripping incisors doing battle with the weaved wire standing between him and passers-by. Clayton took little comfort in the steel fortress; the dog had a will that would one day see him to the human prize he sought.

      He rounded the corner and worked his way up Spruce Street, past Tiny Tike Daycare and Dawson's Mini Mart. Jogging became a part of his daily routine when Rhonda came home from the hospital to die, her temporary bed dropped into the middle of the living room for convenience; he could keep a close watch while her body dabbled with the dark unknown.

     Dying had a curious smell. It permeated the house and all of its accoutrements. At times, when she slept, he made his escape from its ugliness, drawing deeply on the fresh air forced into his lungs by a slow gallop around town.

     He stopped and bent to tie a rebellious shoe lace, the nylon kind, too slippery for a decent knot. Made for women by women, he thought to himself. How did they end up in his man joggers?

     Returning upright he saw it. He'd never seen it there before, its discreet, unsuspecting facade of sage colored vinyl. It looked like all of the other houses except for the commercial sign fastened just above the ivory front door. Lawson & Trent Senior Services – a bit elusive but he supposed that's what they were after.

     Approaching the iron gate, he lifted the latch and nonchalantly stepped into the manicured front lawn. Slate landscaping rock led a straight, non-threatening path directly past a row of blooming forsythia to the front door. The window blinds were pulled. Light footsteps drew him to the top of the stairs, the porch floor creaking unceremoniously as he reached it. His left knee buckled under a shot of pain – damn knee!

     “Open,” the sign announced and he gently turned the knob. Lucille's toothpaste smile greeted him upon entry.

      “How can I help you, today?” She was too cheerful. Clayton preferred the tellers at his bank branch, barely acknowledging his presence as they performed their mundane tasks.

     “I was just jogging by...never even noticed this place here before. Just curious, I guess. What services exactly do you do for seniors?” He was playing it cool. She looked pleased that he asked; for the next few minutes she could earn her keep.

     “Well, you might say our services are quite specialized, dealing mostly with friendship, filling the void when companionship is needed. You might have seen our ad in this week's paper?”

     “Mm hm.” Clayton jammed his hands into his front pockets, toying nervously with the house keys. He withdrew the right and reached across her desk for a business card, flipping it front to back to front again.

     “So...how exactly does it work?” Stupid question, and she pounced on it.

     “Why don't you sit down, Mr...”

     “Powell. Clayton Powell.”

     “Tell me a little about yourself, Clayton Powell.”

     He assumed the empty, padded chair across from Lucille and rubbed a nervous palm against the cantankerous knee.

     “I don't know...not much to say, really. Wife died of cancer six months ago. I'm not looking for another, you know. She was the love of my life. Just...well...I'm taking this trip to D.C next month. Got an extra plane ticket.”

     “Mmm. You'd like some company, then?”

     Lucille had a curly mop of hair, dyed artificially copper-red with a shock of white resting playfully on her left temple. The pendant earrings danced on her shoulders every time she spoke. Clayton was not clairvoyant but she must be...let's see...fifty-five, sixty. Her candour was disarming.

     “It's o.k to admit that you're lonely Mr. Powell. May I call you Clayton? We do all kinds of matches here; long-term, short term, friendship...love, if we're lucky. But that's not something one can plan for. For some it just happens. For others...well...it's all about having someone to talk to, share stories...you know.”

     Clayton nodded.

     “And...what if...what if I decided that I'd like to find a friend? Short-term, of course. Just this once, one week to D.C and back, all-expenses paid, no strings attached, that sort of thing. Have to be someone I like, of course...of the female persuasion, preferably. Nothing more, though. Just one week and that's it.” His voice was becoming a little forceful by the end and he swallowed hard.

     “If that's what you'd like I can set up an appointment to see Mr. Trent, Harv Trent.” She nodded toward a closed door to her right. He'll take a look at your file and set up some potential matches from our data base. I'll need to ask you a few questions, Clayton, if that's all right.” Lucille pulled a notebook from her top drawer and gazed at him, business-like and demure. “What are your interests...hobbies?”

Continued...

The Rebirth of Clayton Powell - Part 3

      “Hello...Lucille? Hi there. This is Clayton Powell. Yes, I've been thinking and...I'd like you to remove my request from your file. Yes, that's right. Maybe another time. I'll call you.”

     Harv stood from behind his desk and reached a hand across, grabbing Clayton's firmly in his palm.

     “Sit down...please.” He motioned to the empty chair. “You know, Mr. Powell, just to put you at ease, it's not at all uncommon for first-timers to get cold feet. I'm glad you came, though. We can just talk if you like. I can show you some pictures of other clients and you can make a decision when it feels right for you. Does that sound good?”

     Clayton nodded, wondering whether he'd remembered to put on deodorant, moisture collecting in large orbs on his Nike jogging shirt.
      Harv turned the computer monitor to face Clayton where neatly organized rows of female faces stared back at him. The mouse in Harv's hand scurried across the mouse pad, clicking here and there and finally bringing three of the faces to the forefront, large and in perfect focus. Clayton removed the glasses straddling his scalp and pressed them firmly onto the bridge of his nose.

     “These are the clients I feel would best suit you, Mr. Powell. Do you see anything you like? This is just the first step, of course. You'd have a chance to meet and get to know them before your trip. We can arrange for a private meeting here or you can make your own arrangements - a restaurant or bar. We recommend that you don't meet, for the first time, in a residence.”

     Clayton rubbed his cheeks firmly with both palms, the morning's growth bristling sharply on tender skin. He leaned in for a closer look. They were all in their mid to late sixties, he deduced. Paxton wasn't a big town but he didn't recognize any of them, thank God.

     “I don't know how to do this.” He leaned back in his chair, hoisted an ankle to his knee and then dropped it back to the floor; rubbed a closed fist against his scalp.

     Harv smiled. “That's all right, Mr. Powell. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and print these copies and you can take them home to think about it. O.k.?”

     “O.k.” The response left his mouth encased within a sigh, airy and unsure.

     Clayton pulled the manilla envelope out from concealment - the underside of his shirt - and shoved it beneath the newspaper on the table like a top-secret document. He checked the mantle for Rhonda. She was still gazing at the mottled brick fireplace, back turned.

     Withdrawing to the bedroom he removed the smelly jogging attire and climbed into the shower, rinsing away his iniquity under prolific bursts of hot water and soapy slather.

     Pouring a cup of steaming tea he settled in at the table drumming his fingers in rhythm with his accelerated heart rate. Stuff like this is what likely gives a guy a heart attack. There may be no need for Oxycontin. A wicked pointer finger ran along the table, made contact with the corner of the concealed envelope and drew it out into the open. He lifted it, shook it gently and the photos fell to the table surface.

     Lined up now like a firing squad, Clayton's eyes moved from one to the next. He wondered what they were thinking as they stared back at him. They were all smiling – smirking, maybe - seeing right through his cool veneer. He couldn't get past the idea of being a witness behind a concealment window, looking for the perpetrator - “That's her! Yes, officer, I'm sure.”

     Clayton pushed the eight by tens into a pile and ambled to the living room, standing them carefully, side by side, along the mantle ledge. He turned Rhonda's photo around and set it in line with the others.

Continued...

The Rebirth of Clayton Powell - Part 4

     “So...her name is Rose. She's sixty-three years old, loves dogs and has done a lot of travelling. Never been to D.C., though.”

     Lucille hoisted the water glass to her mouth and gulped gratuitously. She reached across the table and lay a hand over Clayton's. His right hand calmed from the storm of anxiety within.

     “That's nice.” She nodded toward the paper boat which his napkin had become, resting atop waves of silverware in a sea of brown tabletop. “Where did you learn to do that?”

     “Rhonda. She was good at origami. Tried to teach me but this boat was all I could master. Never very good at folding stuff. She was the right brain, I was the left.” He smiled to himself.

     “Perfect combination, I'd say. You know, Clayton, you're not replacing her, just adding to the mosaic of great people you'll befriend in your lifetime. It's not a crime to want company.”

     “Yeah.” He scanned the breadth of the restaurant for a familiar face. This particular location should be out of the way enough that he'd not run into any old acquaintances or friends.

     “What's wrong with you?” He realized instantly how badly that came out. “I mean, do you find me attractive?”

     Lucille beamed, her face turning a deeper shade of pink. “The answer is “yes”, I do find you very attractive. But I'm married...to Harv.”

     “Aaah.” He grinned. “Guess that means you're not available, then.”

     “Well, I'm truly flattered, Clayton. I'm here for you, anyway, until you find someone just as dazzlingly captivating as me.” She flipped her curls in coquettish playfulness.

     Their attention turned simultaneously to the restaurant door, swinging open to reveal a silver-haired woman in flattering pantsuit.  

     “O.k., Clayton, it's Rose. Are you ready for this? I suggest you keep things on a first name basis...for anonymity.” Lucille winked. “Just in case it doesn't work out.”

     She rose from her seat and Clayton followed suit. Lucille made the necessary introductions, excused herself to a mountain of laundry back home, and was off.

     Brandy leaves a beautiful amber residue around the inside rim of a snifter, its bouquet equally exotic and uplifting. Clayton sipped from the glass cupped within his hands. The Oxycontin bottle rested on the lamp table beside him as he reclined further into the armchair. He carried it around occasionally as a tangible reminder of his intentions. Orange fingers coursed upwards from the fire at its source, pointing haphazardly, this way and that, toward the two photos mounted atop the mantle; Rhonda and Rose.

     He'd liked her...a lot. She was no beauty queen, somewhat overweight, but perhaps this was to her advantage. Clayton didn't go for the under-nourished look that the world fancied so much. Like the waitress who'd served them tonight – too skinny. It was a cruel reminder of Rhonda's emaciated core in her final days.

     They'd hit it off, he was sure, her story as compelling as his although she'd been single longer and more familiar with loneliness and the need for distraction in human form. They'd discussed politics, health issues, travel adventures and past relationships. The death topic was off limits – they'd agreed on that quickly. They also agreed, before the evening was done, that neither would expect anything of the other. They would not sit by the phone and pine for a call or message.

     He picked up the pill bottle and shook it, its contents rattling against a secured lid. He almost felt a need to leave a note behind for Rose, explaining his hasty escape from mortality to assure her that there was nothing in it to be taken personally. But a note would suggest to the family that she'd meant something to him, a girlfriend in his life. He couldn't have that – because she wasn't – she was just a travel friend and that's all.

     Lucille called at ten, curious about the “date”. It wasn't a date, he reminded her, just a meeting.

     “She's exceptional, in a pragmatic sort of way. She doesn't talk with her mouth full and is a pretty good listener. Wants to see the Smithsonian and Lincoln Memorial before she dies.”

     “What about the other two ladies? Are you ready for another “meeting”?

     “No. No, I don't see any need to put them through that. They're probably nice enough but I don't want to get their hopes up. I only have two tickets to D.C and one of them has my name on it. Can't take them all and I'm not good at this dang Dating Game. Will it be bachelorette number one, two or three? You know what I mean?”

     “Of course. Has Rose agreed, then, to accompany you on this trip?”

     “She said it was my call but she'd be glad to escort me if I'd like. We'd get separate rooms.” He didn't altogether know why that was pertinent to Lucille.

     Clayton checked the airport monitor for his flight number; it was on time. Thirty more minutes and they'd be cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, shuttling to the nation's capital at break-neck speed. He'd stopped and picked up a pack of chewing gum at the sundries shop, just in case she had trouble with her ears at that altitude.

     He checked his carry-on again, taking inventory of his necessities – camera, toothbrush and a variety of casual wear. He believed in packing light, hoped she shared his sentiment. The terminal echoed with the next announcement - “all passengers travelling on flight 417 for Washington D.C., you may begin boarding now. Parents with small children and persons with handicaps first.”

     Clayton looked around for a sign of Rose. He checked his watch again. She said she'd be here at least a half hour ago. He flicked his cell phone to “on” and a message prompt blinked on the screen. He listened – it was Rose.

     “Clayton, I'm terribly sorry. Something's come up. I've had to take Edgar to the vet. He kept me up all night vomiting. Hope you have fun in D.C. You can tell me all about it when you get back.”

     He'd been upstaged by a dog. That's how the cookie crumbles sometimes. He picked up his carry-on and boarded the plane.

     Stuffing his luggage into an overhead compartment he dropped into his seat. The lady next to him was staring out her window, fidgeting with the lid of the armrest ashtray.

     “First time flying?”

     She turned to meet his gaze. She had auburn hair with a pinch of grey showing at the roots and laugh lines even when she wasn't laughing.

     “No, but I don't travel enough to ever fully get used to it. You heading to D.C for business or pleasure?” Her breath smelled of lemon drops.

     “Pleasure. Always wanted to see the Museum of Natural History. That's where Night At The Museum was filmed. You've seen it...with Robin Williams?”

     “Mm hmm. Love Robin Williams.” She relaxed into her seat and brushed a hand through her hair. “Did you know that the Smithsonian was established by an English fellow named Smithson? Well, he didn't actually have it built but he bequeathed his estate to the American government to have a place established where people from around the world could learn more about their history. That's why admission is free. He wanted everyone to be able to access it.”

     “I'll be. I wasn't aware of that. Where are you staying?”

     “At a five-star near Capital Hill. That's where my husband and I stayed one year for our wedding anniversary...just before his heart attack. Haven't traveled in the ten years he's been gone so this is going a bit out on the limb for me.”

     “Staying long?”

     “Three weeks. I need time to get through the crowds. I get arthritis flares that slow me down some, not as quick out of the gate as I was once. How about you?”

     “Same. Three weeks. No arthritis yet, but I have a bum knee and numerous other ailments not worth the mention. I suppose you're familiar with the Great American Bird?”

     Her eyes searched him with curiosity. Clayton leaned back and laughed.

     “Please move your seats into the upright position until we're in full flight.” A pretty flight attendant interrupted their banter. “I'll be by with some pillows and blankets later so you two can snuggle in.” She winked, smiled and moved on.

     Clayton reached into his trouser pocket and produced a package. “Gum?”

     Oxycontin was the furthest thing from his mind.

  

Blood Lily - Epilogue

     Blood Lily is a fictitious story about a young woman with a condition called D.I.D. or Dissociative Identity Disorder. As the name suggests, it is a mental condition where a person invents different personalities, usually in response to significant childhood trauma. The “alters” are often invented in childhood, like invisible friends, each taking on characteristics that the “host” chooses to embody in order to deal with traumatic events or memories.

     D.I.D. is different from schizophrenia, a term most of us are more familiar with. Symptoms of schizophrenia usually include delusions, auditory hallucinations (hearing voices) and incoherent or disorganized speech. They might be heard having conversations among their various “alters”.

     A D.I.D. sufferer can switch from one alternate personality to another in a moments notice then jump back again without any memory of the event, as we see in the hospital encounter. The personalities, sometimes opposite genders, are usually cognisant of the others but can have complete memory lapses, as we see in Lily's experience at Jimmy's Grill; not being aware of ever having been there before.

     Lily has created for herself three “alters” - T.J., the protector and defender; Monday, the strong and bold female with a penchant for cleanliness; Phoebe, the innocent child. People have been known to have as few as two and as many as upwards of ninety different alters.

     I became interested in this disorder when my daughter was studying it for her psych class. Intense discussion ensued around the lunch table one Sunday afternoon with her brothers and sisters-in-law; all having studied psych at one time. My research came from her text book, off of internet sights on the subject as well as hours of You Tube video interviews with people suffering under the condition. The interviews are truly fascinating and I invite you to check them out.

     Now that you know Lily's secret, you may want to read it again. :)

Blood Lily - Part 8

A fiction short story.

     T.J. pulled the curtain quietly until it could go no further. He followed the lines that hung loosely from Jerry's face and arm to determine what they did, where they went. Reaching across the idle body he gently tugged on one. It made a hissing sound as it left Jerry's nose. The body didn't flinch.

     T.J. followed suit with the one in his throat, peeling the tape holding it in place. Finally, the needle in Jerry's left wrist. There was a lot more tape. At first he was careful, going slow to break its adhesion, then quicker; it was taking too long.

     Freed from its shackles, the body was still motionless. T.J. watched the monitor for a sign of something. The curtain behind him clattered open and a nurse entered, smiled and then stopped short.

     “What the...”

     She fumbled at the oxygen lines and the needle hanging lifeless like the man they rested beside.

     “Did you do this?” Her eyes were frantic, searching T.J. for answers.

     T.J. made a move to get past her and she stopped him with a forceful hand. He pushed her hard, landing her noisily against a metal tray table, throwing a glass of water hard against the wall. Regaining her balance she moved swiftly after him, grabbing at his sleeve, calling for help.

     “Hold it.” A male nurse blocked T.J.'s urgent escape before he could exit the room. T.J. kicked at his shins but the nurse, arms bulked and ready for a challenge, held him at bay. His hands were wrapped tightly around T.J's biceps.

     “What's going on here?” Lily's mother, Gloria, rounded the corner, alarm written on her face.

     Phoebe arrived out of nowhere, slunk to the floor and crawled into a corner of the room. She pulled her legs tightly to her chin and rocked back and forth, back and forth. The male nurse stood close, casting a dark shadow over Phoebe while two other nurses worked to restore the undead man in the bed. Gloria sobbed from her perch in the doorway, glaring at her husband then at Phoebe in disbelief.

     “How could you?” Was all she could say.

     Phoebe could feel the warm sensation of shame moist between her legs. An arm wrapped around her shoulder and Gloria's soft voice was whispering in her ear.

     “It's going to be alright. Everything's going to be o.k. Tell me what happened.”

     A childish four year old voice responded, “It was T.J.”

     “T.J.?”

     Hearing his name T.J. swung violently at Gloria, his fist landing solidly on her left cheek. She fell back and the male nurse stepped in, pulling him to his feet, wrestling his arms behind his back. He led him from the hospital room. Gloria lay on the floor, weeping.

     T.J. floundered uselessly, down the corridor, against the strength of the nurse. The nurse tugged a little harder sending a sharp pain through T.J.'s shoulder blades. Hospital staff leaped out of their path as they passed. 

     Aaron was standing at the nurse's station, asking for directions. He turned at the commotion and saw them.

     “Lily?”

     T.J. dropped his head, trying to avoid eye contact but the nurse yanked him upright. Aaron reached for Lily and then his hand fell away. He watched them go.

     “Mrs. Jules?” A doctor entered the room and pulled a chair next to hers. He lay a gentle hand on her arm and entreated her listening ear. “You're daughter is going to be alright. We've taken her to the Psych ward for analysis. She will be treated well there and we'll be sure to update you on her progress.”

     “Thank you.” Gloria responded, cupping his compassionate hand in hers. “Thank you.”  

Blood Lily - Part 7

A fiction short story.

     Lily arrived at her desk to find a single red lily in a vase placed strategically between the adding machine and computer monitor. She bent to sniff it and looked around the office. Aaron came up from behind, surprising her.

     “I had to think, with a name like yours, that it must be your favourite flower.”

     “What's this for?”

     “I heard your dad took ill. Thought you could use some cheering up.”

     Lily threw him a sharp, questioning look. Aaron shuffled uncomfortably in his leather loafers.

     “Len asked Chleo to cover for you yesterday when you called in. He told her that you were at the hospital with your dad. Is he going to be alright?”

     “Yeah...no. I don't know, actually. He's had a stroke.”

     “Oh. Care to go for a drink after work? Sounds like you could use someone to talk to.”

     “No, sorry. I'm going down to St. Michael's as soon as I get out of here. Thanks, though.”

     “If you need me to go with you, I would. I lost my dad a couple of years ago. It's not easy.”

     Lily smiled weakly. “Uh...no. I think I should be o.k.” She wasn't convincing anyone, least of all herself.

     The hospital corridors were buzzing with intensity. Lily focused on the floor tiles as she walked, the fluorescent lights were blinding. If only Monday could be here, but this was the kind of place Monday shrunk from; too many germs and sick bodies. Lily followed the signs to Intensive Care and asked a nurse for her father's room.

     His door stood open, his body lying like a corpse under the white sheet. He had a greyish countenance making it difficult to differentiate his skin from his hair. The nurse at his bedside was pulling the privacy curtain when she saw her.

     “Are you here to see Mr. Jules?”

     Lily nodded. The nurse pointed to a chair near the bed, smiled and left. Lily kept her position near the door, inanimate. Her mother wasn't there. She glanced up at the only clock in the dimly lit space – 6 p.m. She'd probably gone for supper.

     Lily watched him from where she stood. There was no recognizable indication that he was the man that had stolen her childhood. His cheeks weren't piqued from anger or desire. His eyes were not watching her every move. His hands were empty of threat. But she knew it was him. He lay there the victor. He had won what she had lost, and he'd refuse to die until she showed up here, rubbing it in her face one last time.

     Lily recoiled suddenly, imagining him rising from the bed and reaching for her body. This was one terrible game he was playing, pretending he needed to see her again. Tears welled in her eye sockets and she jammed her lids shut to stop them, leaving the room and the sickening stench of his ruse.

To be continued...

Blood Lily - Part 6

A fiction short story.

     Gloria located the public phone in the privacy room down the hall, where the nurse said it would be. She closed the door from the bustle on the outside and began rifling through her purse, pulling out the address book and locating the number. Her fingers felt heavy as she punched the keys, waiting as it rang.

     “Lily? It's Mom. Lily...are you there, honey?”

     The voice on the other side was different. Perhaps it wasn't Lily who'd answered “hello”.

     “What do you want?”

     “Is this T.J.? T.J., can you give Lily a message, please? Her Dad's in the hospital. It's a stroke. He's in pretty poor shape; not very lucid. I think she should come and see him. Do you know where she is?”

     “She's gone out. I'll give her the message.” There was a pause. “Which hospital?”

     “St. Michael's. Please, T.J., tell her it's important that she come as soon as possible.”

     There was a click and the connection was gone. Gloria didn't like that boy, whoever he was. He was rude and boorish. Likely they were living together now the way he answered Lily's phone as if it was his place.

     They'd become friends in high school; at least that was the first mention of him. Gloria had never met him, though. Lily refused to bring him home; guarding their relationship from her mother's prying questions with chilly aloofness. Gloria had been happy that her daughter had met a boy. She hoped he'd be good for her but now she wondered. What had Lily told him about her parents that made him so defensive. She didn't really want to know.

     Gloria escaped her memories of Lily's child-hood, leaving them buried in that room, welcoming the buzz of the hospital hallways. She was trading trauma for trauma as she turned left into Intensive Care and followed the room numbers to E12.

     He was lying on the bed in the same position she'd left him. His eyes were closed and a myriad of thin hoses ran from his nose, mouth and arm. Gloria drew up the chair next to him and reached for his hand. It was grey and cold. His eyelids didn't flinch in recognition to her touch. She felt so alone.

     Her thoughts went back to Lily. She'd left home in a hurry; gone the day after she procured her first job at the bakery. She never called home, never visited, never even checked in to see how they were doing. Gloria didn't push it. Her daughter had to find her own wings, make her own way. Jerry never asked about Lily. He'd taken her leaving as a personal affront and met any discussion about her with consternation.

     She really needed Lily right now. If Jerry didn't come to, if things got worse and a big decision had to be made, Gloria didn't think she could do it alone. Lily had to come. She could not possibly be that cold.

     Phoebe curled tightly into the corner of the sofa, her teddy bear warm and soft against her cheek. Old re-runs of Power Puff girls danced on the T.V screen; Blossom, Bubble and Buttercup racing in to save the day from another collection of evil nemeses. She reached for the warm glass of milk on the coffee table, inadvertently bumping it to the floor. She made no move to retrieve it, watching as the white fluid ran along the paisley throw rug and slowly disappeared.

To be continued...

Blood Lily - Part 5

A fiction short story.

     Lily eyed Aaron cautiously as he slid one butt cheek onto the corner of her desk. She tried to look busy, thumbing through the pile of insurance forms.

     “I tried to call you.”

     He was sipping from his coffee mug, nonchalant. She knew he was lying. The phone hadn't rang all weekend. Lily took a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity and exhaled loudly.

     “I'm sorry, Aaron...about Thursday night. I don't know what came over me. I guess I've been kind of stressed lately.”

     She shuffled the paperwork off to the side and swivelled her chair to face him.

     “I was at Jimmy's on Saturday with a buddy. I understand now why the waitress mistook you for someone else. There was a lady there that looked a lot like you. Honest mistake, I'd say.”

     Lily stiffened. Monday must have been at Jimmy's. People often-times mistook them for sisters.

     “Was she nice?”

     Aaron grinned. “Too much make-up for my taste. A bit of a she-devil.”

     Lily smiled. Len's office door opened and he emerged from the confines of his windowed lair. Aaron stood and turned toward his desk, then glanced in Lily's direction one more time, hands clutching his mug.

     “Can we try again sometime?”

     One eyebrow was raised but his mouth was expressionless. He was not getting his hopes up. Lily loved that face, so trusting. He was handsome, too. She knew Chloe was crazy about him, brushing against him too close when she delivered notes. Refilling his coffee mug when she perked a fresh pot. Lily glanced up to see Len conversing with Chloe. Her eyes were on Lily and Aaron, though.

     “Maybe...sometime.”

     Len was working his way toward Lily's desk. Aaron shuffled to his own.

     “Lily. Have you got the Hargrave file? The client's not happy. Seems I'll have to mediate on this one.”

     Lily grimaced. His cologne was burning her nostrils. He could stand a lesson in scent modification. She dug through the “in” pile and located the file, pushing it toward him, carefully avoiding contact.

     “Thanks, doll.”

     Doll. It had an ugly connotation of ownership; of demeaning superiority.

     Lily sometimes worried that Monday would show up here. She'd never survive in this environment; untidy desks, coffee spills, filing room akimbo. She'd likely be donning rubber gloves for the germs she'd encounter. But, boy, would she give Len a run for his money. Lily shuddered. No, she wouldn't allow Monday to come. It would likely cost her a job.

To be continued...

Blood Lily - Part 4

A fiction short story.

     Aaron held the door for James. James' arms were busy gesticulating, giving visual interpretation to the story he was telling. Aaron pointed towards the bar to keep him moving. The blond pony-tailed waitress was there, behind the bar. James and Aaron dropped onto stools, James buckling in laughter as the punchline of his story finally crested.

     “Sounds like you boys are having a good night. Can I get ya'll something?”

     Ponytail eyed Aaron sympathetically. He hoped she wouldn't bring up the fiasco of Thursday night. She'd made his escape from the restaurant quick and painless, distracting the couple nearby while he slipped out.

     “Martini please...dry, no olive.”

     “Sounds good.” James chirped. “Make that two. I'll have his olive.”

     “Can do.” She pitched the order to the bartender and moved on to clear tables.

     The bartender tossed two coasters onto the bar, loaded the glasses and slid them to the pair.  James was instantly absorbed in another story. The guys at the squash club had grown tired of them but Aaron was still a willing participant in his escapades. Aaron rolled the martini in his glass, sipping indolently at the cocktail.

     Across the bar a woman moved in, her face partially obscured by a pendant light. She wore a low blouse and the crease of her bosom moved him to immediate attention. He tried to listen as James story unfolded. The woman spoke in low sultry tones to the bartender – a lime margarita, frozen, two straws. Aaron shifted on his stool trying surreptitiously to get a better look. The voice was familiar.

     He could make out the brown hair, tossed into perfect curls that rested on her shoulders. Large hoop earrings, gold bracelets and a medallion that nestled just below her throat. Her face was blurred by shadow. She spoke again to the bartender but this time he couldn't make out what she'd said. The bartender chuckled and motioned to the jukebox in the corner.

     “Here's a loonie, Monday. Play one for Frankie too, would ya?” The bartender tossed her a coin.

     Her red nails reached up and caught the coin, mid-air, and she slid from her pedestal, swaggering across the polished floor. Her face was turned but Aaron followed from the corner of his eye. Tight jeans, high heels and long exotic legs. He wasn't subtle enough. James turned to follow Aaron's eyes and caught the brown-haired beauty in his gaze.

     “Holy cow, man. Is she here with someone?”

     “She appears to be alone, so far. Seems to know Frankie over there well enough.” Aaron nodded toward the bartender, also watching her every movement with alacrity.

     “Hey. Frankie, is it?”  James motioned him over.

     The bartender moved in toward them. “Another martini?”

     “No, not just yet. What can you tell me about the bombshell over there? She single?”

     Frankie grinned. “Don't know. She comes here often. Guys approach her all the time. Sometimes she lets them buy her a drink, have a dance or two but she usually leaves alone. One sorry ass got his shin kicked pretty good when he tried to make an advance on her. With heels like that I'd suggest you keep a safe distance.”

     Frankie winked and moved on. The jukebox kicked into gear, Evanescence – Bring Me To Life - drumming through speakers mounted on either side of the bar. The gentlemen glanced away on her return. James smiled at Aaron, threw back the last of his drink and dismounted his stool. He pulled a hand through slicked hair, yanked up his trousers, and made a jabbing motion toward himself. Aaron grinned and nodded - “you look great.”

     Aaron stopped James with a tug at his sleeve. “Be careful.” He jabbed James in the arm.

     “Pfffft.” James tipped a cocky hand toward Aaron – “no problem.”

     Aaron watched from across the bar as James moved in for the kill. James lifted a finger to the bartender and ordered two more drinks – one for him and one for her. Her body language demonstrated little interest as James slipped in beside her and introduced himself. She was nursing the last of her margarita and nodding. Evanescence crooned their final words - “Bring me to life, I've been living a lie, there's nothing inside, bring me to life.”

     Her head was turned now, immersed in James conversation. He seemed to have a way with women – lucky stiff! The bar had gotten busier making eavesdropping difficult. The jukebox kicked in again – Mat Kearney – She Got The Honey.

     Aaron stood to use the restroom and James waved him over. He rounded the bar and approached from the rear of the couple.

     “Aaron, this is Monday. She's in insurance too.”

     “Nice to meet you.” Aaron stuck out a hand and was struck by her appearance. “Hey.”

     Monday recognized him too, he could sense it.

     “Good to meet you two. Excuse me, gentleman. I need to use the ladies room.”

     She dropped onto her heels but instead of heading left to the restroom she turned right and exited the restaurant.  

To be continued... 

Blood Lily - Part 3

A fiction short story.

     Lily was thankful for the weekend; two more days before she had to face Aaron at the office. That should give things time to cool and, hopefully, she could dream up some mitigating explanation. Something deep down made her wish that he would call, or text. She had a vague memory of the final moments of their date and also a feeling, deep down, that Aaron hated her right now.

     Rummaging through the closet and laundry basket turned up no evidence of the dress she'd worn.

     “Where are you? Where are you?” Lily implored it to come out of hiding. The blood-red stain pulsed in her brain as a sour memory of another life. Monday would kill her if she found out. It was one of her favourite dresses. She should never have borrowed it.

     Even if she did find it, though, she had no idea how to remove such a permanent stain. That was Monday's area of expertise. Monday was a clean-freak, nearing O.C.D. in her compulsive tendencies. But she couldn't ask Monday, not this time.

     Lily knew it would be no use conferring with her mother, either. Her mother's approach to the subject was to throw the article into the trash and forget about it. Lily remembered the times she'd re-worn dirty underpants and pajamas as a child; the few she'd owned disappearing faster than they could be replaced on her mother's infrequent trips to Bargain Village. At first Lily had tried to hide the blood-stained articles from her mother but she'd always found them, skulking around Lily's room while she was at school. “Out of sight, out of mind,” was her mother's philosophy on a lot of things.

     Maybe a good soak in the tub would relax her. It was where she could think. Lily closed the door to the bathroom and turned the lock, rechecking it twice for security. Growing up she'd never been allowed to close or lock doors.

     “We're all family here,” her father would say. “You've got nothin' to hide. And if you do, I should know about it. This is my house.”

     She'd learned to put on a dress before using the toilet so she could hide most of her dignity behind it's cloak. Bathing was another thing altogether. Saturdays were bath days. She'd grown to hate Saturdays.

     Lily turned the knobs to affect a warm flow from the spout and stuck in a big toe. It felt good. She checked the door's lock one more time then peeled away the layers of clothing, dropping them to the floor. Placing one cautious foot into the tub, she smiled gratefully and was drawn in like a starving man to a smorgasbord.

     Her skin squeaked against the bottom of the tub. It had an unpleasant sound like the ones she once made when her father would creep into her bedroom at night. The sounds someone made when he'd remove her pajamas. Lily didn't altogether think those sounds had been hers but they were in the room on those nights, high-pitched and eery.

     Monday had rescued her, at least as much as she could. She'd come into Lily's life when she was twelve and Monday eighteen. She'd loved Monday's name from the start, it represented the end of a weekend. The end of long days at home under her father's watchful eye.

     Father didn't like Monday; she wore too much make-up and dressed lasciviously, flaunting her thighs beneath mini-skirts and bearing a little too much breast. But that was what drew Lily to her. She'd seen pictures of women like Monday in magazines, their flirty flamboyance creating a powerful strength that Lily longed for. A strength that could defy men like Lily's father.

     Lily eased herself deeper into the warm cocoon. Gazing down at her torso she was still pleased with what she saw. She could pull off dressing like Monday, but not as well as Monday could. Monday was sure and confident. She used her power of attraction to reel a man in and then throw him to the sharks. Lily smiled. She wished Monday were here right now to laugh with; to tell Lily of her latest exploits.

     Lily slipped deeper, her head breaking the surface of the water, her ears picking up aquatic motion, honing in on the sounds in her head, her heart-beat. The phone was ringing but no one left a message.

To be continued...

Blood Lily - Part 2

A fiction short story.

     T.J. paced the living room floor. How had Lily allowed this to happen. He'd warned her not to try anything stupid like that. He'd reminded her about the ways of men. Fists balled at his sides he fought the urge to hit something – anything. But that wouldn't help. She was older now, and she was forgetting the pain that men inflicted upon the helpless. It was a very good thing that he stepped in when he did. She could have been hurt.

     T.J. was the pragmatic one; the protector. He'd been there for her for so many years and he knew she'd listen to him again. He would just keep reminding her - bring the pain to the surface - allow it to bubble and agitate her back into guarded paralysis.

     T.J. remembered the dress. Pushing his way down the hallway he found it where she'd dropped it, on the bedroom floor. It was pressed tightly to the carpet, creased and forlorn. Her footprints were still embedded into it; she'd tried to erase the memory of the night before.

     He picked it up and inspected the red stain along its front, then squeezed it into a ball and headed for the kitchen. Flipping the garburator to “on”, he grabbed a wooden spoon and pushed one corner of the dress into its hungry mouth, forcing it down until it disappeared, the noisy churning of its jaws the only remaining evidence of its existance. Now she could move on.

     T.J. flipped on the T.V set and dropped into the big brown suede chair. There was nothing on at this time of day; nothing worthwhile. The apartment was quiet. He'd called in sick for Lily; it was the least he could do. He knew she couldn't face Aaron just yet.

     Flipping through an endless stream of channels was something of an exercise in distraction. His rhythm broke on the Movie Channel. He recognized the film - Gardens of the Night. Gillian Jacobs was so beautiful and so broken – like his Lily. She, too, suffered under the hands of her abuser, but the perpetrator was not her father. Gillian would eventually go home. Lily could not.

     The phone rang and T.J.'s body tensed at the sound. He allowed it to ring through until the click of the message machine.  

     “Lily, it's me, Aaron. I just wanted to say...well...I'm sorry for last night. I don't know what happened exactly, but...you're not here today and I wondered if it had anything to do with me. I'd like to talk about it.” There was a heavy pause, a sigh. “Call me sometime...please.”

     T.J. stood from the chair and shuffled to the kitchen. He pressed “play” on the machine and listened again, hit “delete” and the message was gone.  

To be continued...  

Blood Lily - Part 1

A fiction short story.

     Lily was breaking all of the rules today, and it felt good. It wasn't the restaurant. It felt familiar enough, although she couldn't say why. A pony-tailed blond turned her attention from the bar and spotted Lily at the corner table, in the shadow of the pulled blind. The waitress smiled lightly then lifted one finger - “I'll be right with you” - as if she recognized Lily.

     The door swung open at the far end of Jimmy's Grill and a black raincoat pushed through into the dim entry, followed by a gentleman in a grey suit. They were greeted instantly by the blond waitress and she waited while the gentleman helped his girl with her coat, pointing to a row of hooks along the wall. She guided them to a table two down from Lily. He pulled out a chair for his girl and she slid in. Her ruby-painted lips, matching the flirtatious dress, peeled into an intoxicating smile. He slid in across from her, taking in her aura.

     Lily's eyes flitted from the pretty couple to the doorway. Her fingernails tapped nervously on the smooth surface of the water glass, the ice cubes skipping to the beat. She immediately noticed her nails. She'd forgotten to paint them. Even after Lily had plucked the bottle of nail polish from Monday's drawer. Even after she'd taken time to preen just like Monday would have, she'd still forgotten to do her nails.

     Monday was the fashionista; hair gewgaws and lovely jewelry, perfumes and pretty clothes came naturally to her and Lily was jealous of that. But Aaron hadn't asked Monday on this date, he'd asked Lily. She pulled a compact from her purse and flipped it open, inspecting her reflection; plain but comely enough.

     The door swung open again and Lily sat up straighter, tucking the compact away, shewing vanity with it. It was Aaron. He shook the rain from his shoes and glanced around the restaurant spotting Lily in her corner. He was smiling. She smiled back; she could do this.

     “Sorry if I kept you waiting. It's coming down pretty hard out there.” He pulled a hand through damp brown locks, dropping into the seat across the table. “Have you ordered yet?”

     “No.” The word stuck in her throat like a ball of chewing gum.

     “Can I get y'all something to drink to start with?” Ponytail arrived on cue. “A lime Margarita, frozen, two straws?” She was looking down at Lily, one eye-brow raised, pen and pad poised.

     “House wine, please. Merlot.”

     “Aah, changing it up tonight, are we?” Ponytail grinned. “Spontaneity is good once in a while, I suppose. And for you?” She was looking at Aaron, her eyes scanning his upper body like a catalogue model scout.

     “Budweiser, please. With a glass.”

     “Sure thing, hon.” And she was gone.

     “You come here a lot?” Aaron swirled a paper coaster around in circles with his fingers.

     “No. I've never been here before. She must have me confused with someone else.”

     An awkward silence converged, then Aaron jumped into comfortable workplace small talk.

     “What do you think about Cassandra?” he started in. “Think she's gonna get canned for posting that stuff on Facebook about the boss?”

     “Huh! I rather doubt Len has any notion of what Facebook is, let alone how to use it. I'd have never done it, though.” Lily sipped from her glass, alleviating the dryness building in her throat. She glanced at the couple nearby wondering how they made it look so easy. “I don't think it's right to trash people on such a ubiquitous forum. The coffee room is one thing, but the internet?”

     “Yeah. I don't like the ass either but I think she crossed a line there. All it will take is someone to open their big mouth and she's done for.”

     Ponytail returned with the drinks and took their order. Lily checked to see what the pretty lady ordered, then ordered the same. The lazy preamble continued and Lily felt more at ease. Maybe she could do this. Her eyes jumped back to the couple nearby, as much as good judgement allowed. This was her very first date, which at twenty-four, was nothing to be proud of. She needed coaching. The gentleman at the other table reached out and ran his hand up the lady's right arm; she didn't pull away.

     Dinner was excellent. Lily covered her empty plate with the napkin from her lap. Conversation had gone well so far in her estimation. Aaron was rarely short on ambling monologue and thus far he was pretty content with her monosyllabic responses. Ponytail arrived with the bill and they both reached for it, Aaron's hand brushing Lily's. She pulled away.

     “Mind if I get this one?” His eyes were playful, and hopeful.

     Lily shook her head and broke contact with his probing gaze.

     “That's a beautiful ring you're wearing.” He reached across the table and ran a thumb across its faux ruby surface. “An old beau?” His eyes were teasing now and he slid his fingers under hers.

     Heat rushed to Lily's face and she tried to penetrate the blind's translucent barrier to the street lights outside. Her heart raced madly; Aaron's fingers moved gently under hers. She didn't want T.J. to find them - not now, not here. But she knew Aaron had crossed a line and she could sense T.J. close, too close.

     “Just who do you think you are?” Lily's hand flew off the table, spilling the last of her wine. It poured onto her lap, propagating a blood-red stain along her thigh.  

     Aaron stood, napkin in hand, rounding the table to her side. She pushed him away allowing emotion to erupt further.

     “Don't touch me. Just get away from me.” Her voice dropped; Aaron pulled away, confused.

     The couple at the other table were fully immersed in the fiasco, eyes large and questioning. Lily stood abruptly, fumbled for Monday's purse and stormed from the restaurant.

To be continued...

30 SECOND RANT

12 Things I Deplore (not exhaustive and in no particular order):

1)  Magazines with trite, tired-out headlines proclaiming "new ways to lose weight", "better ways to have sex" and "more ways to eat chocolate".   What's wrong with the old ways?

2) Tenacious, inflexible grey hairs that pop straight up from my part and refuse to be reasoned with, making a tweezer my only option.

3)  My insatiable appetite for unruly hang-nails in winter.  And, though I know from experience that biting them off is unsightly and bloody, I do it anyway!!

4)  Deficits.  I deplore them all but especially the money kind and especially if they are mine.

5)  Small talk.  The bland salad that's the necessary precursor to the meat and potatoes of a conversation.

6)  Facebook users that insist on filling my wall with commentaries on the mundane details of their lives.   If you're going to share something, make it worth-while (or at least funny).

7)  A forward-thinking, multi-cultural nation that still can't wrap it's finite brain around the idea that a free country means freedom for EVERYONE.  Must we still be talking about homosexual rights and prayer in schools in 2013?  

8)  People that feign sincerity but have an agenda.

9)  The belief that Manitoba is a terrible place to live; "too freaking cold", "too many mosquitos", "too...too...too!"  Can we stop whining and accept the fact that we are in one of the safest, free-est places in the world.  Not to mention the virtual absence of catastrophic weather patterns?  

10)  Junk mail and the way it fills to overflowing the garbage cans at the post office.  

11)  Commercials and commercialism.  

12)  People who only talk about themselves.  People who don't talk about themselves enough because they assume I wouldn't care.

(To be continued...as deplorable moments arise).