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...