Jo's Creative Universe

Some Thoughts on Bicycling

2012-02-10T14:27:00.000-08:00

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. When my physician asked me how much exercise I get a day, I said I usually bicycle or walk daily, for twenty minutes to half an hour. For a “senior” that doesn’t sound so bad. Then again, my friends are out on the tennis courts, or whacking balls on the golf course, or long-distance bike riding, or hiking up mountains . . .

So let me explain myself. I do actually prefer biking over driving when I can. No gas to buy, no pesky parking places to look for, and I can navigate through traffic quickly on bike. It takes longer to get somewhere, yes—actually, it takes MUCH longer the way I do it.

I bike much like I walk. And I meander, or lollygag, more than walk. So in twenty minutes or half an hour, though it seems like a good commitment to physical exercise, I don’t really get all that far, and I doubt if my heart rate would reflect “aerobic.” BUT . . .

Let me tell you about the sensual joys of moving slowly through the world—particularly at night when the drier, warmer smells of day are done, and evening moisture awakens subtle aromas. As much as I dread winter, when it’s dark before I even leave work, I’ve found that I treasure those slow night rides home on my bike.

In the evening, the settling-in smells carry on the moist night air—a roast in someone’s oven activates my salivary glands; the green smell of wood shavings from a neighbor’s remodel project reminds me of the houses my grandpa used to build when I was a child; the boughs of a cedar tree I pass under are reminiscent of my grandmothers hope chest at the end of her bed; the smell of burning logs in a fireplace is a quintessential expression of hearth and home coziness. The earth takes on a mushroomy aroma at night, and the scent of fog as it moves inland reminds me of cooked rice.

Also, in the evening you can see cars coming a whole lot easier. And the stars—oh my; on bike it’s like riding under a sparkling canopy. One evening I was so mesmerized by all the twinkling, I risked a prolonged look at the night sky and whammed right into a dark blue recycling bin left sitting a couple feet from the curb. Lesson learned—now I stop to star gaze.

The scents of day have their own imprint as I lazily ride the distance between work and home. In the morning, I catch a whiff of bacon as I pass by a neighbor’s home. There’s a collective smell of “traffic” during the commute hours. Dryer sheets scent the air from someone doing an early load of laundry. Narcissus, reminiscent of kindergarten paste, wafts up from the borders of the sidewalk.

Then there’s the sheer joy of being on my bike, a fifty-eight year old Schwinn that I got when I was seven. At that time, the bicycle weighed more than I did. Somehow, it survived decades of cousins learning to ride, and returned to me via my parent’s shed when I was an adult.

Originally mint green and lavender, it has undergone a couple of repaints—including Pepto Bismo-pink—and is currently a lovely sea-green. There’s a synergy that happens when I climb onto the seat now (how did I ever reach the pedals when my legs were child-length?). I become a slightly zany old woman chuckling with delight at having her old friend back in her life, and at the same time, I am that innocent child given her first taste of freedom that only a bicycle can provide. Ah, the memories we’ve shared.

There’s something good to be said about relics—the human and the mechanical kind. We’re living pieces of history moving through the world. I’ve been stopped many times at the grocery, or the laundromat, or just on a street corner by adults who with a smile of reminiscence say, “I used to have one of those when I was a kid,” or teenagers who muse, “Wow, they don’t make those anymore, do they?”

No gears, no fancy hand brakes. Just life at a slower, easier pace, the way it was meant to be lived.

Only Child

2012-01-26T14:27:00.000-08:00

I’m beginning to see the value in having been an only child for the first five years of my life. I learned how to entertain myself.

I’m no longer an only child, but as an adult, although I live by myself, I’m never lonely. If I’m bored, or have extra time on my hands, I pull out my box of collage materials (discreetly ripped from magazines at the laundromat, or waiting rooms, or used calendars, or old greeting cards—there’s no end, really, to the sources of art).

I’d just finished trimming into a neat rectangle a piece of Victoriana from a magazine, all in shades of pink and peach, with roses, antique teapot and cups, lace—you know, real girly stuff.

I remembered a friend who used to refer to herself as a “bull in a china shop,” due to her ample size and questionable coordination.

A grin spread across my face as I dug deeper into the box and extracted just the right clipping—a little brown mouse in a crash helmet—and glued it to the background of delicate breakables. That was good for several minutes of chuckles. Actually, it still makes me smile, and it’s days later.

Keepin’ Those Plates in the Air

2012-01-12T12:47:00.000-08:00

It’s January already, and I’m feeling the pressure of writing a new blog entry when my mind is in a zillion different places. A friend sent this picture of the beautiful area we live in here in California. It reminds me of Part 2 of my novel, Best Laid Plans(see Nov. 10, 2011 post), that I’ll be publishing this year—the setting is on two acres of unproductive vineyard land. Imagine you’re on another hill in front of this picture looking down. Great location for a recovery house for female ex-felons, right? How could a bunch of creepy things happen in such a beautiful place? Stay tuned.

So, that’s one excuse for not attending to the blog more regularly—I’m waiting for the edits on Part 2, and working with a cover artist to capture just the right imagery for a cozy mystery that doesn’t want to take itself too very seriously. We’re awfully, awfully close.

Excuse No. 2 is pulling together a band to perform my metaphysical blues piece, Start Where You Are Today, which will be performed in concert March 17. It’s thrilling to hear a bunch of notes I’ve put on a page, along with some lyrics underneath, transform themselves into a real song with the help of some amazingly talented musicians. I get all kid-in-candy-shop excited listening to them grapple with chord progressions and rhythm shifts.

And then, there’s learning new music for choir, staying in touch with friends and family, spending time with the greatest little grandtwins in the world. . .oh, yeah, and work—we can’t forget work.

One day soon, I’ll get back on track. Until then, please follow whatever creative inspiration speaks to you. I can’t think of a better use of time.

Second Bloom

2011-12-24T10:15:00.000-08:00

It’s December, the month I sit down with my current calendar and transfer notes, birthdays, reminders onto the pages of the new year’s calendar. The space heater is on, the steam rises from a cup of ginger tea that sits next to a warmed-up biscuit on an antique plate from my grandmother—the one with tiny pink roses circling the edge. The sky is blue, and deceptively sunny. No warmth reaches the ground.

I’m on July, 2012 now, and in careful lettering with my special blue-ink pen, I write “Wisteria, 2nd bloom,” on the calendar page. I smile in anticipation as I mark this reminder that summer will come again, regardless of the weather at the moment. I feel excitement knowing that next July I will inhale the scent of these beautiful clusters of fragrant purple blossoms that will drip from the greenery overhead, just outside my window.

I have two azalea plants. One blooms in the spring, big, bright, beautiful red blossoms. This I’ve marked in May. The other, with smaller, perfect pink petals, blooms mid-September. Why? I haven’t a clue. I planted them the same time in celebration of a novella I had just published, Waltzing With the Azaleas. The flowers continue to bloom—the book has stopped selling. Such is life.

The days, months, years go so much faster now than once they did. Babies are born, friends and family die, the cycle of life spins along as it did before I arrived, and as it will after I’m gone. I’ve buried both parents, an event I spent the better part of a lifetime dreading. From the vantage point of being old(er) myself now, it wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. There’s an order to life, and death is part of it.

The leaves have mostly all dropped like deflated parachutes from the trees that border my cottage. With sadness, I remember a story about someone waiting to die until the last leaf falls from the tree. I can’t remember how it ends, but the poignancy stays with me—I keep thinking that someone glued the last leaf, but the person died anyway. Some things are unavoidable, despite our best attempts at controlling circumstances.

And, as the leaves drop, turn brown, and become mulch, the new pale green buds on my lilac bush dare to raise their heads in careless optimism. As the last of my basil blackens in the early morning frost, the primary colors of the primrose defiantly beam their radiance up at me from their terra cotta pots, undaunted by the winter wind and rain, or the expectations of the season.

At The Whim of the Muses

2011-12-14T13:45:00.000-08:00

Some writer friends and I were talking about what drives us to write. We agreed that for whatever reason, we cannot not write, but the motivations were varied. For one writer, there are definite stories she wants to tell. Crafting the storyline, inter-weaving the plots is ultimately satisfying for her. For another, he wishes to create an income doing something he loves—something he’s proud of. He searches for stories that have not been told, many times the behind the scene stories of a headline news article.

We agreed that there were probably as many reasons to write, as writers. “And you?” they ask me.

It seems that I am at the whim of the muses. I write stories out of the universal consciousness as the characters call to me. For one of my novellas, I was shown a mental picture of a small boy standing in front of a mirror, drizzling strands of Christmas tinsel over his head to make him a beautiful woman. He needed me to help him through a sex change later in his life. Before that, the word reincarnation wrapped itself around my brain and wouldn’t let go until I finished a book about an unrequited lesbian love affair in the1700s, England. In a short story, a woman with multiple personalities needed a hand it getting out of an abusive relationship, and begged me to write her an escape route. In a collection of short stories, the theme of returning home kept emerging. In one of those, a young girl from the bayou hitchhiked across country to “find herself” in San Francisco so she could return home to take over the business she was to inherit. Without that quest, she would have lived a quietly miserable life, trapped in a go-nowhere existence. In another, a young Miwok girl beckoned me with mental picture of herself and her younger brother picking blueberries in a field. The girl is stolen and raised in another tribe, and fights for her life to return to her people. It amazed me how many versions of returning home there actually were when I began listening to the characters.

There appears to be no rhyme or reason to what I write—I just show up when I’m called.

Creative Manifestation

2011-12-04T09:19:00.000-08:00

There was a time in my life when I was faced with quitting a particularly physical job for the sake of my pregnancy. Everything about my life was about to change with the birth of my daughter, so it seemed like a good time to re-evaluate the space into which I was bringing this new life-form. In hindsight, I think of this as my hedonist period.

It started with bag balm. For those of you who’ve been pregnant, you know the relief this can bring to stretching skin. For those of you who haven’t, imagine cow udders massaged in a balm that would relieve the pressure and swelling of constant milk production and extraction. Yeow. Bag balm spawned the desire for other body pleasure/necessity products: soothing oils, lotions, gentle soaps, herbal toothpaste, scented shampoo. . .

One of my favorite spots on earth was the Berkeley Body Shop. I had moved up from Berkeley a couple years earlier, and when homesick for the chaos of city living (at that time, we were living on the side of a mountain, miles from anything, next to a burbling creek, surrounded by trees), I’d drive a couple hours south and spend the day in my old Berkeley haunts. The Body Shop was a place that met the needs of all my senses (yes, there were even edible massage oils). I used to dream of having a life surrounded by this sort of luxury, as I would pay for one bar of exquisite smelling hand-milled soap, or one carefully chosen bottle of scented lotion.

Pregnancy for me was a hugely inspired, creatively filled endeavor. When I quit my job, I decided to open my own retail business, selling all those scrumptious products I was driving to Berkeley to buy, one at a time. I’ve always been a learn-by-doing sorta gal, so with the help of my then-husband, I launched into a mad information gathering quest, learned how to do business proposals, a fictitious business statement, advertising, how to deal with wholesalers, keep records, price and display products.

We were putting the final coat of stain on the double Dutch shop door the day before I went into labor. Three days after my daughter was born, we opened up shop. My daughter had a special place on top of the counter, and a small quiet room for uninterrupted naps as needed. We were surrounded by luxury. In good weather, the top doors were open, allowing scents to waft seductively onto the street. New Age music welcomed people into the shop. Incense, music, scented soap, thirty different fragrances in bulk that could be used to scent lotions, shampoos, massage oils, shaving lotions, bubble bath, individual essential oils, jewelry, East Indian clothing, baskets, gift packages, lip balms, natural make up, hair brushes, foot massage products, Reflexology charts—virtually everything to soothe or stimulate the senses—could be found in this little haven of hedonism.

It became a hub, a center, a gathering point for like-minded people, breaking the isolation that often comes with new motherhood. Local artists displayed their work. It became an information distribution center for events in the community. It became a drop-in, safe and welcoming haven for patients from the nearby state hospital who were on day pass. It became “that place where the baby is growing up.” By the time my daughter was two, I was known about town as, “the Scent Shoppe baby’s mother.”

Fast forward a few decades. I sold the shop when my daughter was five, and returned to the university to finish my education. My life reinvented itself, as life does, although I didn’t lose touch completely with the word of scents. I went through a period of fascination with medicinal essential oils for healing. I’m partial to using Frankincense for removing skin tags. You want to know what you’re doing before you try this, or you’ll damage your skin. Geranium oil is good for those pesky fungal conditions and antibacterial needs. My favorite is an oil (blend) that reportedly was used back in the days of the Black Plague to boost the immune system.

Life moved on, and I got distracted with a host of other interests. I gave away my collection of oils and books on healing.

Recently, a friend passed along a recipe for foaming hand soap using essential oils, and I found myself returning to this old passion, the desire to bring a little luxury into my life. If you’re feeling particularly hedonistic and adventurous, here’s what you’ll need:

A foaming pump bottle. The only place I could find these where you didn’t have to order in lots of 1,000 was BottlesandFoamers.com on-line. They’re very reasonable—a little over a dollar each. Into this bottle, fill ½ your container with Dr. Bronner’s unscented liquid soap (most health stores carry this, some in bulk); ¼ your container with filtered water, and 1/8 your container with an oil of your choice (jojoba, olive, almond, etc.). Add your favorite essential oil—a few drops or more, your choice. Shake gently to blend. The pump will do the rest. It creates a luxurious, scented, foaming soap worthy of anyone on your Christmas gift list. Or, perhaps, just for yourself.

The Next Step

2011-11-10T09:27:00.000-08:00

In my post dated Aug 26, 2011, I mentioned a sequel I was working on, The Next Step, the follow-up story to the novel I’m STILL shopping, Best Laid Plans.

In The Next Step, the residents of a recovery house for female ex-felons have relocated their digs from San Francisco to the rolling vineyards of Santa Rosa, CA. As much as they are moving away from a lot of bad karma and potentially dangerous legal entanglements in the city, they are moving to the peaceful, slower country life that intuitively seems to lend itself to deeper healing. They’re off to a rough start, however. Let me share a little of their journey(and, yes, I have wi fi in the cave):

Madigan, all two-hundred and eighty pounds of her, was stuffed into a red and white polka-dot swimsuit. It was mid-afternoon, the day after the women of The Next Step recovery house for female ex-felons, of which Madigan was one, had moved into their newly built digs in Santa Rosa. Their two-story farmhouse, on two acres of non-productive vineyard land, had been gifted to them as a tax write-off—a win/win for the vineyard owner and the women as well.

“Hey there, old woman,” Madigan turned her pudgy brown face downward, in the general direction of hell, to address the memory of their former benefactress, Florence, a wealthy octogenarian, who had run off with their bank account, gone into hiding, and put their original recovery house in San Francisco at risk. “Turns out your crazy old self is responsible for me havin’ a new swimmin’ pool. Hah!” she slapped her thigh for good measure. She stood at the edge of the lap pool and dipped her toes in. The California summer had warmed the water to a pleasant enough temperature, if you didn’t lollygag. Temperatures could reach the high nineties mid-day, and then drop to forty-six overnight.

Madigan tossed her beach towel onto a nearby lounge chair and lowered herself step by step, into the water. Squinting against the sun, she noticed a mass on the bottom, at the far end of the pool. She back-stepped herself quickly out of the water and glanced around frantically. “Hey! Help! Somebody. . .” she shouted back toward the main house.

Alarmed by the pitch of her voice, Shalese, the director of the recovery house, and Chandra, a street-wise resident with a bad-ass mouth, who’d been raking up construction debris, came charging around the corner of the house. “Effin’-A, girl, you better be drowning or something, yelling like that,” Chandra admonished.

Shalese, seeing that Madigan was safe, cut her pace back to a walk, and stopped where the two women stood, poolside. She followed Madigan’s finger which jabbed frantically toward the other end of the pool. “Come on, let’s go take a look,” Shalese said.

“Right behind ya—w-a-y behind ya,” Madigan muttered. Chandra jogged to the end of the pool, knelt down, and peered into the water. “Looks like rats, three of them,” she said.

“Rats? I almost went swimmin’ with rats?” Madigan crossed her hands over her ample breast, holding her heart. Madigan grew up in the Tenderloin area of San Francisco—she knew rats. It didn’t mean she wanted to swim with them.

“No problem,” Chandra commented, “they’re dead.”

“That’s strange,” Shalese said, squatting next to Chandra. “If they just fell in, you’d think they’d be farther apart. They seem almost tied together.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Madigan called out plaintively as she crossed herself.

“You’re not Catholic,” Chandra said over her shoulder.

“Can’t hurt,” Madigan said.

“I’ll go get the net and scoop them out, unless either of you has a better idea,” Shalese said to the women.

“I ain’t jumpin’ in to haul their sorry asses out of the pool,” Madigan said. “You could get the plague or something. We gonna have to drain the water out. . .” She rocked herself from foot to foot.

That evening, even though it was a weekend, and their regular house schedule was suspended, the ten residents and three staff met in the group room to process the afternoon’s events. Jenny, Shalese’s partner and second in command at the house, spoke quietly with Mab, Shalese’s ex-girlfriend and current staff member.

“We’ve been here a grand total of a day-and-a-half, and already something creepy happens. I thought we left all that behind us in San Francisco,” Jenny said.

“Along with our hearts,” Gabriella, who had overheard her, commented with a smile at her own cleverness. She spoke for all of them—no one had wanted to leave the city.

The suspicious deaths of several men who were coincidentally the ex-husbands of women in the recovery house, was one reason The Next Step had relocated. It seemed likely, but still not proven, that Florence and a band of her wealthy sociopath compatriots—with an agenda of righting perceived wrongs according to their own twisted form of urban justice—may have been responsible for those deaths. Florence’s vanishing act had brought the unwanted attention of law enforcement to the recovery house. The residents, as a group of formerly battered women, did not believe that the policeman is your friend.

“Baby girl, let’s not jump the gun,” Mab addressed Jenny’s concern. “We don’t really know what happened yet.”

“There were three rats, tied together by their tail, tossed into our swimming pool!” Jenny’s voice rose a notch on the panic register. “This was no accident.”

“No, not an accident,” Mab agreed. “Could be a nasty prank though. All the vineyard workers are guys. Maybe they just wanted to see if they could get a rise out of a houseful of women. You know, sort of like a hazing or something.”

“If this is their welcoming ritual, I’d hate to see what they’d do if they wanted to get rid of us,” Jenny said.

Ponderings From the Cave: On Tortillas and Toothbrushes

2011-10-27T12:13:00.000-07:00

I had a tortilla the other day that stuck to my teeth like a bat to a cave. Got me to thinking about toothbrushes—I know, the mind is a terrible thing to waste. Nevertheless, I wondered just how long we as a species have been obsessed with removing food from our teeth. This created another Ask Jeeves moment (see post dated 8/6/11).

Apparently, excavations done all over the world since before recorded history point to some kind of oral hygiene. The chew stick, the first toothbrush made in 3000 BC, was the frayed and splayed ends of twigs from the Banyan tree, and the Arak tree, which has antiseptic properties.

In 1223, monks in China cleaned their teeth with brushes made of horse-tail hairs attached to an ox-bone handle. How do you spell pteuw?

William Addis of England is believed to have produced the first mass-produced toothbrush in 1780. He was in prison at the time, and this had something to do with bribing a guard.

Natural animal bristles were replaced by synthetic fibers, usually nylon, by DuPont in 1938. The first electric toothbrush was invented in Switzerland in 1954.

Just in case you wondered. Now, you can go enjoy a tortilla. I’m going back in my cave (and I’m takin’ my toothbrush with me).

Still in my cave. . .

2011-10-17T20:35:00.000-07:00

Still in my cave, waiting for motivation to rejoin the world. I slipped out long enough to photograph the new neighbor’s Halloween decorations. I haven’t met them yet, but I like their taste. The one I labeled “Save the Last Dance for Me” makes me terribly sad in a lovely, nostalgic way. Reminds me of the 50th wedding anniversary parties for my grandparents back in Iowa, and then later my parents in Colorado, where each couple had their special moment on the dance floor. All four of them are gone now.

Going to crawl back in my cave now and rest my bones. Don’t give up on me, I’m bound to emerge at some point.

It’s That Time Again. . .

2011-09-29T13:55:00.000-07:00

As autumn sneaks in the back door to the summer I didn't get, and winter looms dark and heavy just beyond the fence, doing nothing for long periods of time feels easier than doing something. My bear-self is preparing for hibernation—I can feel it in my bones.

Most people run about ridiculously happy to be done with the hot, sticky, summer weather. They ooo and aah about the change of seasons, the touch of crispness in the air, the leaves shifting from green to the red-gold spectrum. They use words like invigorating. They’re out and about—they exercise and stretch those muscles that went dormant with lazy summer days. They even jog, for heaven sake. Dinners are laden with root vegetables and stews, pastas and breads. Pumpkins are popping up everywhere. I even saw an artificial Christmas tree at Costco over the weekend. I mean, really?

I have an atavistic response to autumn—maybe because I grew up in the Midwest, where autumn is short-lived, and is followed by months of bleak, colorless days of unbelievably cold weather. My bear cells begin to multiply as I take on extra weight, experience a bleary-eyed lethargy that comes with the change of seasons. I eat more than I’m hungry for in preparation for the next five months of hibernation when I lose my appetite. I move less, and lumber when movement is required. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day I sprouted a full body of thick fur.

My human experience is one of losing my words. My brain slows down, and word retrieval is sketchy at best. New ideas have to wait until spring, when the blood flows more smoothly to my brain. My heart takes up a hypnotic thump-pause, thump-pause rhythm. My extremities are always cold. I crave the quiet, solitude of my little cave-cottage, and get cranky at a life that yanks me out of my comfort zone daily. I would be blissfully happy sitting in one spot, wrapped in a blanket—just point me toward a blank wall. And, turn up the heat, please.

Fortunately, this response lasts only a matter of days. I can feel it creeping about the perimeter of my psyche, like an old bear sniffing out a warm, dry cave to hole up in. If you need to reach me, and phone, e-mail, and snail-mail haven’t been effective, perhaps you could leave a note under a rock just outside my cave. I’ll get to it.

Door to the Center of the Earth

2011-09-18T21:08:00.000-07:00

Ever since childhood, I’ve been fascinated by the thought of finding a door in the trunk of a tree. I imagined coming upon a tree in the woods with a small door that only I noticed. There would be a brass doorknob or latch, and once inside, I would follow a path down to a magical world in the bowels of the earth.

I’m not sure where I got that idea, as most of the timberland trees in my small Iowa hometown were no more than eight-to-ten inches in diameter. But I remember looking, when we’d take Sunday afternoon walks through the woods.

In my 40ies, a friend took me to visit a camp, nestled in a redwood forest above the coast of the Pacific ocean, where she spent summers. We wound our way through the camp to the far edge of the property where there was a huge redwood tree. To my delight, there was a door in the hollowed-out trunk. Stepping through the door, I found myself in a tiny room, with a small bed, a chair, and a table with a oil lamp. I had visions of a Hobbit coming to reclaim the space. But for the moment, I was able to live at least part of my childhood fantasy—minus the bowels of the earth adventure.

Little did I know that fifteen years later, I would revisit the idea of the hollow tree, through shamanic journeying, to find a spirit guide.

Shamanic journeying is a spiritual practice prevalent in many indigenous earth-based cultures, of entering into an altered state of consciousness, or trance, with the purpose of finding guidance in the spirit realm. In trance, we search for a totem animal or guide to bring back with us to our daily reality.

The ritual lasts close to an hour and is usually done in a darkened room with closed eyes to the beat of a drum. The drum cadence guides us deeper and then returns us to our normal realm. Minimal verbal instructions are given at the beginning of the journey.

I lay on my back listening to the quiet of the high-beamed room in the lodge. Huge glass windows reflected darkness, broken only by an occasional star peeping through the redwood trees surrounding us. The only sound was an occasional pop or crackle from the glowing fireplace and the rustle of shifting bodies. Our guide, barely illuminated by the glowing embers, gave us our instructions. To the sound of a drumbeat, she asked us to go to a place in nature where we could enter the earth—a pond, an animal burrow, or a hollowed tree. We would descend that tunnel until we came to the underworld where we would step out, experience this new place, and ask its inhabitants who among them would be our guide. When we made contact, we were to ask them to return in the palm of our hand to the middle world. When the drum beat quickened, we should re-enter the tunnel and return quickly with our guides.

I remembered the hollow tree image from childhood. This evening I knew it would be my entrance to below. In my mind I traveled into the woods, found the magic tree with the secret door, and entered the hollowed trunk. I let go, and fell gently down, down, down. The earthen tunnel was quiet and strangely warm. Roots twisted and turned to define the tunnel through which I fell deeper into the earth. At last, I felt my feet touched the bottom and I got my footing again.

The tunnel continued, dimly lit by some unknown source. Following it, I saw that it opened into a shimmering, silver-gray luminous light, which reminded me of headlights back-lighting a fog bank.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the strange light, I stepped from the tunnel onto a beach of finely grained, oatmeal-colored sand, which was soft and cool to my bare feet. This beach was unlike any I had ever seen. I was in awe of the vast stillness, broken only by the gentle lapping of ocean waves, when I became aware of nearby life. I saw amazing animals, amphibian-like, ancient and puzzling—a huge turtle creature that was part bird, a crocodile-like snake without legs. I wandered among them, feeling strangely safe in their presence.

I told them that I had come to find my totem, a guide to take back with me, to escort me through the middle world where I lived. I sensed disinterest, a turning away, a “no” in another language that I was somehow able to understand. Confused, I stood pondering this strange land and its inhabitants, resting my hand against something dusty-green, leathery, dry, and scaly to the touch. I felt a ripple of muscle, an increment of movement beneath my hand. I withdrew it quickly and realized I had been resting against one very large talon belonging to an enormous creature.

I jumped back, my eyes moving upward, following the contours of a gigantic body that resembled a dragon. Grayish-brown bat-like wings seemed to stretch out forever and a long, pointed tail swept into the distance. Amazingly, I felt no fear.

“Are you my guide?” I asked, my Virgo mind already grappling with the improbable detail of carrying this creature back in the palm of my hand.

“Yes,” the creature answered in a disarmingly gentle voice, “but you know me in a shape-shifted form; look at me carefully.”

For a stunned moment, I considered where I might have met a flying dragon creature such as this before. As I studied it, I was aware of something slightly familiar about the legs, the tail, perhaps without the wings. My inner sight shifted and I suddenly saw my salamander guide from the creek banks.

The humor and irony of this washed over me. The salamander is small, not physically imposing, even fragile appearing, and can be seen as weak and easily intimidated. What I saw in my trance, however, was the heart and soul of the dragon inside, fierce, protective, courageous, and definitely not to be messed with.

I asked my guide to shape-shift into my hand so that we might return together to the middle world. I felt the small, dry, leathery figure of the salamander in my palm. Her eyes were bright; her head bobbed up and down in anticipation.

As if from another world, I heard the cadence of the drum increase, calling us back. Moments later I opened my eyes in the safety of the lodge, the drum silent, my journey ended, but the gift of my guide just begun.

Fifteen years have passed since that time. I live in the middle of the city now, in a neighborhood—still among the redwoods, cedars, oaks, and maples, but the more genteel version of nature, the urbanized version. Imagine my delight and surprise as I took a stroll at sunset down one of the oldest streets in town, lined with turn-of-the-century estates and formal gardens—it was one of those warm, cross-over nights where late summer elbows its way into autumn—only to find an ancient tree just off the sidewalk, the bark peeled away, revealing what appeared to be a door carved into the trunk, with a brass knob that beckoned to be turned.

Would I? I’m now 65, old enough to have outgrown thoughts of magical worlds, right? Of course I tried to turn the knob. It was someone’s idea of a joke. On closer inspection the knob had been nailed to the exposed bark, giving the illusion—to those of us with old eyes, young hearts, and a belief in magic—of an actual door. I’m still not convinced. I think maybe there is a secret passage word that would open the door. The next time I pass that tree, I’ll try a couple of them out, and let you know.

Thinking Out Loud

2011-09-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

On Choosing A Cover For My Book (the picture won't make sense until you reach the end of this post)

I thought just writing the darned thing was the hard part, but noooo. It’s only the beginning. Of course, there’s finding the right editor to work with, a million hours of edits and revisions, locating the right publisher and following their submission guidelines to the “T,” playing the hurry-up-and-wait game for months at a time. Should I be fortunate enough to land a publishing contract, there’s the marketing aspect to deal with. How do I market my work out there in a world where books fill the shelves of bookstores, swamp the internet distribution sites, line the walls of coffee houses, even have their own nook in grocery stores—millions and millions of glorious books (not to mention the e-books that require no shelf space and are available at the click of a mouse).

You’ve heard the adage, You can’t tell a book by its cover? First appearances, however, speak volumes. If I’m not looking for a particular book, when faced with row upon row of books on a shelf, the first thing that catches my eye IS the cover—the color, texture, artwork, size of font are all absorbed by my book-hungry brain. When something catches my eye, I’ll read the first sentence. If that goes well, I’ll read the first paragraph. If that goes well, I’ll scan the rest of the first page. After that, if it’s priced properly, it’s a sale. If my eye isn’t caught, that precious first sentence we writers sweat over, lose sleep over, use up ink cartridges over, is lost on me.

I can’t be the only one who is visually seduced into choosing a book. With that thought in mind, I grapple with the imagery for the cover of my novel. Okay, so it hasn’t found a publisher yet, but as soon as it does, we’ll need a cover for the little sucker, pronto. Working title is, Best Laid Plans, inspired by Scottish poet Robert Burns who wrote, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.” I remember my mother quoting this on a number of occasions throughout my childhood to address my frustration when things just didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped.

In my novel, there are points of frustration when things just don’t turn out as planned, by either the protagonist or the antagonist (or the author). So how do I “show” that? I wanted an image that I could use again, something recognizable, familiar, for a sequel perhaps, that would say, “Oh, I know that (fill in the blank image), it was on her other book.” I’ve always had a penchant for icons. My mind began its own brainstorming session while I was washing the dishes. Paper dolls, it said. Remember when we used to get hours of pleasure as a kid putting different outfits on the same paper doll? She wouldn’t wear the same outfit to the football game as she would to a tea party, right? Hmm. Different outfits, same “doll.”

My brain goes to funny places when left unfocused. A gray mouse, dressed in a pink tutu, holding a parasol overhead in one hand, and in the other a large wedge of cheese. Behind her, an obviously unsnapped mousetrap, minus the cheese. Someone’s best laid plan has gone agley. Suddenly, the gray mouse has become my paper doll, and I see a whole new outfit for the sequel, The Next Step. Picture Ms. Mousie dressed to the nines, high heels, fishnet stockings, maybe a little hat with a net, taking the first step as she descends a flight of stairs only to find that it ends at a brick wall. Very film noir.

But, I get ahead of myself (way ahead). Back to the first (still unpublished) book. Why a pink tutu? It’s sort of an inside joke. Consider it paying homage to a former lover. This woman fought tirelessly to obtain shared custody of her child after the break-up of her partnership with another woman (the biological mother of the child). The legal battles were unbelievably expensive. One of the fundraisers to finance yet another appeal, was a Dance Along Nutcracker Suite. My ex and two other extraordinarily brave butches donned pink tutus (how unlikely is that?) and danced across stage to the music for the Sugar Plum Fairy. Needless to say, the fundraiser was a smash and brought in all sorts of cash. That was a memorable example of someone dedicated to accomplishing something that was so important to her, she was willing to step out of her comfort zone—way out. The same is true for the protagonists in the book.

I wish I could share the image of Ms. Mousie with you, but you’ll just have to wait. There’s also the very real possibility that a publisher would put the kibosh on the whole idea—but it is a swell idea, nonetheless. I’d love to hear from other writers about their process of choosing a cover. If you are such a person, please leave me a comment.

Best Laid Plans

2011-08-26T20:14:00.000-07:00

Chuckled at myself this morning as I hit the “Save” button on my sequel, The Next Step. It will follow my current novel being shopped around, Best Laid Plans. How cheeky of me to assume that 1) the first novel will find a publisher, and that 2) when it does, surely they’ll want the second installation. Maybe it’s just my Virgo-osity at work—I’m compulsively early, and not easily discouraged.

You’ll be the first to know when Best Laid Plans gets published—even if I have to do it myself. Here’s the synopsis:

Set in current-day San Francisco, Shalese is a thirty-ish, earnest, blue-collar social worker bent on establishing a recovery halfway house for female ex-felons. While writing her grant proposal, she meets and interviews Jenny, just released from prison. Shalese quickly realizes she’s interested in a lot more than Jenny’s story.

Jenny is a trust-fund baby from Ohio, who got herself in a peck of trouble when she accidentally murdered a neo-Nazi with the heel of her shoe. She turns to Shalese for help getting her life back on track, and finds her life on a track she hadn’t even imagined.

Florence, a wealthy octogenarian with a nefarious past and dirty motives, befriends them, the way a spider befriends a fly caught in its web, and offers to fund the halfway house.

The three work together to make The First Step recovery house a reality.

Things begin to unravel for the women in The First Step when Mab, a three-hundred pound lesbian bartender by night, PI by day, and Shalese’s ex-lover, looks into Florence’s past.

Murder, arson, betrayal, buried treasure, and secrets spice up the plot, along with the colorful cast of residents of The First Step. A cliff-hanger ending not only leaves the reader wondering about the role of fate in life, but leaves room for a sequel, working title, The Next Step.

See how I just sort of slipped that sequel thing in there? Stay tuned.

Visual Feast from the Techno/Dino

2011-08-17T13:35:00.000-07:00

My last Post spoke of a culinary feast. This one speaks of a visual feast.

My stodgy old dinosaur-self, (who thinks that perhaps computers are just a fad that will surely pass soon—hopefully soon enough that I won’t have to learn all the bells and whistles on my already-outdated Dell), occasionally collides with my present-day in the real world self who is in awe at having the universe at the tip of my fingers through cyberspace.

The above photographs came to me via a friend who downloaded them from the Internet. I don’t know how to find the artist(s) to thank them and credit their work. I do know that the images moved me, and isn’t that, after all, the purpose of art? There’s something timeless about the castle reflected in the palm of the hand, the lightning in the desert, and the sheep trudging up the mountain trail. Anyone from any culture could find meaning in those images. They’re familiar and at the same time strange and intriguing, powerful and stimulating—the stuff from which dreams are made and inspiration is taken.

This is a creative universe, and these photos are proof. I would never have seen them had it not been for an e-mail, and it is my pleasure to share them with you. Even my dinosaur-self can’t argue with that.

Ask Jeeves

2011-08-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

I remember watching a TV show in childhood where a little redheaded boy and a girl with short blond pigtails lived in a mansion with their uncle and spent most of their time with their English butler. I always thought it would be cool to have an English butler, but back in Iowa, we didn’t have such things.

If you’re a regular blog follower of mine (thank you!), you’ll note that I’ve been processing a lot of “Mom material” since her death three years ago. In so many ways, she was the hub of the family wheel. She had her kids, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren believing she had an answer for every question. It’s true, she did. I don’t know if they were always accurate, but she had answers. I was married to a guy once who had a similar propensity for supplying answers to any question and citing the Readers Digest as his source.

Back to Jeeves. Since Mom is no longer around, to whom do I ask questions like, “does eating spicy food make you dream?” I treated myself to dinner at a local Ethiopian restaurant last night after a long work week. I tried the honey wine—truly a different taste sensation, sort of like beer and rubbing alcohol infused with honey, served at room temperature. Not as bad as it sounds. I know nothing about Ethiopian food, but love Moroccan cuisine, and figured it would be similar. I’ve always been an adventurous eater. Bravely, I ordered the combination plate with three different lamb stew tastes, one beef contribution, and a mini chicken (?) leg, along with an amazing stewed cabbage something-or-other, all eaten by scooping the food onto pieces of flatbread. Like with Moroccan food, they bring a warm fragrant towel for hand cleansing before the meal. I like eating with my fingers—it puts me in touch with my more primitive side.

After dinner I commented to the very solicitous waitperson that the food, while delicious, was much spicier than Moroccan. “Really?” he said, with arched eyebrows. “This is our very toned-down version, to please the local palate.” His smile said, “Lady, you think that’s hot, you’re just a plain old sissy.” Although I’ve never been prone to dyspepsia, I had some concerns about whether or not my digestive tract would survive unimpeded throughout the night. I did, of course, expect (and receive) an increase of hot flashes.

My stomach survived just fine, but OMG the dreams . . .

The whole night was filled with dreams of confusion, being at the wrong place at the wrong time, not finding what I was looking for, coming in at the end of an event that I was supposed to host, losing my direction, forgetting my script for a performance—on and on, until I woke up feeling more exhausted than when I’d treated myself to dinner after the long week.

Back to Jeeves. Since I couldn’t call Mom and ask her if this was a direct result of having eaten spicy food at night, I turned to Jeeves—the perfect (in my imagination) English butler with all the answers, even if I don’t have cute little blond pigtails.

“Hey Jeeves,” I typed in, “does spicy food at night make you dream?” And just like my mom, and just like my ex-husband, Jeeves had an answer for me:

“When and what we eat may affect our nighttime rest, if not our tendency toward bad dreams. A small study published in the International Journal of Psychophysiology had a group of healthy men eat spicy meals before bed on some evenings and compared their quality of sleep on nights where they had non-spiced meals. On the spicy nights, the subjects spent more time awake and had poorer quality sleep. The explanation is that spicy food can elevate body temperatures and thus disrupt sleep. This may also be the reason why some people report bad dreams when they eat too close to bedtime. Though few studies have looked at it, eating close to bedtime increases metabolism and brain activity and may prompt bad dreams or nightmares.”
Via http://www.divinecaroline.com/22201/62493-six-reasons-dreams#ixzz1UGRSPBXv

That’s probably more than Mom would have said. Her answer might have been more along the line of, “Sure does.”

So, if you have any burning questions and no one to answer them for you, I’ll lend you my English butler. He knows stuff. Just type in Ask Jeeves.

I’m Sorry

2011-07-31T21:52:00.000-07:00

You know the moment, the one when something is over, but you won’t accept it. You say it was because the person had one too many bad things happen that day, or the stars were misaligned in the heavens (that darned Mercury has gone retrograde again), that this too shall pass if you just hang in there long enough—but you know, you know it’s really over. You know, when you look back, that was the moment it was over, even though it may have hung on with a death rattle for some period of time.

It was to have been a vacation, a time to relax, re-group, find each other in the solitude of the mountains, sequestered away in a tiny cabin lit by kerosene lantern and heated by a wood-burning stove. Nothing for miles around but the red-tailed hawks and ravens soaring overhead, ancient redwood trees piercing the sky, the breeze sighing through their boughs. Or the onyx sky at night studded with shining chips of light million of miles away.

She’d been bearish from problems at work. I’d been snappish and irritable trying to make our meager incomes stretch to cover our more opulent out-go. She refused to compromise. I stopped talking. We both knew we were being stupid, but mulishly held our ground. This might have been the moment, but it wasn’t.

Having that sixth sense about each other, I looked over my shoulder toward to kitchen doorway, sensing her presence. What I saw was an olive, impaled on a toothpick, being waved slowly back and forth. I giggled. “Are you extending an olive branch?” She nodded sheepishly, walked over, stood behind me, and wrapped her arms about me in her version of an apology. I melted into the familiarness of her. “Me too,” I whispered.

We agreed on a weekend away, to close up the cabin for the on-coming winter. It would be our last trip up for the summer. She had inherited the cabin when her parents died two years prior. It was full of childhood memories that made her eyes moisten with nostalgia. It was full of young adult memories of girlfriends brought there to be wooed, which made her smile rakishly. It was full of memories of three springs ago when she proposed to me in a sleeping bag on the deck under the redwood canopy.

The drive up the twisting mountain road was excruciating. She would tell you it was exhilarating. With the windows open and the radio blaring, she sang along in her off-key sort of way to whatever was “pop” at the time. My stomach lurched with each hairpin curve. I checked in the mirror on the flip side of the visor to see if I looked as green as I felt.

“Could we pull off for a moment? I feel ill,” I said.

“Nowhere to pull off, sweetie. Mountain on my side, steep cliff to the ocean on yours. C’mon, join me on the chorus.” She turned the volume up a notch. This might have been the moment, but it wasn’t.

We arrived at the cabin as the sun set between mountain peaks. It would be light enough for the next half hour to see our way clearly into the cabin, light the lanterns, gather bedding and reassemble it on the deck. A perfect night for sleeping under the stars.

She was quiet, perhaps lost in memories, as we moved about in concert with one another, opening windows, shaking out quilts, flicking at cobwebs with the feather duster. I fed crumpled paper into the belly of the stove and added handfuls of kindling while she brought in an armload of well-seasoned oak for the fire. I made several trips to the car bringing in pre-packed food for our dinner and breakfast. She dragged the old double-sized mattress out onto the deck. We did “domestic” rather well, I thought.

“I’m famished,” I said as she stoked the fire. I poured a Tupperware container of chicken vegetable soup into the big pot on top of the stove, and while it heated, sliced a loaf of French bread. She parceled out two helpings of tossed green salad into bowls, sliced and squeezed a lemon over the greens.

“Anything wrong?” I asked. She still hadn’t spoken.

“Hmm? Oh, no. No, just settling in,” she smiled warmly. “Soup’s on,” she said, ladling the fragrant concoction into pottery bowls liberated from the kitchen cupboard. I opened a bottle of Chardonnay, and poured us each a glass. “Love you,” she said, as we clicked glasses.

We ate in companionable silence while outside the frogs and crickets provided mood music for a dreamless sleep. After dinner, we wash, dried, and replaced the dishes. By the light of two lanterns we each claimed our favorite overstuffed chair and sunk into the reading material we’d brought along—a novel with a truly twisted plot for me, and for her, an instruction pamphlet for assembling the battery-operated tot car she’d purchased for her niece’s birthday the next week.

“Hunh,” I muttered. We often shared comments while reading, turning a singular activity into something resembling parallel play.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I didn’t see that coming,” I said. “This author is a master of plot twist.” I smiled appreciatively and continued reading.

“What the . . .” she sighed with frustration. I glanced over at her, raised my eyebrows in question. “Half of these directions are in Japanese. Why would they think I could read Japanese?” she huffed. “I give up.” She tossed the pamphlet onto the floor. “I’ll get the bedding for the mattress. You ready to turn in?” I nodded, placed a marker in my book, grabbed one of the lanterns, and took it out to the deck.

Elbows on the deck railing, I listened to the step-crunch of a deer making its way down the path toward the creek, and peered out into the darkness. I could see nothing beyond the small circle of light cast by the lantern. The world could have stopped just beyond that perimeter. The thought was both frightening and cozy.

I turned when I heard her step through the door, her arms loaded with blankets and pillows. Her chin held the top pillow in place, a disembodied head. Within the circumference of light, our eyes locked. Time stopped. The distance between us, not more than three yards, became a chasm. We neither smiled, nor frowned at this awareness. This was that moment.

“I’m never coming back here with you, am I?” I asked, although it was a statement. A chill that had nothing to do with the balmy night, passed through me.

“No,” she said, quietly, resignedly. “I’m sorry.”

I Am My Mother’s Daughter After All

2011-07-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when you first heard those words slip out of your mouth? You know the ones—the ones you swore you’d never say, the ones that would define you as “just like your mother.” Or gestures, manners of speech, inflections of voice, stride—anything that would cause you to say, “Oh my God, I’m channeling my mother.”

As a child, it was funny, endearing. As a teenager, nothing could be worse. As a young adult, it was cause for mirth and the raise of an eyebrow. As an oldster, missing my mother who died almost three years ago now, it brings nostalgia and a wish that I could share these musings with her.

After her death, my siblings and I had the task of going through her personal items, sorting, keeping, tossing, donating. If you’ve lost a parent, you know just what this is like. Mom collected things—Hummel statues, plastic containers, cards and letters (according to the boxes, I don’t think she ever threw any of them away). And she made notes in journals—cryptic entries that left us scratching our heads, furrowing our eyebrows, casting furtive looks at one another as we would read aloud from the pages. Long lists of names, not people she knew, just names. The temperature on different days. Words and phrases that caught her fancy. Numbers. Medical terms, without definition.

I was in my office the other day, between clients—someone had canceled with short notice, leaving me time to file a nail that had chipped earlier when I banged it on the bathroom counter—rifling through my bag to find an nail file, when I dislodged a miniature journal made of rice paper, bound with raffia, that has been a constant companion in my bag for however long I’ve had that bag. I keep the journal handy to jot down ideas for writing, capture snippets of conversations that amuse me, and to my astonishment, lists of words or phrases that I didn’t want to forget. Here’s a sampling:

There’s acute depression, and then not so cute depression; death, as a period to your life sentence; there’s no bottom to dumb; just a raggedy-ass guess; the smell of extinguished Jack-o-lanterns; she sat still as a slab of alabaster; and from a Facebook entry, “You used to be muchier. You’ve lost much of your muchiness.”

And lists of words:

Enwombed, oblique, lugubrious, transubstantiation, sartorial, oubliette, malodiferous, overmuch, pugugly.

And on one page, just sitting there all by itself:

Cucumber and ginger facial peal.

These are the sort of things I can “write off” as practical tools of a writer’s life, right? Defensible, right? You never know when one of those words or phrases will wind up in a story.

Or perhaps, I am, indeed, just my mother’s daughter after all.

Surprise!

2011-07-10T17:44:00.000-07:00

I woke in a cold sweat from a dream not long ago. When I'd worked my way back to consciousness, and was able to replay the dream in my head, I got a bad case of giggles. Bargaining with myself so I could get back to sleep, I promised to turn it into a short story in the morning. Hope you enjoy.

Jill turns off her printer and extracts the seven pages of her novel in progress, Live Wire, a story loosely based on growing up in a family of schizophrenics. Fiction allows her some emotional distance in a way that memoir doesn’t. She’s been working on the manuscript since the writer’s group, Friday Night Live—a collection of characters fit for a novel, all striving to be writers—began a year ago, and has promised herself she will have it ready to send to an editor before she turns sixty, which gives her exactly three weeks.

She stuffs the pages in her book bag, grabs her keys, wallet, and a bottle of Champagne that has been chilling in the refrigerator, and is out the door when Jonathan honks the horn of his Toyota in front of her house. She turns the key in the lock, and pats the door with affection. “Back soon,” she says. Jill has an odd relationship with her dilapidated little cottage. They are like an old married couple, used to each others ways, each becoming slightly more decrepit with age. Jill has never married and has no interest in partnering up just because she is getting old.

Jonathan is a forty-year-old bachelor who, if he had been born a woman, would have been described as Zaftig. As it is, pasty will have to suffice. He avoids the sun, as do many redheads, and avoids exercise, as do many men with mid-life paunch. He is the sole representative of the male gender in the writer’s group, and considers it an honor and a responsibility. Jonathan is working on a book called, “The Feminist Male.”

Every Friday, they rotate homes so no one will be overly burdened by the task of hosting. This week, they are on their way to April’s house. The last meeting was at Catherine’s, an upscale artisan cottage with skylights that allowed the light of the full moon to drench the dark walnut floors. Catherine is fifty, and writes Haiku, a style of poetry that leaves Jill scratching her head at the complexity of this simple form. Last week, Catherine’s butch lesbian lover, Hanna, served them grilled oysters on the half-shell, a cheese and fruit platter, and French bread.

Two weeks before that, they had met at Margie’s, a tract home in a noisy neighborhood. Margie’s husband, Tom, had failed miserably at keeping their four children contained upstairs for the two hour writer’s meeting, and they’d been interrupted frequently by requests for snacks, lost puzzles, books to be read, and questions that apparently only a mom could answer. Margie, forty, stocky, with curly brown hair that defied capture in the clip she continually adjusts, swore this was the last time they’d meet in her home, and apologized profusely on her way through the room to meet yet another child’s request. Margie writes children’s stories in her spare time.

“You have the address, right?” Jonathan says by way of greeting, as Jill slides into the passenger’s seat.

“Yeah, I spoke with April this afternoon. I can’t wait to see her new apartment.”

“God, I hope she’s not depressed,” Jonathan mumbles. “I never know what to say to women who are depressed—or who are having cramps,” he adds.

“Maybe that could be a chapter in you book,” Jill suggests.

Jonathan pulls up in front of a non-descript townhouse, in a non-descript segment of the city—neither old, nor new—and turns off the ignition. He shoots Jill a baleful look and says, “Well, let’s get this over with.”

April, in her mid-forties, recently divorced from a prominent orthodontist, has downsized from a multi-level, Frank Lloyd Wright home—with water features—in the hills, to a shared rental in the flatlands. She writes memoir, and has plenty of material, having lived the last ten years with an alcoholic sex addict. It is her new-found freedom and safe living space the writer’s group is celebrating this evening.

They knock on the door. Jill plasters a smile on her face and holds the Champagne in front of the peephole.

A stunning woman, sixty-ish, in a flowing hostess gown answers the door. Her quizzical expression is answered by Jonathan in a fit of over-gregariousness.

“Ah, you must be the roommate,” he smiles, and introduces himself and Jill. “We’re here for the . . . ” his voice trails off, as he notices a large gathering of people in the living room, none of whom appear to be Friday Night Live members.

“Surprise birthday party,” the woman completes his sentence. “I’m Francesca, please come in,” she says, and motions in them into the throng. “She isn’t here yet, but she’s due any minute.”

“Oh dear, we had no way of knowing,” Jill says. “There are two more of us coming. I hope we don’t ruin the surprise. I thought her birthday was in January,” Jill stammers, handing the hostess the Champagne.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s tonight,” Francesca says. “Go on in and introduce yourselves around.” She takes the Champagne to the kitchen.

“It’s not so bad,” Jonathan says, looking around. “A little cramped, but do-able.”

“Good heavens, they’re all unpacked,” Jill notes. “It takes me weeks when I move. I wonder where Catherine and Margie are,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.

Francesca comes back over to them and says, “I’m a terrible hostess. I’m sorry, I don’t even know how you know her,” she smiles.

“We’re in her writer’s group, the one that meets every Friday night,” Jonathan explains.

“Oh, I didn’t even know she wrote. Just when you think you know someone . . .” she laughs merrily. “Excuse me,” she says, and leaves to answer another knock at the door.

Jill and Jonathan wander into the dining room. “Wow, look at this spread,” Jonathan says. He dips a jumbo shrimp into a tangy sauce and takes a bite. A parenthesis of catsup attaches itself to the corner of his mouth.

“Do you think we ought to call Catherine and Margie and see what’s holding them up?” Jill glances at her watch. Without waiting for a response, she opens her cell and dials Catherine’s number.

“Hey, where are you?” Catherine answers.

“We’re here,” Jill says, “where are you?”

“Out back,” Catherine replies. “We’ve been waiting for you. Did you remember the Champagne?”

Jill motions to Jonathan to follow her, and moves through the crowd toward the back patio. “Yes, I handed it to Francesca when we came in.”

“Who’s Francesca?” Catherine asks.

“April’s roommate. Didn’t you meet her?” Jill says, sliding the plate-glass door open and stepping onto the patio. “I don’t see you,” she says, scanning the outdoors crowd.

“I don’t see you either,” Catherine says, “and her roommate’s name is Fred. Where are you?”

Just then a cacophonous cry rises up from inside the condo. “Surprise!” People are yelling and clapping, noisemakers are being twirled about. Confetti is tossed in the air and rains down soundlessly.

“Happy Birthday,” Jonathan yells, carried away by the infectious energy of the crowd.

“Is that Jonathan?” Catherine asks. “Whose birthday is it?”

“April’s?” Jill says, suddenly unsure of anything. A fine layer of sweat breaks out over her skin and chills quickly in the night air.

“April, is it your birthday?” Catherine asks on the other end of the phone. The muffled answer is “No. Why?”

“Oh my God, Jonathan,” Jill says, poking him in the arm, “we’re in the wrong house.”

Jesus Gets The Good China

2011-07-02T14:18:00.000-07:00

Having returned from a summer trip back to my homeland of Iowa, my mind is awash with memories of family, the culture I grew up in--the values, the manners of speech. We visited the Amish General Store, resplendent with kerosene lanterns, washboards,handmade china cabinets,carved wooden clothespins, antique stoneware. We visited the cemetery where my ancestors are buried. Out of all these memories and touchstones, has come the following short story.

Granny talks to Jesus. They have lengthy conversations as if His Holy Presence was sittin’ his butt right down at the old kitchen table by the window.

“Lord, what am I going to do with that child?”

That child would be me, constructing a bypass through the white, fluffy serving of mashed potatoes so the rich, golden gravy meanders artfully through the mound before circling like a moat on the Melmac.

“I’ve tried ‘till I was blue in the face,” she answers.

I no longer look around for the source of sage advice. It’s at the place setting across from me, where the good china with the dainty blue flowers around the edges is laid, where the silverware all matches, where the only un-chipped glass in the house rests. Granny has taken, “Set a place at the table for our Lord,” to a whole new level. She’s concrete like that.

I was in diapers when I came to live with her. My Momma overtook her medication one time too many, and ‘Daddy’ is a word with no face attached. Grandpa Bean, named ‘cause he was long and narrow, fell over one day while picking up walnuts from the tree out front, and never woke up. Just Granny and I were left among the upright.

I guess Granny couldn’t see herself as a single parent at sixty, so she partnered up with Jesus. It wasn’t so bad, mostly. When I hit elementary school, Back to School Night was somewhat awkward.

“Jesus, will you just look at that science project!” Granny exclaimed as she strolled through my fifth grade classroom. Mrs. Tiddle raised her eyebrows like she does when one of the kids uses profanity in front of her, but she didn’t follow it by the extended throat-clearing noise she usually makes.

“Lord, let’s move on to the next room,” Granny muttered as she took my hand and pulled me along behind her. A long sigh, like a tire slowly going flat, escaped from Mrs. Tiddle's nose.

“Holy Mother of God,” she addressed Our Lady of the Cross, who was, I guess, sort of like a step-great-grandmother to me, if you’re following the lineage. We’d just approached my project, all laid out nice and neat, each collection of multi-colored, fuzzy bacteria and deathly looking mold in its own little Petri dish. There was one dish in which nothing had grown, next to a bottle of Lysol. My point was that the stuff works.

“You got all those germs from our house?” Granny asked, squinting low over the containers, wrinkling her nose at the explosion of spores. “Jesus, we’ve got some cleaning up to do.” I smiled at the thought of Grandpa Jesus with a mop and a pail of water sloshing around on the kitchen floor.

“If that don’t beat all,” Granny said, seemingly pleased. I guess she was referring to the little white ribbon stuck with tape to the summary of my project. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was the blue ribbons that beat all. Didn’t want to ruin her day.

Journey to the Soul

2011-06-22T11:18:00.000-07:00

I had a wonderful experience recently, deep in the Los Gatos mountains, surrounded by redwood trees. I met with two of my writing group members for a writer’s retreat for the soul, to super-charge my creative energy, relax my mind and body, generally help get myself out of my own way. We read from our works in progress, did an amazing past life regression, and spent a few hours creating collages.

For those of you who are new to the art of collage, it is an assemblage of different forms, thus creating a new whole. I have some fear that collages are becoming a lost art. You can now create automatic shape collages on the internet with a mere click of the mouse. The “old fashioned,” and I believe much more therapeutic, way of creating a collage is as follows:

Prepare in advance – a stack of magazines that you won’t mind “disassembling.” If you’re attached to an article on the flip side of an image you want to use, read the article first; a glue stick, or some form of easy to work with adhesive; a pair of scissors; paper or card stock on which you will mount your images; music for background inspiration if you wish, or silence if you prefer; a bag or box to throw your scraps in; pens, colored markers, sparkling adhesive ink, etc. to add emphasis as needed.

To start – make sure you have an abundance of time. As with many art forms, time distorts when you’re deep in the process. Sit comfortably with the magazines in front of you. Begin turning pages. When something catches your eye, you may not even know why—it doesn’t matter, rip either the whole page or the image out, and set it aside. Move on to the next page. Don’t dwell, just keep turning the pages and removing images as they call to you. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to this part, except I believe your subconscious is in full charge. Let it have its way with you.

When you have a pile that intuitively feels like “enough” to begin with, set the magazines aside, spread the images out in front of you, and let your eyes wander over them, keeping a soft focus. You may find that some images seem to have a connection, “go together” in a way you hadn’t anticipated, suggest something as a group. Set these aside together. Consider the size of backing you’ll be working with. One of my writer friends likes to work on poster board, with lots of room to write words or thoughts, or add images by pen or colored marker. Another uses pages in her journal. I like a more compact index card, 5x7, that requires fewer images and more concentration of space.

When you’ve chosen the pictures for your first mounting, trim them in whatever way suits you. You can leave the background on, overlap images, be creative with the shapes, or trim them close to the image itself—it’s up to you.

Next, arrange them on your mounting surface in a way that makes sense to you. Sometimes a story will appear, or a thought will show itself in visual form. Occasionally, something you’ve been working on consciously or subconsciously, will reveal itself through the collection of images. When the arrangement and placement feels right, glue them in place. If you want to add words, thoughts, drawings, now is the time. If you’re making more than one collage, set the first aside and go on to the rest of them following the same steps.

When you’ve finished your collage(s), spend some time reflecting on the imagery in front of you. Clear your mind, and be willing to receive any thoughts, notice any feelings that may come up. Is there something the images individually or collectively might say to you if they could be in conversation with you? Is there something you might say to them? Whatever comes to you, turn the collage over, and write it on the back, or if you prefer, on a separate piece of paper, or in your journal.

The images I’ve chosen (above) to share, come from the writer’s retreat. Separately, the images meant nothing in particular as I tore them from the magazines. The image on the left, I call “All the time in the world.” It helps me remember that when I live life at a frantic pace, I reduce the quality. Time is eternal; there’s enough of it.

The middle picture deals with some self-expectations I wasn’t aware I was carrying. My writing for this one is, “My child, you will have mighty big shoes to fill this time around. Be not afraid.” I had no idea how the skeleton and the tennis shoes could come together, but now it sort of makes sense.

The last card is a gentle reminder to myself. I also hear myself saying this to clients from time to time. “You are safe, you are loved, you are not alone.” I think of it as my “higher self” card, a reminder of my own special fit in the universe.

I hope this posting inspires you to try a collage, or take out one you’ve made in the past and reflect on it. The images are symbolic, metaphoric, timeless—sort of like doing a sandtray without the mess. Enjoy your journey.

You Can’t Go Home Again

2011-06-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

You’ve heard the words, “You can’t go home again,” usually indicating that things change, that what you remember from your childhood will look—and actually be—different than how you experienced it oh-so-many years ago.

There’s a story that’s been niggling around in the back of my mind wanting to be told, of a decrepit, miserly old man from my childhood and his rickety old mansion that took up the better portion of a town block. I’ve started the story many times only to set it aside, and finally delete it weeks later. Yet, it lingers in my mind like one of those menopausal thoughts you can’t quite bring to consciousness during waking hours, but you know will reveal itself at 3a.m. when you wake tossing sheets and blankets off your sweat-drenched body.

I’ve waited, I’ve woken, I’ve tossed—still nothing. I thought that perhaps my recent trek back to my hometown to bury my parents (see April blog) might shake something loose. My cousins, siblings, and I spent a goodly amount of time driving and walking through the Midwestern summer drizzle I-spying all our old haunts—schools, former family homes, old soda fountains, the library, the parks, spending hours sharing our “do you remember when . . .” stories.

The two houses I’d grown up in, more or less recognizable, sported some needed upgrades. My grandmother’s house was missing the garden and back yard where we spent much of our childhood, running up and down the cellar door, and making dancing dolls of Hollyhocks and clothespins. My aunt’s house, the hub of our family’s activities, was missing the wrap-around porch, and the hand pump that would deliver icy, mineraly tasting water to our waiting cupped hands on a hot summer day, was no longer there. My elementary school that also housed the high school when I was little, was gone. An empty lot remained where children, including my father, had received their education, romped in the playgrounds, rooted for the home team in the football field out back. My old church was there, but surrounded by so many new buildings that it seemed as out of place as big mole on a fair-skinned child.

I asked my cousin to drive us by the rickety old mansion that plagued my writer’s mind, hoping it would inspire a rush of memory, a flood of words, an outpouring of story line so that I could finally get this tale out of my head.

The house was empty. Not abandoned, shuttered, falling to the ground empty as I’d expected, but a newly remodeled, newly landscaped, freshly painted, not-yet-sold empty. The house of my memory doesn’t even exist. If it weren’t for the location, I’d have driven right on by, not recognized it.

Staring at the big house on the corner lot, I felt tears brim, the hot, stinging, unfair, doesn’t make any kind of sense tears that I refused to let fall. I blinked back my grief at the loss, although I wasn’t sure exactly what the loss was.

Was I grieving the loss of the home of an old curmudgeon from my childhood? Or was I grieving the loss of my childhood, my innocence, my belief that the world was safe, and people were good and always did the right thing, that nothing would ever harm me, and things would be the same forever? That the President knows best, the police can always be trusted, doctors have the answers, teachers are beyond reproach, and that there would be freedom and justice for all? Or was I finally grieving the loss of my family of elders—now all dead?

Maybe it was just the loss of a good story, after all.

My Suitcase

2011-06-02T14:53:00.000-07:00

Two little words around which I came unglued, and that offered me a new perspective on life. Of course, there’s a story—perhaps one you won’t even be able to relate to, if you’re lucky; or if you can relate, I’m sorry. I hope you’ve recovered.

As a good little Virgo, I began making my packing list(s) weeks in advance of traveling back to Iowa for a combination cousins reunion and the laying to rest of my parents’ (the last of their generation) ashes in the family plot of our small town cemetery. I hadn’t been back home in decades, the last visit being my aunt’s funeral. The cousins that were expected this trip, were the kids I’ve known since birth—there were a clump of us all in the same age range who grew up more or less together, and stayed in close contact over the years, as modeled by our parents, when life flung us to the far corners of the U.S. I couldn’t wait to see them again in their adult forms (knowing that just under the surface were the youngsters we all knew and remembered, along with nicknames and embarrassing stories from our youth).

Packing (and re-packing, and ironing, and re-packing again until everything I needed for four days away from home was snugly in its spot with not an inch to spare) had become a pleasant ritual of expectation and daydreaming about the return to “home base,” the place where all of our parents grew up. I chuckle at the sense of noblesse oblige I carried into my adulthood, haling from a small pond where my ancestors were the big fish—founding families actually meant something back in those days. It wasn’t until I moved to a slightly larger city as a pre-teen, where no one had ever heard of my family, did I realize the moral obligation I felt to act with honor, kindness, and generosity as a family imperative, was now a matter of choice. I’m straying from the story.

Suitcase packed, the day had come, the bus schedule that would transport me from home to airport memorized, I looked forward to a leisurely two-hour ride where I would watch the last of a vibrant sunset, followed by time to read one of the paperbacks I’d chosen earlier in the week for my trip. I would arrive with lots of time to casually check-in for my red-eye flight, through which I would sleep soundly and arrive refreshed in Chicago for my connector flight the next morning. You know where this is going, right? How apt that the novel I’m working on now is called Best Laid Plans.

Sunset was stunning, back lighting the dark clouds left over from days of stormy weather. The paperback held my attention which pleased me, because I do choose books by their cover—you never know. As the bus traveled down 19th Avenue in San Francisco, lined with Victorians and two-story railroad flats, I entertained myself by imagining how I would decorate those lovely high-ceilinged vast apartments.

The bus was fairly empty; I had a row of seats to myself. Actually, I had several rows to myself. Along with a handful of passengers, I got off the bus at San Francisco International Airport. Night had settled in and the lighting was dim overhead. The driver set the suitcases on the sidewalk. I grabbed mine and slipped him a tip and a thank you, and headed to the monitor to check for my boarding gate (having thought ahead to print out my boarding pass from home to save time). Hmm. My flight was not listed. I hadn’t counted on that. Looked like a trip to the ticket desk was in order. The line was long, and people were murmuring about cancelled flights, missed connections, etc. We stood in line for an hour like restless cattle at an empty food trough, swaying back and forth from foot to foot, throwing our heads about looking over-shoulder at the monitors hoping to see the magic flight numbers appear. The extra time I’d allowed to make my flight with time to spare, was slowly being eaten away. If I missed this flight, I’d miss the connector flight in Chicago, and arrive who-knows-when in Iowa.

I didn’t miss my flight. It was canceled. The re-booked flight left three hours later. Weather. This was a portent of things to come. I watched people who were flying north, or south, or even west on our airline move through the line and disappear to waiting gates. Those of us fated to travel east sighed heavily, tapped our feet, rolled our eyes in a non-verbal sharing of our collective exasperation.

After two hours, I figured I might as well go through Security, take care of the take-your-shoes-off thing, the put-your-liquids-in-the-baggie thing, even the pat-down thing, while I awaited my assigned gate—at least there would be chairs to sit in. I dragged my suitcase through the maze created by post-and-rope configurations that seem ridiculous when there is no crowd to control, handed the guard my ID and ticket, and was ushered through to the rolling pins on which you send your personals through x-ray to make sure you’re not concealing terrorist materials in your luggage.

I stooped down to fish out my quart-sized baggie of shampoo, toothpaste, eye drops, and other contraband. The top zipper compartment of my suitcase where I keep such things, was empty. I blinked, trying to let the impact of this hit my brain (I don’t know why I thought blinking would help). The compartment was still empty. Don’t panic, I warned myself—there’s a logical explanation, and I still have time. Lots and lots of time, as it turned out. Perhaps at the last minute I stuck the baggie in the lower compartment where I usually carry my books. Ugh. That compartment was empty, too. Where the heck were my books? Okay, you can panic a little bit, I gave myself permission. Next, I tried the main part of my suitcase, where all my clothes were neatly packed. What the heck? Black Levis, a yellow sweatshirt, a pair of huge running shoes, socks I wouldn’t be caught dead in, and a bottle of booze? This is not my suitcase. I looked around wildly, fighting an urge to burst into tears.

“This is not my suitcase,” I said to the x-ray machine attendant. She stooped down, picked up the bottle of Whisky, and said, “Is this your alcohol?” I smacked my head in frustration and panic.

“It’s not my alcohol. It’s not even my suitcase,” I stage-whispered, to avoid shouting at her.

The woman called two more guards over, who eyed the alcohol and then me with raised eyebrows. The woman explained that it wasn’t my suitcase.

“You brought it through Security, right?” one guard asked. I nodded. “So, it’s your responsibility. What do you want to do with it? You can’t check it through, you know.”

By now, my body was shaking. I was supposed to be sound asleep on my red-eye. Instead I was facing a wide-awake nightmare. “It’s. Not. My. Suitcase,” I said again, very slowly. “I don’t want it. I want my suitcase, but I don’t know where it is.”

What happened next, was a Keystone Cops routine of going from Security, back to the ticketing agent, to the Lost and Found, back up to Security, several times over. No one knew what to do with a tired, weepy old woman who was carrying illegal alcohol and someone else's suitcase.

Slowly, it dawned on me what I was facing. My eyes hurt; I wanted my eye drops. Oh, right—they were in my suitcase. While I was waiting at one counter after another, I could have distracted myself with a book—oh, yeah, it was in my suitcase. I would have changed shoes to better navigate the miles I was putting on, but they were in my suitcase, too. Crap. I feebly hoped my suitcase was having a better trip than I was. Maybe it was on its way to a sunny state where people’s minds weren’t soggy from too many days of rain and gray weather.

If this was a suitcase switch when we got off the bus several hours ago, and the guy who owned the suitcase I was now responsible for discovered he was headed wherever-he-was-headed and would be faced with a week’s worth of women’s shorts, some cute little tops, a dress or two, and several pairs of sandals to wear, wouldn’t he make every effort to contact me and get this straightened out?

I’ll spare you the next hour’s worth of details and skip to the resolution. There was a name on the suitcase—the suitcase that looked just like mine, that even had the same red satin ribbon tied to the same handle (what are the chances of that?). He was a passenger on the same airlines, but flying south. His plane left an hour ago. Lost and Found would page the airport where he would land and ask him to call SFO. They would fly my bag back to SFO, and forward it to the Iowa airport which was my last stop of this adventure gone wrong. They would send his bag, for which I had somehow just been relieved of the responsibility, down south. But what if . . .

What if he didn’t have my suitcase? Where was my suitcase? Would I ever see it again? No time to wonder, my rescheduled flight was being called. I ran back to Security, flashed my ID and ticket (by now, the guard and I were on familiar basis from my many trips back and forth), sent my purse and shoes through x-ray, got patted down (do I look like a terrorist?), ran to my gate and boarded my plane to Chicago.

I couldn’t sleep. I was so wound up, my body ached, and I was squished against the side of the plane in the window seat by a massive man with elbows that poked me in the side as he snored loudly next to me. After circling and extra twenty minutes over O’Hare Airport waiting for the fog to clear enough to land, I realized why they call this the red-eye. I felt a particular kinship to those green-faced, red-eyed monsters of the horror movies who you just know have terrible breath.

Once on the ground and in the airport at O’Hare, I signed up for ten more hours of canceled and rescheduled flights. It was that, or take up residency in Chicago. With my feet on firm ground, and at least closer to Iowa than I’d been before, my mind was relieved enough to think through my suitcase dilemma. Perhaps, just perhaps, the guy headed south noticed that he was left with the wrong suitcase before the bus left. Maybe, if the gods hadn’t totally deserted me, my suitcase never left California. I suppose it could have set on the curb all night, or someone could have carried it off hoping for some salable treasures inside (their bad luck!). But what would be the harm of calling the transit office just on the outside chance the driver had returned my suitcase to their home office?

Thank goodness for cell phones. Remember those old banks of telephones that used to be in airports? Where did they go? There wasn’t a (what I refer to as) real phone in sight. I waited until the west coast would be awake, and dialed the commuter bus office. I gave them the abbreviated form of the last many hours, and asked—more like begged—if they might have had a brown suitcase with a red ribbon returned from their 8:30 pm bus.

Why, yes, they did. They’d hold it until I returned the next week and could come pick it up, right there in my town. Tears of gratitude leaked from my raw little eyes. Never mind that I’d be forced into a late night shopping excursion at the nearest Wal-Mart so I’d have clothes for my body. Never mind that everything I thought I absolutely must have to travel turned out to be a fallacy, and that what I wound up buying to get me through the week fit nicely into a small book bag I’d scored for free at the Chicago airport. Never mind any of it.

My suitcase was safe (albeit, in California). Many hours later, I was on board the last plane to my destination. My family was waiting on the other end. My resolve to never fly again would surely be broken by the time I was due to hop on my flight back to California. But that’s another story.

Living as a Creative Act

2011-05-16T08:43:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love about Creativity, is all the glorious forms it takes. A friend of mine has been “creatively” living with cancer for much longer than she or any of us thought was possible by utilizing homeopathic, herbal, traditional, as well as way-outside-the-box options. Her blog is full of intimate details of the living/dying process that humble me as a reader. Most recently, she spoke of perspective—that thing we all have available to us, at any time, free of charge, if only we’ll allow it.

She writes, “For the past 3 weeks I've needed 1 unit of blood a week. It's lucky that I get eased into most of this stuff slowly. If I'd gone from once every few months to once a week, I would've been a wreck. But now, each week, I think, "Oh good, only one unit!" My, how our perspective can change.”

Like many people, I’ve lost friends and family to various forms of cancer. I’ve watched the battle, the hair loss, the nausea, the lethargy, the weight loss, the bloating. Out of habit, I’ve thought of it as watching a loved one die from this terrible illness.

Indigo Crone has shown me another perspective, that of living with a condition called cancer. At any moment, she’s likely to go into hemorrhage or be overcome with nausea or fatigue, but in between those and other debilitating symptoms, she is up playing board games with friends, watching a play at the local theater, shopping (albeit slowly) at her favorite Community Market, attending a gathering in her honor (above), keeping all of us Blog-friends updated, and most notably, observing and luxuriating in the beauty of nature around her—the birds and flowers that surround her home—grateful for every day, every hour, every minute as a gift of life.

I marvel at the possibility of global transformation if we all lived life more like that.

We gathered, a huge crowd of us whose lives she’s touched by her presence on earth, to celebrate and support her in one big love-fest of a fundraiser. It occurs to me, we don’t have to wait for pending death, or large gatherings to tell those who have inspired us that we care. Start today.

Ashes to Ashes

2011-04-30T21:37:00.000-07:00

A handful of cousins will join my sister, brother, and me at the graveyard in our hometown this summer, to lay my parents—the last of their generation—to rest. We tried to do this last year, but it just wasn’t time—plans were blocked, schedules didn’t flow, flights weren’t available. Hindsight: it wasn’t time, emotionally, for any of us. So, my folks’ ashes rested in two cardboard containers, at my brother’s house in Colorado, until we were ready to let them go.

Intuitively, we know the time has come. All the arrangements have fallen into place seamlessly; cousins’ schedules were cleared so they could join us; the motel where our folks stayed in their visits back to Iowa had rooms to spare.

My folks were crazy about their kids, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. If ashes in a box could smile, they’d be grinning from corner to corner at this mini-reunion. In my writer’s mind, they are very much present in my life. Hence, the following series of vignettes:

For a year and a half, my wife and I sat on our youngest son’s mantle, in two small cardboard boxes, waiting to be buried. People would think ashes—cremains as we’re now called—can’t hear, but they would be wrong. A Hospice nurse told me when my wife lay dying in the family room, with the sun streaming in and the birds chirping and squirrels chattering back and forth just outside the window, that hearing is the last sense to go. I’m thinking she had no idea how true her words were.

The same is true for speaking—oh, not with words anymore, a charred larynx pretty much puts an end to that—but by thought form. My wife has the loudest thoughts of anyone I’ve ever known.

“Who was that on the phone earlier?” I thought to her. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“The eldest. Seems they’re making plans to lay us to rest in the cemetery back home as we’d requested,” she thought back to me.

“’Bout time,” I thought. “Just sitting around collecting dust is depressing. Besides, it’s so loud above ground, a person can’t get a decent rest.”

“You talk. You used to sit upright in your chair with the TV blaring, paper held open in front of you, and fall into a dead sleep.”

“It was different then,” I defended. “I wasn’t as highly attuned.”

“Yes, no one told us about that. Wonder if there’s anyway to forewarn the kids?”

“Some things just aren’t meant to be known before their time, mother.”

* * *

“FedEx? I don’t want to travel FedEx. You’ve seen how those men drive—get bounced around all over creation and back. I thought he was driving. Nice new Saturn, now that’s the way to travel,” she thought to me.

“Too long a trip to take on his own. You know he’d try to drive straight through, probably fall asleep at the wheel, wind up in a ditch somewhere. Then, where’d we be?”

“You’re right. These boxes aren’t made for running into ditches. That could be a real mess. Why can’t we fly on the airplane with him?” she thought.

“He’d have to buy an extra seat—seems we’re not in the luggage category,” I thought.

“Well, that’s good to know.”

* * *

“So, do we get to use your grandmother’s grave or not?” my wife thought to me.

“Apparently. The eldest explained to the funeral home people that Grandma never made it home to use her plot. Divorce wasn’t popular back then, and she wasn’t welcomed back home after she ran off—even though her grave was prepaid,” I thought.

“Terrible waste of money,” she thought. “I’m glad we can put it to good use.”

* * *

“Ah, the younger generation. Just listen to all the ‘do you remember when’ stories the kids and their cousins are telling each other. I truly miss that,” I thought to my wife. “And listen to those sweet harmonies on ‘I Come to the Garden Alone.’ We sang that after their cousin died years ago, didn’t we?”.

“Certainly did. Not a dry eye in the house. It’s good they plunked us right down in the middle of everything so we can hear,” she thought.

“Especially since I don’t have my hearing aids with me.”

“You never wore the darned things anyway. I spent the last decade of my life yelling at you,” she thought to me.

“That you did, dear. That you did.”

* * *

“Oh for goodness sake,” my wife thought to me, “tell me they’re not really arguing about who gets to put us in the hole? Or maybe it’s who has to put us in the hole.”

“I hope it’s not going to be one of those ‘you’re the oldest, so you should . . .whatever,’” I thought.

“Or, ‘I’m the middle child, I never get to . . .whatever,” she thought back to me.

“We never did resolve that issue did we, mother?”

“What issues is that?”

“Well, there’s the eldest, and the youngest, but what does that leave us calling the middle kid? There you go—there’s no proper name for her position,” I thought.

“Let’s just caller the middlest, and be done with it. I vote the middlest lay us in the grave,” my wife thought.

* * *

“Now what?” I thought, as our boxes sit in the heavy warmth of an Iowa summer morning. Our children and their cousins sniffle and blow their noses. The singing has stopped, and the only sounds to be heard are the calling of the crows and the distant hum of a lawnmower.

“Sounds like they’re afraid that putting us in the ground will be the end of something,” my wife thought after listening really hard.

“Good grief,” I thought, “don’t they know there is no end? Just the next version? That we’ll still be watching over and listening in, along with all the ancestors, for eternity? A little dirt certainly isn’t going to change all that.”

“They may not be ready for that one,” my wife thought.

* * *

“Hold on, dear,” I thought to her. “Here we go.”

“Ahh,” she thought, “it’s so much cooler here. Time for a nap,” she thought.

“Good night, dear. Rest in peace,” I thought to her.

Waltzing With the Azaleas

2011-04-09T11:09:00.000-07:00

Rarely does my writing line up with anything current, nor do I write with that intention. This novella was first published through GLB Publishers in San Francisco in 2008. With the event of Chaz Bono coming out as transgender, it seems a fitting time and topic. It's a long piece, so I'll leave it on through April. I would love your comments. You can reach me at josrca@sonic.net.

Chapter 1

“You’re not going to puke, are you?” Jessica cut her speed back to a crawl. Her variegated ponytail, Auburn Sunset and Grape Ice this week, swung abruptly over her left shoulder as she shot a look over at Cory in the passengers seat.

“I’m not going to puke,” Cory mumbled. “I hate that word.”

Jessica paced herself parallel to the curb, just in case. “You look a sort of avocado.”

“It’s just the jacket.”

“Well, then, why do you wear it?”

“Could we talk about something else?” Cory drummed his fingers on his knees. His cuticles were jagged from nibbling and picking. The old neighborhood crept by in a white coating of winter broken by slashes of barren trees.

He leaned forward, and with his bare hand wiped away the vapor that clouded the windshield on his side.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to do that? It leaves streaks,” Jessica said.

“I was never allowed to ride in the front seat,” Cory mumbled, brushing a tuft of hair from his forehead. “Turn right at the next corner. It’s the blue house on the right,” he instructed.

Jessica pulled up in front of a wooden two-story, with a large lawn that sloped to the curb. Hints of red brick peeked through the blanket of snow suggesting a sidewalk. “Do you think she’s already there?”

“Not if we’re on time,” Cory said ruefully.

Jessica cut the engine. The temperature dropped immediately as the Midwest winter enveloped the car. She re-zipped her parka and struggled her hands into her mittens. Fighting a shiver, she said, “Tell me again why I’m here?”

“Because you’re my best friend. And that’s what best friends do,” Cory said. He slipped his gloves on and reached for the door handle.

Jessica turned to look at him. “How many years since you’ve been back?”

Cory sensed she was delaying the inevitable with her prattle. “I was seven when Mother died,” he said. “Aunt Lavinia took Catherine and me in, and leased the house. Life went on—more or less.”

“You okay, really?” Jessica laid a mitten-swaddled hand on his arm.

“Yeah. No. But, thanks anyway,” he gave a weak smile. “Let’s go.”

The frigid air sliced through Cory like a cleaver as he kicked at the snowy pathway, uncovering just enough brickwork for a foothold up to the porch.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Jessica squealed as she hugged her parka tight around her and followed in his steps.

By arrangement, the key was under the mat, although in this small burg it would have been safe to leave the door unlocked, even open, in good weather.

They stomped remnants of snow and slush from their shoes, powdering the dark blue porch. It reminded Jessica of foam on the ocean.

“I don’t suppose they left the heat on?” she hoped out loud.

Cory jiggled the key, swung the door open, and stepped into the vast, dark cavern, a place you’d expect to see ghosts floating aimlessly. Jessica hesitated, wrinkled her nose at the dank smell, and then followed close behind Cory, pulling the door shut after her.

“I thought childhood houses were supposed to look smaller when you went back to them as an adult,” Cory mused.

“Where’s the thermostat?” Jessica asked. Cory pointed to the wall on the left.

He stepped to the right, into the hallway, and jumped at his reflection in the built-in mirror. Suddenly he returned to the memory of another day over a decade ago in this same spot.

Chapter 2

The tree lights sparkled like handfuls of diamonds hurled into the night sky.

Five-year old Cory, cocooned in a fleecy white blanket, a passable imitation of an evening gown, stood before the hall mirror outside the living room and carefully draped shimmering strands of tinsel over his head, one by one, to create the perfect hairdo. He looked beautiful. He wiggled his toes in his mother’s pink satin mules and smiled.

“Christ, Cory, is that my lipstick you’ve got smeared on your face?” Catherine swept into the room. She grabbed a fistful of tinsel hair. “Jesus, you’re such a little freak. Mother!” she howled. Her white-blonde pony tail trailed like jet vapor as she took the stairs two at a time.

Cory looked at his reflection. A few remaining strands of tinsel slid down his small cherub face, hung unevenly from his shoulder, and then slithered like a silver snake down his leg to lie crumpled on the floor by his foot. Shame turned his cheeks crimson.

Devon Broadhurst descended the stairs as if carefully picking her way down a precarious mountain path. She paused half way down, leaned a leathery elbow heavily on the railing, and regarded her small son standing there like her worst nightmare. The words, ‘Devil’s spawn’ floated into her mind, and she grimaced.

Devon wheezed and pounded her chest with her fist. “Cory, how many times have I told you not to touch Catherine’s make-up?” It was rhetorical, she knew. She descended the remaining stairs, one heavy footfall after the next. Cory held his breath. She shook her head tiredly. Her scraggly black hair was plastered against her cheeks. “And, take off my God-damned slippers.”

A five-beat cough rattled her sunken chest, and she fanned herself with her free hand. “You look like a whore. What were you thinking?”

She didn’t wait for a reply, merely wrapped her long, bony fingers around his scrawny arm and dragged his non-resistant body toward the bathroom.

Cory was doing an apt impression of Raggedy Ann. His mind was cotton batting, his feelings were numb, his body trailed along behind Mother. The pink mules sat abandoned on the cold hardwood floor of the hallway.

The white cream was in stark contrast to the cobalt blue jar, and the pungent scent of Noxzema filled the small room. Latching onto a tuft of his hair, Devon jerked Cory’s head back and smeared his face with the cleanser. The fumes stung his eyes and made them water. She wiped his skin roughly with a handful of paper towels from beneath the sink. Her face was a study in disgust.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” he whimpered, peeking up at lips clamped shut like a turtle’s mouth, and eyes that were slits in her withered face.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be sorry for—the emphysema that wracked her lungs, for being a failure as a son, a freak, wanting to be beautiful—but he knew he was supposed to be sorry.

Devon dropped the pink-smeared towels on the sink counter. She slumped to her knees, grabbed Cory, and pulled him roughly to her bosom in a suffocating embrace. Her dressing gown smelled of cigarette smoke she’d sneaked in her upstairs bedroom. Tears fell from her red-rimmed eyes and soaked his hair as she sobbed, “Oh, Cory, Cory—what will become of you when I’m gone?” She rocked him back and forth.

Another series of coughs blew over the top of his head like tornadoes touching down, skipping, touching down. He hated it when she talked like this. She wasn’t going anywhere. She couldn’t. She was his mother.

Chapter 3

“Cory! Cory?” Jessica shook his arm. “Cory, what’s wrong with you?” Her voice edged on hysteria.

“Huh...what?” Cory was doubled over, one hand holding his stomach. With the other, he grabbed the front of Jessica’s parka to steady himself. His face was flushed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Here, come on...” She led him to the stairwell and pointed to the bottom step. “Sit,” she said. “What are you sorry for?”

Cory’s shoulders heaved, as a dam of tears broke loose. “I’m so tired of apologizing for myself,” he sobbed, wiping angrily at the tears. “I’m not a freak!” he shouted into the hollow room.

Jessica sat on the step above him and peered down into his face, now blanched of all color. “No, Cor, of course you’re not a freak,” she said, stroking the back of his head. “Who are you talking to?”

“Ghosts,” he sobbed, “the dead and the living.”

Just then, the front door creaked on its hinges and swung abruptly open. A blast of arctic air attacked them from behind.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Jessica jumped up, and spun around. With fists at the ready and feet planted firmly, she crouched, prepared to do battle with unseen forces.

“Cory, you in there?” Catherine poked her head through the opening. She glared at Jessica. “Who the hell are you?” she asked, stepping through the door, hands on hips.

Jessica slumped in relief as Catherine stepped into the room. She stuck out her hand in greeting.

“I’m Jessica. You must be Cory’s sister.” She took in the image of the Ice Queen—tall, with pale blonde hair pulled back in a severe French twist. Her eyes were light blue and her face was as pale as her hair, the color broken only by a swipe of blood-red lipstick. She was wrapped in a long silver fur coat and wore high-heeled boots that weren’t made for walking. Breathtaking, in a Greta Garbo, don’t-touch-me sort of way.

“Guess I was expecting Darth Vader or someone,” Jessica chuckled. She withdrew her hand that hung, unmet, in the air.

“Common mistake,” Cory commented, rising from the stair steps. “Hey, Sis,” he fumbled a hug around Catherine’s rigid body.

She studied Cory for a moment. “You look emaciated,” she said, with no particular emotion. “Don’t homosexuals eat?”

Jessica, slack-jawed, and with eyebrows raised, willed Cory to utter a searing retort.

“Maybe we could stay focused on why we’re here,” Cory suggested, choosing his battles carefully. Jessica groaned.

“Ah, yes...” Catherine made a sweeping gesture with her black kid gloved hand, taking in the emptiness of their childhood. “We’re here to say goodbye. Really, Cory, couldn’t we just have signed the damned papers at the broker’s office and have been done with it?”

At the sound of the doorbell, all three turned and stared at the front entrance.

“Saved by the Southern belle,” Catherine said as she went to the door.

“Whatta bitch,” Jessica said after Catherine was out of earshot. Cory shrugged.

“Hello, hello? Y’all in there?” Dody Sawtell, the broker, called from the other side of the door. She gave the bell one final ring.

Catherine yanked open the door and motioned her inside.

Dody, a year or so older than Catherine, and a good forty pounds heavier, clambered into the room, stomping snow from her boots onto the hardwood floor. She tromped on by Catherine into the great room.

“Oh, my, this couldn’t be young Cory, all grown up?” She gave him the once-over and batted her mascara-laden lashes. Her rubber soles made a squeaking sound as she passed Cory. She stopped briefly, regarded Jessica as one might a smudge on a glass, and walked on. Jessica stood like a shadow just behind Cory.

“Where did you find her?” Jessica whispered in Cory’s ear.

Cory grimaced. “She’s the only game in town, I’m afraid.”

“And Catherine—my, aren’t we just looking—healthy,” she offered with a saccharine smile.

“Hello, Dody,” Catherine’s voice was hard and flat. “Can we just get this over with?”

“I hope y’all have had time to say your goodbyes to each and every little ol’ room, as highly unusual as this is.”

“I’m good,” Cory replied. “Doesn’t seem as important as it once did.”

He shot a look at Catherine, who leaned heavily against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, lips pursed, and eyes in a squint. For just a moment, she looked like a teenage version of Devon that Cory remembered from an old high school yearbook. “You good?” he asked.

“Humph.”

“Alrighty then,” Dody chirped.

She looked around the empty space for a table on which to place her alligator briefcase. Cory’s eyes fixed on the briefcase that contained the documents that would free him from his prison. Finding no appropriate surface, Dody spread the small, stapled stacks of paper along the length of the bottom step of the stairwell. With Kindergarten teacher precision, she laid a gold pen, imprinted with Dody Sawtell, Title Officer and her phone number, on the end of the step.

“I’ll need your autographs on each line where there’s an ‘x.’” With a fuchsia-colored nail she pointed to an ‘x’ as a visual aid.

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Cory muttered. Jessica snickered.

Catherine slipped off her gloves, shrugged off her bulky coat, and slung it over the newel post so she could bend sufficiently to reach the bottom step. She and Cory each signed at their designated ‘x.’

“That’s it, then?” Catherine clicked the tip of the pen several times. “When do we get the check?”

Dody gathered up the pens and papers, filed them in her briefcase, and regarded Catherine. “Aren’t we just as eager as flies on poo,” she smiled with all the warmth of a mosquito. “The check will be at the bank first thing in the morning.” She snapped shut the briefcase, and tossed out the word “Ta,” back over her shoulder as she strode past Catherine and Cory and out the door.

“I guess this is it then,” Cory said, noting a catch somewhere in his throat.

“This was it fifteen years ago,” Catherine retorted. “You were just too young to know it. I’ll see you at the bank at nine in the morning.”

“Are you staying at The Crossroads?” Cory asked.

“It’s the only motel within driving distance of this Godforsaken place,” Catherine said as she shrugged on her coat and gathered up her bag.

“Maybe we could all have dinner together,” Cory said.

“I think not.” Catherine slammed the door behind her.

“Holy shit,” Jessica snorted. “Talk about Daughter Dearest.”

“Yeah, well…” Cory was at loss for words to explain his family.

In Room 207 at The Crossroads, Jessica turned up the heat and then clicked on the television that was bolted to the wall. She bounced on the queen-sized bed closest to the bathroom. “Not bad,” she judged, stifling a yawn. “Although I could probably sleep on an ice floe after today.”

Cory clicked the television off.

“Hey, that was a rerun of To Tell the Truth,” Jessica complained.

“How appropriate,” Cory said as he sat down opposite Jessica on the remaining bed. “Can we talk?”

Jessica fluffed the pillows and leaned against the headboard. “Shoot,” she said. “Are you missing David?” she asked, referring to the thirty-four year old man Cory had been dating for the last few months.

“We broke up.” Cory kept his eyes focused on a spot on the flowered bedspread.

Jessica gasped. “You what? When were you going to tell me?”

“Look, I know you didn’t approve of David . . .”

“It’s not that I didn’t approve, exactly,” Jessica interrupted. “But, Cory, he was just so old! You two were in sort of different worlds. You’ve only been out for three years, and…” they sat in the uncomfortable silence that usually accompanied any talk of David.

“I know. You’re right. He wanted to settle down, white picket fence and all that. I think he’s having a mid-life crisis,” Cory said with a grin. He glanced over at Jessica, then back down at the bedspread. “Jes,” he cleared his throat and shifted his position. “I don’t think I want to date gay men any more.”

Jessica’s mouth hung. “Cory, I hate to mention the obvious, but you’ve just obliterated the entire playing field of possibilities.” She shook her head back and forth slowly, trying to grasp any logic she might have missed.

Cory stood and paced the small room. “I’ve been thinking,” he said as he passed the end of her bed, turned and headed the other direction.

“Uh huh, and…” Jessica prompted after a moment.

“I’ve been thinking for a long time,” he passed by again.

Jessica stood, grabbed him by the arm, marched him to the end of the bed, and sat him down. She sat opposite him, knee to knee.

“A long time…”

“I don’t think I’m really gay,” he said quietly.

“What?” Jessica slapped both hands to her cheeks. “Why am I always the last to learn these things?” she sputtered. “Oh, Cory, it isn’t me, is it? You haven’t fallen in love with me, or something, have you? Please, say it isn’t so,” she said, horrified at the possibility. “I’m queer as a camel in a swim suit.”

“Relax,” Cory said. “I don’t want to date girls.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I want to be one. A transsexual.” He sighed heavily, his shoulders drooped, and he peered up at her through heavy eyelashes. He’d never said that word aloud. Jessica sat in silence. He watched as countless expressions washed over her face without so much as a single muscle twitch. She released the breath she’d been holding in a whoosh.

“Like TJ, who used to be a ‘she’ only the other direction?” Jessica asked.

Cory nodded. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple.

“I just haven’t had the word for it before. I think I’ve known since I was a kid. As a teenager, when I’d shower, I’d imagine I had breasts. Then I’d look down and see this thing between my legs that felt like a foreign object,” Cory paused. Jessica’s eyes were wide, and her mouth was small and round.

Cory took a deep breath. “When I started dating guys,” he continued, “all of a sudden my penis became this hugely important thing. It was all wrong, Jess. I’ve got the wrong body.”

“So, you want to be a girl, you say,” Jessica reiterated. Cory nodded. “So you can date straight guys?”
“I guess, yeah,” Cory said.

“I don’t know, Cor,” Jessica looked away. “That’s kind of hard to wrap my mind around. What will become of us?” She had a wary look on her face that made Cory uneasy.

“Nothing will change between us,” Cory said, and knew as the words left his mouth that there was no guarantee.

At five minutes before nine the next morning, Jessica and Cory pulled out of the Dew Drop Inn and headed for the Farmers and Merchants Bank.

“Do you think Catherine will be there already?” Jessica asked.

“Oh, she’ll be there,” Cory said. “Trust me.”

“You haven’t said what you’re going to do with all that money.” Jessica glanced sideways at Cory. She pulled into the bank’s parking lot and cut the engine.

“There’s this place in Trinidad, Colorado,” Cory said as he turned up his coat collar against the winter morning. “The doc there is a transsexual. She does the surgery.”

“Oh my God.” Jessica tried to keep her eyes above Cory’s belt line. Failing that, she mumbled, “Shit.” She looked out her window. “You sure about this?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life,” he said. “It will be about a year before I can have the surgery, so I’m going to let my money grow for a while, along with my hair,” he giggled. “It’s an inside joke.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Jessica with elbows on the steering wheel, chin in hands. She cleared her throat. “Well then,” Jessica finally said, “let’s go get your future.”

Catherine, wrapped in silver fur, stepped out of the F&M lobby onto the snow-shoveled concrete. She threw them a withering glance, turned and re-entered the bank.

“That girl’s got a Popsicle up her…” Jessica stopped short when she noticed Cory’s stricken expression.

“After today, I’m afraid I’ll never see my sister again,” he said, staring at the spot where Catherine had been.

“Her loss, my friend.” Jessica linked arms with Cory and trudged into the bank.

The finances were transacted in a blur of efficiency and within half an hour, the three were headed back out the door to the parking lot.

Jessica grabbed Catherine by the elbow and turned her around. “I’ve just got to ask you this for my own information.” Catherine shot her an icy look. “Why are you so hateful to your brother? Really…” Her exasperation was growing and her voice cracked with emotion. “I’m just curious. I mean, don’t you know that he loves you?”

Catherine’s face rearranged itself. She looked at Cory. For a moment there was a vulnerability Cory had never seen.

“When I look at you, Cory,” she said in something just above a whisper, “I see our past. I see Devon, shrunken with cancer. I see a crazy little boy in girls’ clothes. I see myself as a teenager, supposed to be able to figure out how to live my life with no one to turn to. I see that damned hell hole of a house that echoed with loneliness and hopelessness, that was full of sickness and stench.”

Catherine closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the hardness was back. She wrenched her arm from Jessica’s grasp. “That’s not my life anymore. You’re not my life anymore,” she said to Cory. She turned abruptly and walked to her car.

Cory held his bottom lip firmly between his teeth. He would not let it tremble. He would not.

Chapter 4

Cory felt the sun filter through the gauze curtains behind him. His therapist regarded him thoughtfully from her wing-backed chair.

“So, you really said the word? No more euphemisms, like, ‘I’m not comfortable in my body’?” Marguerite asked.

Cory beamed.

“And you decided Jessica would be the first friend you told,” Marg said. “I suppose that makes sense,” she nodded.

“Ever since we met in the Lesbian and Gay Support Group three years ago, she sort of took on the role of the loving big sister I never had. I figured I owed her the honor,” Cory smiled.

“How did she take it?”

Cory shrugged. “It was a little hard to tell,” he said.

“And how was it for you, to take that risk?” Marg asked.

“At first she didn’t say anything. I thought, oh, so this is how it’s going to be. The first in a line of losses.” He kicked off his sandals and folded his legs yoga-style on the leather couch. “I wanted to cry or say, ‘just kidding’, you know, back pedal real fast?”

“But you waited,” Marg said.

“Yeah, for a long time. Just as we were falling asleep, she said, ‘Hey, Cor, whatever works for you is fine with me.’”

Marg smiled. “You’ve met with Doctor Chan regarding the hormone therapy?”

“Uh huh. We start next month. He suggested I start shopping now. Develop my style, you know. Maybe start letting my hair grow.” He tugged at a tuft of hair tucked behind his ear and stared at the floor.

“What are you thinking about?” Marg said.

“Oh, I was think about that Christmas when I was five, and the tinsel hair—” his voice trailed off with the memory.

The following Saturday, Cory met Jessica at Hot Couture. He was wrapped in a pink-feathered boa, and was beaming at his reflection in the floor-length mirror.

“What in the name of sanity are you doing?” Jessica appeared next to him, punked-out with orange spiked hair and a clip-on nose ring.

“Stylin’,” he winked into the mirror.

“Cor, you’re going to be a girl, not a hooker.” She led him over to the racks. “Are you a summer, fall, spring, or winter?” she eyed him from head to toe.

“Uh—”

“Fall,” she decided.

“Fall? Sounds a sort of drab, doesn’t it?” Cory worried.

“Think autumn leaves, golden stalks of corn, clear blue skies, pumpkins—”

“Pumpkins! Yes. Orange is good,” Cory grinned, tweaking a pointy lock of Jessica’s hair.

“You’re sort of willowy. I’m thinking long skirt, silk over-blouse, maybe a vest, knee boots,” Jessica offered.

“Sounds kind of Annie Hall,” Cory grimaced. “I’m thinking something maybe more this decade. Tee shirt, Capri’s, sandals—” he countered.

“Did you bring the padded bra?” Jessica asked.

“I’m wearing it,” he said in a pout.

“Oh,” she glanced at his chest. “Sorry. Guess you’re sort of creeping up on them, huh?”

“Growing into them, Doctor Chan calls it,” he corrected. Cory draped a russet colored short-sleeved tee, and beige Capri’s with a russet and moss green floral pattern over his arm. “Uh oh, dressing room problem,” he muttered.

“Unisex,” Jessica smiled and pointed to a series of cubicles along the side wall.

Glad that he’d shaved his legs that morning, Cory pulled the Capri’s up over his hips and slipped the tee over his 36A temporary bosom. The three-way mirror reflected back an attractive, trim, androgynous being. He stepped outside the cubicle where Jessica waited.

“Oh—my—God,” she clapped her hands gleefully.

“But, do I look like a girl?” Cory worried, turning slowly.

“Well, you don’t not look like a girl,” Jessica said. “I think until your hair grows, you might want to try a wig.”

“Where would I find a wig?”

“There’s a cancer supply store on the other side of town,” Jessica offered.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Twenty minutes later, a sales clerk at Hair4U had lined up a variety of styles on the counter in front of Cory. The way she sized him up over the top of her glasses made him squirm.

“The weave on the inside of this one minimizes the itchy scalp that sometimes comes from hair loss,” she gave a tight smile, and handed Cory a conservative bob in sandy blonde, closest to his own color.

Jessica snorted. “Sorry, allergies,” she said as she pulled a tissue from her pocket and faked a sneeze. Cory shot her a look.

The clerk snugged the wig into position, fluffed it, and pointed Cory toward the mirror on the counter.

“Mmm, I’ve always wanted to go auburn,” Cory said, gently fingering the shoulder-length wavy tresses on the stand to his right.

The clerk narrowed her eyes. “Most people don’t want to do anything too extreme in these cases,” she said.

Jessica, unable to contain her mirth, bolted from the shop, claiming an expired meter.

Cory regarded the clerk. “I’m feeling particularly bold these days. You know how it is,” he smiled bravely at the clerk.

“Of course you are,” she nodded as she slipped the blond wig back on its form and eased the lush auburn curls over Cory’s head.

“Yes,” Cory whispered into the mirror.

“Well, then,” she said as she rang up his purchase, “remember, we’re hair for you,” she twittered as she put the wig in a box and handed it over the counter.

“Thank you,” Cory batted his eyes.

“Good bye—uh—Miss,” the clerk said.

Chapter 5

Cory stretched her bare legs into the sunshine and wiggled her toes. Her back rested against the smooth bark of the elm tree. She was as mesmerized by the interplay of sun and shade as it danced on the grass in the breeze, as by the opalescent pink polish she’d painted on her toenails that morning. The color reminded her of her grandmother’s favorite tea set.

* * *
The clink of the pink China teacups and Nana’s smile had filled Cory’s heart with happiness and comfort as they sat on the patchwork quilt under the oak tree in the late afternoon sun. Tea parties with Nana, decked out in glittering jewels from her antique velvet jewelry box were Cory’s favorite thing about summer.

“Here dear, try this strand of pearls,” Nana looped the soft, eggshell colored beads about his delicate neck.

“Nana, try these beautiful red earrings,” Cory said. He clipped to his nana’s ears the garnet stones that reflected tiny beams of red onto her papery soft cheeks.

Nana giggled with delight. They clicked teacups. “To the beautiful people,” she said, as they sipped their honey-sweetened ginger tea.

Car accident; gone; won’t be coming back—pieces of phrases overheard. Momma stubbing out her cigarette; Catherine staring out the window. “What am I supposed to do now?” Momma asks of no one in particular as the smoke from her cigarette twists and curls like ghosts over her head. She sighed deeply.

* * *

“Earth to Cory,” Jessica nudged Cory’s leg.

“Huh?” Cory looked over at Jessica splayed out on the blanket, baseball cap shading her eyes.

“I said have you chosen a major yet?” Jessica sat up, yawned, and stared out across campus at the students crisscrossing the Quad like so many worker ants. “You are going on to the University, aren’t you?

Cory scrunched up her face.

“Cor, you have to break out of the nest someday. You know that, don’t you?” Jessica sighed. They’d been having this conversation all summer.

“I was thinking I could check out the Repertoire Theater here—they have a good season lined up,” Cory offered.

“Ah, so this week you’re going to be a theater major.”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“Last week, your professional goal was to become a florist. When do we get around to beautician? I mean, could you get any more cliché?”

Jessica shifted her position, sitting cross-legged opposite Cory on the blanket.

“Really, Cory, if you’re going to practice being a girl, you’ve got to let go of the gay-guy stereotypes.”

“It’s fine for you to be a metal sculptor, but I can’t be an actor? How fair is that?” Cory whined.

Jessica reflected on the myriad future paths her parents had indefatigably supported her through—artist, vet, entrepreneur, botanist, chemist—purchasing pastels, stethoscopes, ledgers, microscopes, as her interests changed by the year.

Jessica looked Cory in the eyes. “This isn’t about a career, is it?”

Cory’s eyes dropped to her hands, folded in her lap. She studied her cuticles.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Jessica confirmed. “Talk to me, Cor.”

“I’m, you know, concerned…” Cory’s voice trailed off. She unfolded her hands, picked at her thumbnail, and folded her hands again.

“Concerned? Try again,” Jessica urged.

“Okay, I’m scared,” Cory blurted.

“Better. Go on.”

“I mean, people know me here. They accept me as who I’m becoming. I’m not so naive as to think this is going to be an easy transition. And frankly, the thought of starting over in a new environment, having to pass—Jes, it fills me with terror.” Cory’s body shuddered. “Remember those two trans girls last year somewhere down south? They were dragged from their car and beaten senseless,” she said.

Jessica reached over and took her hand. “You’ve been talking with Dr. Chan and Marg about this, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. They say what I’m going through is normal,” Cory gave a weak smile. “Well, normal for the situation, that is. And that with the hormones, my body is changing, and I’m appearing more credible as the months go by.” She looked down. “Even my—well, you know—is getting smaller.”

“So, what’s the problem? You’re gorgeous, dahling,” Jessica said with a grin. “You get any more femme, I may have to ask you out myself.”

“Don’t tease, Jes. You know I’m not a lesbian.”
“We could fix that,” Jessica bounced her eyebrows a couple of times in response. Cory threw a handful of grass at her.

“And the voice lessons?” Jessica asked.

“I never was very macho, so raising my vocal register isn’t all that challenging,” Cory said. “The thing is, I don’t feel like I’m being heard.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of women,” Jessica said. “How are the walking lessons going?”

“I’m a long way from the runway, but I have a passable girl walk.” Cory ran a hand up and down her hairless calf and frowned.

“Here’s the thing, Jes. So, okay, I look, sound, and move like a woman. I’m pre-surgery. I find some incredible hunk. We go out. We like each other. Things get heavy. The hands start roving,” Cory heaved a sigh, wadded the tissue she’d been twisting in her hand, and threw it as far as she could. “Even if I tape it down, there comes a point . . .”

“I don’t know, Cor. I just don’t know how to guide you through this one.” Jessica sat with head hung, looking as morose as Cory felt.

“Wait,” she sprung to life, “Remember last year when TJ left our group? Didn’t he start something called Fifth Option?”

“TJ moved eighty miles from here. I lost track of him. Fifth Option?”

“Yeah, like lesbian, gay, bi, straight, trans,” Jessica counted off on her fingers.

“Why is trans always last?” Cory asked.

“Don’t get testy with me; I didn’t name the group,” Jessica said. “I know we could find TJ. He’d know about this stuff. Come on Cor,” she urged. “What do you have to lose?”

“It’s not what I have to lose that scares me. It’s what I have to gain.”

Chapter 6

“Hey, Cory, wait up,” Josh called as he dashed out the door of the Arts Building.

“Hi, Josh,” Cory blushed under the intense blue eyes focused on her. She felt naked and vulnerable as she took a raggedy breath in and tried to focus on the reality of the earth under her feet. “Can you believe that assignment? Create ‘fear’ using only blue. God.”

“Yeah, I thought maybe we could work on it together,” Josh’s smile and those perfect white teeth stirred something in Cory that at one time would have passed for an erection.

“Oh, well, maybe. Uhm . . .”

“How about over coffee, if you’re free? Or tonight? We could brainstorm over a bottle of wine.” He stepped closer.

“Ah, well . . .” Her ears rang and her vision began to fade. Oh my God, I’m going to faint, she thought as she squatted and dropped her head between her knees.

“You okay?” Josh asked, kneeling next to her, one arm thrown protectively across her shoulders. “What can I do?” The alarm in his voice was like a sobering slap. She took a quick gulp of air and struggled to her feet, supported by Josh’s hand beneath her elbow.

“I’m fine, really. Thanks. It’s just—that time of the month,” Cory stammered. She turned her face away in shame.

“Really? I mean, maybe another night then?” Josh studied the back of her head.

“Yeah, that would probably be better,” Cory turned and offered a smile. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Hey, no problem. I have sisters. You take care,” Josh waved as he turned toward the Student Union.

Cory buried her face in her hands.

Two days later, Cory sat across from Marg. They sipped tea from delicate gold-rimmed cups with matching saucers.

“I’ve never heard of Chrysanthemum tea,” Cory said. “Where’s it from?”

“A friend brought it from Chinatown.” Marg inhaled the fragrant steam that drifted from her cup. “Cory, we could sit and talk about tea until the cows come home, but I’m thinking there’s something else on your mind.” She sat her cup down with a clink.

Cory told her about the exchange with Josh. Her face flushed when she admitted using her period as a delay tactic.

“Interesting diversion, albeit biologically impossible,” Marg smiled. “So, what’s to lose by being honest with someone who seems to be interested in you—assuming it’s the real you he values?” Marg asked.

“A potential friend, I guess. I’m not sure Josh knows about the real me. Seems like a high price to pay,” Cory said, slumping lower in her chair. She swirled remnants of flower petals in her cup.

“And, what’s to gain?” Marg asked.

“A potential friend. Someone who’d like me, even though . . .”
“I’d say that’s about fifty-fifty.”

“But if he’s interested in me sexually, then gets all grossed out or something, I’m not sure I can live through that,” Cory blurted.

“Cory,” Marg leaned forward and caught Cory’s eyes, “unless you plan on spending your life in the closet—a very tiny, lonely closet—you’re going to have to live through these experiences.” She sat back with a sigh. “If he rejects you because you’re facing gender reassignment, he’s not the sort of person you’ll want in your life. Trust me.”

The following Wednesday, Cory lingered by the door as students spilled out of the Art Building.

“Josh . . .” Cory called out as Josh bounded down the steps.

“Hey, Cory. How are you?” He turned and flashed a smile that made Cory’s feet sweat. “You started on the project yet?”

“No, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You have a minute?”

“Sure. You want to grab a cup of coffee at the Union or something?” Josh suggested.

“Okay.” Cory took a deep breath as Josh slipped a supporting hand under her elbow as she took the two steps down to ground level.

They carried their cups to a small table in the far corner of the room where the general din was quieter.

It’s now or never, Cory thought, as she took a sip of her latte and settled into the creaky wooden chair. She cleared her throat. Josh’s eyes bored into her as he leaned slightly forward, elbows on the table.

“Um, Josh, there’s something I’m not sure you’re aware of that might make a difference in what happens next,” Cory began.

Josh tilted his head attentively. “Sounds serious,” he said.

“I’m getting ready for gender reassignment surgery,” Cory said, not allowing her eyes to drop.

The corners of Josh’s mouth twitched slightly. He blinked.

“I’m transgender,” Cory said, daring Josh with her stare to have a reaction.

“Yeah, I know,” he said with a slow smile. “But you still have to do the project.”

Something between a chuckle and a gasp escaped Cory. “You know? And you’re okay with this?” she asked with astonished relief.

“Cory, I think you’re incredibly brave to take steps to get your life congruent. What integrity. I admire that. You’re the kind of friend I’d like to have,” he reached over, took Cory’s hand, and gave it a quick squeeze, “if you’ll accept me.”

“Friend,” Cory reiterated.

“Friend,” Josh grinned. “So, what are your thoughts on portraying ‘fear’ using only blue?”

“Let me get this straight,” Jessica’s voice was strident on the other end of the phone. “You can’t meet for breakfast because Josh is picking you up to take you to the Art Institute?”

“Well—”

“And you can’t go to the movies because Josh is coming over for dinner?” Jessica interrupted.

“Jess—”

“And you’re not available to go shopping with me today because you and Josh have to finish that friggin’ art project?”

“Look,” Cory said, “I know I’ve been spending a lot of time with Josh lately, but he’s my friend too.”

“I’m thinking you’re in denial, Cory. I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Jessica said.

“You sure you’re not jealous?” The sound of the receiver slamming into its cradle made Cory wince. She shook her head as she hung up her bedroom phone.

“Unbelievably possessive bitch,” Cory mumbled, sorting through her closet for the black velour scoop-neck top she wanted to wear with her new jeans. She struggled into her black leather boots and checked herself in the mirror. “Yup,” she smiled, “this will make his eyes pop.”

The doorbell rang at exactly four o’clock. Cory ran her fingers through her hair, gave her blouse an extra tug, moistened her lips with a swipe of her tongue and headed for the door.

“Wow,” Josh gaped. “You look—amazing.”

Cory smiled. “Come in,” she said, holding the screen door open.

Josh handed Cory the grocery bag he’d been balancing on one hip. “I thought we’d do sort of a theme dinner in honor of the assignment,” he said as she unpacked the goods on the kitchen counter.

“This is great,” Cory squealed. “Cordon Bleu TV dinners, Blue Nun wine, blue cheese with blue corn chips. You are too much.” From the bag she pulled out a bouquet of blue iris and went in search of a vase.

“Don’t forget dessert,” Josh said, reading into the bottom of the bag. “Blueberries,” he grinned.

“Who knew art could be so much fun,” Cory batted her eyelashes coyly. “Here,” she said, handing him the corkscrew, “Let’s start with the wine, chips and cheese.”

“Gosh, Cory, it’s only four o’clock. Shouldn’t we maybe wait a while?” Josh said, sliding the sleeve of his sweatshirt back over his watch.

“Lightweight,” Cory teased. “This is our inspiration. I say we go for it.” She sat two wine glasses on the table, shook the chips into a pottery bowl, and placed thin wedges of cheese on a cobalt blue plate.

While Josh poured the wine, Cory slipped an Elvis CD in the player and found the cut that lamented a blue, blue Christmas without you.

“To art,” said Josh as they clinked glasses. His gaze lingered at the scoop of her blouse.

“To the artists,” countered Cory.

Over wine, chips, cheese, and more wine, they talked form and function of design, whether to go abstract in their statement or stay with realism. Words flowed easily as Cory poured her third glass of Blue Nun. Josh smiled lazily across the table. Hands behind his head, he arced backwards in a stretch that left Cory breathless.

“What?” he asked.

“What, what?” Cory responded.

“You have a funny look on your face.”

Cory blushed. “That’s my ‘oh, my God, you’re such an Adonis’ look, I guess,” she grinned.

“Uh, Cory . . .” Josh’s face went blank, unreadable, like a mime’s face

“Hey, let’s get those dinners in the oven.” Cory extricated her foot from her mouth, jumped up from her chair, and grabbed the table to steady herself as the floor tilted.

Josh was there in a flash, an arm around her waist, his thumb resting against the swell of her breast. “It’s the empty stomach thing,” he said. “You okay?”

Cory wanted to swim in the blue of his eyes. She turned to face him, slipped her arms around his neck, and drew him near. Her lips parted with want.

“Whoa,” Josh stiffened, disengaged himself, and stepped back. “Cory, look, I don’t think . . .” he stammered. “I really like you, and,” he took both her hands in his and looked directly into her eyes. “You’re attractive and all, but I mean, essentially, you’re still a guy, right?”

Cory blanched. She pulled her hands free and wobbled towards the kitchen. Humiliation covered her like sweat, and tears stung her eyes.

“Oh, Josh, lighten up. It’s just the wine,” she struggled for a flippant tone. “C’mon. Let’s fix dinner,” she called over her shoulder. She clamped her lips tightly to check the urge to vomit.

Chapter 7

“Oh, my God, how can you drink this?” Cory choked, sputtered, and dabbed at her mouth with a postage stamp sized cocktail napkin. She set the aperitif glass of chocolate Port on the tiny round table between them. Their wrought iron bar stools were scrunched intimately into a quiet corner of Club Q.

“It’s tres chic, my dear,” TJ replied, practicing his newly adapted sophisticated-man style.

Cory grinned. “I think I liked you better when you were more, ‘hey dude, let’s grab a beer.’”

“That was so yesterday,” TJ tipped his stool back slightly on its hind legs and regarded Cory over John Lennon lenses that rested mid-bridge on his nose.

“Would you not do that, please? I feel like you’re talking down to me.”

“My God, Cory, you’ve turned into a real bitch,” TJ said, righting his chair and sliding his glasses back into their normal position. He sipped his aperitif. “What’s up with you?”

Cory relayed the whole dreadful Josh debacle as couples of all persuasions moved with bodies glued together on the dance floor to a slow song. While waiting for TJ to respond, Cory snuck a peek at his chest. She wondered if he taped.

TJ looked down at the small glass in his hand. He sighed and shook his head slowly, as if recent history were replaying itself in his mind. “It’s hard—the first time.”

“That’s it?” Cory leaned forward. “Does it get better? I mean, do you figure out a more graceful way to handle those situations?”

“It’s going to sound like a cliché, Cory, but I think communication is the key. I mean, you sort of sprung yourself on the guy, right?”

“It was the alcohol.”

“Bullshit. You had the hots for him. You chose your clothes to seduce him, right?” TJ’s harsh words were tempered by the gentle tone of his voice.

Cory looked away in embarrassment.

“Hey, it’s okay,” TJ reassured. “It’s normal that you’re going to find guys attractive. And this guy even knew about you, right?”
Cory nodded.

“And he liked you as a friend?” TJ waited for another nod before going on. “So, what do you suppose would have happened if you’d told Josh that you found him sexually attractive, versus, say, pouncing on him?”

“He would have said the same thing, that he wasn’t interested in me that way,” Cory mumbled into her lap.

“So, that would have been disappointing. Would it have been as humiliating?”

TJ’s kind smile and the softness of his eyes made something catch in the back of Cory’s throat. She took a raggedy breath in.

“No, I guess not,” she said. “At least my dignity would have been intact.”

The DJ cranked up the volume and bodies writhed to Madonna wailing about being touched for the very first time. Cory gave a sardonic smile. She could relate.

As if reading her mind, TJ reached over and took her hand. “Look,” he said gently, “there are going to be a lot of ‘firsts’ to adjust to, and people in your current life aren’t going to know how to support you.”

Cory nodded, knowing he was right. She swirled the remainder of her drink in her glass and looked at TJ.

“Why not do yourself a favor, and come to a Fifth Option meeting? We won’t bite—well, unless that’s what you’re into,” TJ grinned wickedly. “You don’t have to figure this out alone; none of us did,” he added.

Cory jotted down the time and place of the next meeting at Rod and Barbara’s home, and promised to see TJ there. A real trans couple. Cory felt a certain amount of voyeuristic curiosity building. What had she been afraid of? Limited options? Never being able to have a relationship with a straight man? Fully accepting that she was now a transgender woman?

TJ, five foot six at best, and of slight build, stood to help her on with her coat. This transition can’t have been easy for him either, Cory thought, as she stooped to allow TJ to assist her. Again, she was aware of that catch in the back of her throat.

The following Friday night, Cory stood staring into her closet. She sighed heavily. “What do you wear to a coming out meeting?” she asked of the dust bunnies that slept among her shoes. She pulled out the red power dress she’d bought on a whim at the thrift store. “What was I thinking?” she said, as she shoved the dress back among her girl clothes. Cory settled on black skinny jeans, a rust-colored tee, and a light-weight black leather jacket. She clipped coral earrings set in silver on her ears and surveyed herself in the mirror. “It will just have to do,” she said, checking her watch.

The lights shone brightly through the open curtained windows of the tract home on Harmony Drive. Cory parked across from the house and watched as people milled about, drinks in hand, engaged in animated conversation. “It’s just a meeting, for God sake,” she admonished herself. She wiped her palms on the legs of her pants, checked her rear-view mirror, and glanced up and down the street before exiting her car. Freak show. Where did that come from? she wondered.

Cory gave a tentative knock, hoping the sound would be lost on the crowd inside and she could return home. A beautiful, statuesque woman in her mid-forties answered the door. Her hair was frosted chestnut, and she wore a stunning green brocade Chinese pantsuit.

“You must be Cory. Come in, I’m Barbara. We spoke on the phone.” The woman took Cory’s hand and led her into the living room. “Everyone, this is TJ’s friend Cory,” she gestured around the room. Cory felt her face redden as she plastered on a smile.

“Welcome, I’m Rod, Barbara’s husband,” a shorter version of a Tom Cruise look-alike said. “What can I get you to drink?” Cory shrugged. “A coke, I guess—thanks.”

“Hey Cory, good to meet you. I’m Jake,” a young man with a well-trimmed beard stuck out his hand. “I’m TJ’s roommate. He had to work overtime tonight, and asked me to apologize for leaving you stranded.” He had perfect white teeth, hazel eyes under thick lashes, and small, square hands with manicured nails. Not at all hard to look at. So far, this was feeling like a gathering of the town’s beautiful people.

Cory accepted her Coke, and found a place on the couch next to a—hmmm, either a very butch woman with a definite need of electrolysis, or a man who preferred dresses—she couldn’t decide. Cory averted her eyes and hoped the meeting would be called to order soon. When she looked up, a person of indeterminate gender smiled and lifted a glass to her from across the room. Oh my God, she thought, that is the most gender-neutral person I’ve ever seen. She found it creepy that she really couldn’t tell.

People took seats and the conversation quieted as Barbara called the meeting to order. Introductions were made and brief histories of their trans status exchanged.

“And when I began wearing dresses,” Mark shared, “my wife packed up the three kids and moved out of state. My life consists of court battles and attorney fees. I can’t even begin to think about the cost of surgery.” Cory clenched and unclenched her jaw a couple of times to relieve the tension.

Ali grinned broadly as she said, “I have something positive to share. The new guy at the office asked me out for coffee.” Cory noticed a churning in her stomach. Be careful, she warned silently.

Glenda shared that she’d been cornered in an alley outside the bar at two a.m. “This guy said, ‘Your luck just ran out, slut.’ I figured I was dead. His buddy was waving a broken beer bottle back and forth. If another couple hadn’t come around the corner just then, well…” She took a raggedy breath, lowered her eyes, and said in a quiet voice, “I’m so glad you’re all here, and that there’s someone for me to tell this to. I’m so ashamed.”

The meeting ended with the sharing of recently found resources, a good book someone had read, the name of a local therapist who was trans-friendly, and the reciting of The Serenity Prayer.

“Okay everyone, there’s a ton of food in the dining room. Please help yourself,” Barbara said. “Cory, will you stay for a while? I’d like to hear how this was for you,” she added.

“Oh, thanks, Barbara, but I have to get up really early. I’m sorry. Can I call you?” They exchanged numbers.

Once outside, Cory ran to the nearest bush beyond the arc of the porch light and threw up.

Chapter 8

Cory drummed her fingers on the phone table as the third, and then the fourth ring sounded in an artsy loft across town. “Pick up, damn it,” she said, exasperated. Five rings. Six rings. Cory was ready to hang up.

“Hello,” a tired voice mumbled, followed by an unstifled yawn. “This had better be important, it’s early.”

Cory’s voice caught in her throat like a patch of cloth on barbed wire.

“Hello, already,” Jessica barked. “Who’s there?”

Cory cleared her throat. “Jes, it’s me, Cory.”

Silence. Then, “Cory who?”

“Come on, Jes. I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sorry? That’s supposed to make everything okay again? It’s been weeks, Cory.” Jessica sounded more hurt than angry.

“You were right, Jes. I came on to Josh and he dumped me because I have a dick. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” More silence. “I miss you. I need a friend,” Cory said.

“Yeah, for how long?” Jessica’s voice was tight.

Cory hung her head and fiddled with the phone cord. “Forever,” she said quietly.

Silence. Then, “Meet me at the Black Cat Cafe in half an hour. I need breakfast—your treat,” Jessica added.

“Got it,” Cory grinned.

Within thirty minutes, Cory pulled into the Black Cat’s parking lot. Jessica was waiting out front with a ‘don’t talk to me’ look on her face. They entered the café, slid into a booth, and gave their order to the waitress. They sat in silence waiting for their food. Cory traced her finger along the design in the Formica tabletop—she could play this game of paying her dues. Jessica studied the café as if this were her first time there.

When the food came, Jessica plowed her way through a stack of waffles, a side of bacon, two eggs over easy, a tall orange juice, and coffee, black. Cory picked at her English muffin and Earl Grey tea, silently observing the food-devouring phenomena across the table from her.

The cafe was all but empty. Crazy Mary, gray hair matted beneath a paisley scarf tied under her chin, sat cackling to herself over a cup of cocoa and a rumpled newspaper at the end of the counter. Cory recognized Kash, the new girl in town whom she’d met at the womens bookstore last week. She sat alone, staring out the plate glass window, her omelet growing cold from neglect. Cory tried to catch her eye, but failed.

After the waitress brought a third refill of coffee, Jessica finally sat back, patted her stomach, took a deep breath, released it with a sigh, and looked at Cory. “Okay, so I’ve missed you too,” she said, then glanced out the window and frowned.

The sky was the color of gunmetal. It had been raining for a week. Cory knew that Jessica hated winter. She knew a lot about Jessica.

“I thought you’d have a whole new bunch of friends from that support group you were going to,” she continued. “So, what’s up with that?” She folded her arms over her chest and looked Cory squarely in the eyes.

A smile played on Cory’s lips. She felt as if she’d just been challenged to a duel to prove her loyalty and friendship. “The best thing that came from that group was a good reading list,” she said, and gave Jessica a rueful smile.

“Everything you wanted to know, but didn’t know who to ask?” Jessica grinned. “So, tell me,” she said, leaning forward, elbows on table, getting into the spirit of things, “what were they like?”

“Well, they weren’t like anything—I mean, they were all individuals. Everyone had a different story. One woman was living as a guy so she could be with her girlfriend, who was her former boyfriend, until the MTF surgery. The partner didn’t want to be in a lesbian relationship.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Are you making this up?” she asked.

“No, I swear,” Cory raised her hand in the air.

The waitress swung by just then. “What can I get you, darlin’?” she asked Cory.

“Sorry, my mistake,” Cory grinned, lowering her hand. Jessica chuckled.

“Another woman,” Cory continued, “post op, was so beautiful. I mean, Jes, you couldn’t tell. You know? And a middle-aged man—totally indiscernible. I gotta tell you, hormones and surgery can work miracles.”

“So why did you stop going?

“One night they got in a big fight about fence-sitting. This gender-blender androgynous type didn’t want to have to declare whether he or she was a guy or a girl,” Cory said.

“And that’s a problem how?” Jessica shrugged. “I mean, whose business is it anyway, unless you’re going to sleep with him, or her. Hmmm, maybe on a need to know basis…”

“Do you mind?” Cory interrupted. “I’d gotten what I needed from the group—that there’s no right or proper way to be a different gender. And, I’m not alone. And, I don’t want to have friends just based on my gender—there’s more to me than that,” she finished with an emphatic nod of her head.

“Welcome home,” Jessica said as she reached across the table and gave Cory’s hand a squeeze.

* * *

“You seem pretty excited about the possibilities of surgery,” Marg hooked a strand of gray hair behind her ear, leaned back in her chair, and settled in for the hour.

“Oh, Marg, you should have seen her,” Cory’s eyes were round with awe. “All the curves were real—I asked,” Cory answered the unasked question. A blush tinted her cheeks.

Marg smiled and nodded. “Remember, each person’s body is unique, and responds differently to the hormone therapy,” she offered. “How are you doing with the walking lessons and the voice coaching?” she asked.

“As long as I stay focused,” Cory rose and demonstrated by crossing the office and back, “I walk pretty much like a girl, don’t you think?”

“Looks good to me.”

“And even though I sometimes feel like Minnie Mouse, I’m managing to keep my voice in a register that’s slightly higher than my normal voice is,” Cory finished with a shrug and a grin.

“How’s it going out in public?” Marg asked. “You passing?”

“The other night Jess and I went out for dinner.” Cory sat forward in her seat, and excitement glittered in her eyes. “The waitress said, ‘More coffee, ma’am?’ She was talking to me. Cool, huh? I wasn’t even wearing a dress.”

“So, surgery is a few months off yet,” Marg noted. “What’s the next task ahead?”

Cory withered. She sunk back on the couch and sighed.

“Dating,” Cory said, with the same amount of enthusiasm she might have had for swimming in a tar pit. “Ugh.”

“We can’t let the past be the template for the present, or we’d never move ahead,” Marg said. Her voice was gentle, but serious. “I know you got your heart broken by Josh, but you really had more to lose there. He was your friend first, right?”

“Yeah,” Cory agreed, “but casual dating has never really appealed to me, you know?”

“They say you can’t learn to swim unless you jump in the water,” Marg smiled.

“You’re just full of platitudes today, aren’t you?” Cory chided playfully. “Now there’s a truly scary thought,” she added.

“What’s that?” Marg asked.

“Me, in a swimsuit.” Cory rolled her eyes and faked a swoon off the couch.

“We’ve got splashdown,” Marg chuckled.

Chapter 9

Cory held a perfectly white mushroom in the palm of her hand, marveling at its smooth surface, the unbroken underbelly. She counted out six and laid them gently in the plastic bag. As she reached for the smallest red bell pepper, it was whisked away by a large hand that appeared out of nowhere.

“May I?” The man attached to the hand offered her a different pepper.

Cory jerked her head up and locked eyes with a gorgeous hunk of manhood. He was tall and tan, with white teeth beneath a tantalizingly crooked smile, and wavy brown shoulder-length hair.

“I, I . . .”

“The other one had a blemish,” he smiled at her. “I just put it back myself.”

“Uh.”

“I noticed how carefully you chose the mushrooms. Figured you’d want nothing but the best,” he closed her fingers gently over the pepper that now rested in her hand. Cory gave him a weak grin.

In the background of the market din, a canned voice sang “Love Is All Around You.” Cory gulped.

“My name is Kurt,” he said. His hand, strong but gentle, lingered over hers.

“Cory. Cory, yes, that’s my name,” Cory babbled. She felt a blush start just beneath her collar bone and work its way up like a rising tide that would either strangle her or wash her out to sea.

Kurt released her hand and stepped back. Cory’s inhale felt like glass in her lungs.

“Cooking something special?” he asked, those brown doe eyes lulling her.

“Vegetable soup. Dinner, actually.” Before she could clamp down on the words, they spilled from her lips. “Are you free?”

Good God girl, she thought in a panic.

“Well,” it was Kurt’s turn to stammer, “uh, yes, I’d love to.”

Too late, Cory thought fleetingly, I’m dead.

“Listen,” Kurt continued, “why don’t I grab a loaf of sourdough and a bottle of Chardonnay? Oh, do you drink wine?” he asked.

No, no, no, I don’t, Cory said vehemently to herself.
“Yes,” Cory said with enthusiasm, “that would be lovely.”

“I’ll meet you at the register,” he winked and disappeared down the aisle.

Okay, just breathe, Cory instructed herself. No, call Marg. No, better yet, have Jess meet me out front with an emergency that needs my immediate attention. Cory wiped the sweat from her inner elbows on the sides of her shirt.

She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat and moved on to the zucchini bin.

Kurt was standing next to the check out line. He motioned her over and stepped into line. In his arms, he balanced a bottle of Chardonnay, a loaf of bread, and a potted plant sprinkled with coral colored flowers. She smiled in spite of herself.

“You bought me Azaleas?” Cory grinned.

“Oh,” Kurt said, his expression crestfallen, “should I have gotten roses?”

“Actually, I love Azaleas. How could you have known?”

“You just don’t seem like a traditional kind of girl,” he smiled as he commandeered her cart, placed her groceries on the conveyor belt next to his, and pulled out his debit card.

“On, no, wait—” Cory protested, scrambling to separate her week’s shopping from his dinner contribution.

“Humor me,” he said, with a languid smile that started a flame in several parts of her body simultaneously. He ran his card through the machine, and typed in his PIN.

The clerk winked at Cory. “He’s a keeper, honey,” she stage-whispered.

As the groceries were being bagged, Kurt leaned close to Cory and said, “I hope I didn’t embarrass you. It’s just that this is less than what I would have spent on taking you out to dinner. And, it will be such a pleasure to have a home-cooked meal.” He stepped behind the cart and began to wheel it toward the exit, smiling at her companionably.

Cory felt at loss for words. It sounded so reasonable, coming from Kurt.

“Why don’t I load these in my car,” he said as they left the grocery, “and follow you to your house?”

“Okay,” Cory managed. “Where are you parked?”

“The silver one, over there,” Kurt pointed to the left. A shiny Mercedes convertible sat in the shade of a crepe myrtle. Cory’s eyes went round.

“I’ll pull up in front of you,” she said. “Oh, and…” she placed her hand on his arm briefly and glanced at the groceries, “thank you. That was very generous.”
“You’re very welcome,” he said, and headed across the lot whistling a nameless tune.

Kurt pulled out of his spot and followed Cory to the exit. She put her blinkers on to signal left, fully expecting Kurt to make a sharp right, disappear from sight with her week’s groceries, never to be seen again. In her rear-view mirror, she noted the Mercedes blinked for a left turn.

Alternative ending number two, she thought: He’ll follow me home, carry the groceries in, strangle me with a pair of nylons, wrap my body in a sheet, and carry me to the dumpster. Then he’ll take over my cottage. I wonder if he’ll remember to water the plants in the window box, she thought idly.

Cory wove her way through traffic, the Mercedes a sleek shadow behind her, and pulled up in front of her brown shingle. Kurt drove on by.

“Ah ha!” Cory shouted. She banged her fists on the steering wheel. “I knew it. I’m screwed.” She leaned heavily against the back of her seat and closed her eyes.

Kurt executed a neat U-turn and pulled up in the shade of a maple across the street from her. With boyish energy, he leaped from the car, grabbed both bags of groceries and the potted plant, and stood at the side of Cory’s car. At the shadow cast by his body, Cory opened one eye. Kurt bent down, a look of concern contorting his otherwise flawless face.

“Listen, if you need a nap or something, I’ll fix dinner,” he offered as Cory climbed out of her car.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, she said to herself. “No, I’m fine, thanks,” she said to Kurt. “Just, um, centering myself,” she mumbled as she searched her bag for her keys.

Chapter 10

Cory gasped and coughed. Her windpipe felt crushed. Pain shot through her shoulder and red fluid blurred her vision as she struggled to see through swollen eyes. She noted the phone receiver lying loose in one hand, but could not make her fingers close around it. The piercing sound of a receiver off the hook filled the room like a flea bomb—then blackness.

From another world, the shrill sound of a siren cut through the oblivion. Cory struggled for consciousness as alternating streaks of red and blue lit the room around her in flashing syncopation. Gruff voices barked unintelligible words into the static of a radio.

A face leaned close but she couldn’t make out the features. It was as though she was looking through cotton batting. Another stab of pain as a hand touched her belly, then darkness.

Swaddled in a sheet, Cory felt herself being lifted from the floor onto something hard and flat. Each bone in her body seemed to jam and smash against the next. Discordant words and fragments of sentences floated around and above her.

“ETA nineteen-hundred.”

“ID is in her bag.”

“Next of kin?”

“Address book...”

“Who called this in?”

“Neighbor.”

Then the night air, cooling her skin, which seemed on fire. A light strobed red, blue, red, blue. Nausea, then stark nothingness.

The wailing siren pierced Cory’s head like a drill. She felt the stab of a needle in her vein as an IV was started. Her vitals were called out in a string of medic-speak. The ambulance swayed and howled like a drunken banshee. Once more, nausea overtook her.

A bright light shone in one eye as she managed to open her lid. She winced at the pain. A curtain swished on its metal hooks with the coming and going of figures as they moved around the small cubicle in a ghostly dance.

“She’s conscious,” a masked face hovered over her.

More fragmented sentences.

“Rape kit?”

“Not necessary.”

“Why? Oh, my God.”

Blankets were rearranged. Swabs that stung her skin rubbed her face and head, then her pelvis and legs. Cory groaned.

She was aware of someone holding her left hand. She struggled to turn her head and moaned with pain.

“Lay still, Cor,” Jessica whispered near her ear. “You’re going to be okay. I promise,” Jessica sniffed as tears rolled down her cheeks. “You’re in the hospital. They’re going to take good care of you,” she choked out feeble reassurance.

“J--Jess,” Cory managed.

“Shh,” Jessica kissed a small spot on Cory’s head that wasn’t scraped and bloody. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest.”

“Do you know how to reach his family?” one of the attending staff asked.

“Her family,” Jessica corrected. “That would be me,” she finished.

* * *

“Any news from the police?” Cory asked in a strained whisper three days later. She was settled in her bed propped up by mounds of pillows. Jessica tucked the edge of a quilt under her chin.

“No, seems he’s gone underground, like toxic waste.” Jessica squeezed Cory’s hand. “Listen, you’re safe. I’m here, and no one is getting in without going through me, little lady.” Jessica did a quick John Wayne swagger. “Okay?”

Cory tried a feeble smile. “The doors are locked, right?”

Jessica nodded. “Cory, he’s not coming back. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, and that composite picture—it’s on the news. They’ll find him. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I’m so stupid,” Cory croaked. “They say, ‘too good to be true’ for a reason.”

“Honey, stop being so hard on yourself. There’s no way you could have known. Try to rest. You need to save your voice for your appointment with Marg on Friday.” Jessica touched Cory’s cheek gently. “I’m going to clean up the living room, then I’ll be in the spare bedroom, unpacking.” Cory nodded, and turned her face to the wall.

“It looks like a bomb went off in here,” Jessica muttered as she pulled the broom and dustpan from the closet.

Fragments of pottery, soil, and plant debris were strewn about. Delicate coral petals, like colorful tears, were scattered across the rug. Blood smeared the floor and crusted the edge of the coffee table. Stuffing spilled like vomit from the knife slit in the couch cushion. Jessica wrinkled her nose as she attacked the visible signs of her friend’s night of horror.

Shards of glass made moving through the room hazardous. She righted a chair that lay on its side, and replaced the lamp that was wedged under the desk. A wine bottle, the jagged edges of its broken neck coated with a brown congealed substance, protruded from beneath Cory’s favorite pillow cross-stitched with ‘To Thine Own Self Be True.’

“God, Cory, what did he do to you?” Jessica gasped as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

Chapter 11

Cory rearranged herself into the corner of the couch, and protectively hugged an extra pillow to her stomach. The lacy curtain behind her, rippled gently in the afternoon breeze. She took a sip of tea, cleared her throat, and tried not to decipher the look on Marg’s face.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Cory?” Marg asked, as she removed her bifocals and laid them on small table next to her chair. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her index finger.

“I’ll never be up for this,” Cory said, taking another sip of tea. “I’d rather run through the mall naked than recount that night. I feel like such an idiot, asking a complete stranger into my home.”

“There will be time in the future to look more closely at your enthusiasm and decision making when it comes to this new world of heterosexual dating,” Marg said with a gentle smile. “But for now, we’re going to have to find a way to help you accept that what happened to you was not your fault.”

Cory’s eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor. She signed heavily.

“Okay, so you’ve gotten as far as leaving the grocery store. He followed you home, carried the groceries in, and watered the potted plant—an Azalea?”

Cory nodded.

“Odd choice. Then, he poured the wine while you started dinner, right?”

Cory’s lips were pressed together like a rusty zipper. Again, she nodded.

“And,” Marg prompted, as she slipped her glasses back on. The abrasions, bruises, and scabs on Cory’s face and neck that blurred behind Marg’s nearsightedness came into sharp focus. She looked away, then back again.

“He sliced the French bread while I finished making the salad. I remember just a moment of fear when he put the knife down on the counter, then picked it up again. He ran his finger lightly along the edge of the blade. I was afraid he was going to cut himself, I think. It made my stomach queasy.” A shudder rippled through Cory, and she hugged the pillow tighter.

“We had a nice dinner. He was charming and witty, and had lots of amusing stories about places he’d traveled. I was clearing away plates and he asked if he could put on some music. I pointed him toward my record collection—you know, those old vinyl 33s—the romantic tunes no one sings any more.”

Cory paused, accepted a refill of tea, blew on it gently, and took a sip. They sat in the quiet for a moment. Cory took a deep breath and continued.

“I remember my hands were soapy with dishwater. He asked me to dance. I told him I’d never learned ballroom dancing. He said, ‘it’s easy, just watch me’, and he picked up the potted Azalea, held it in his arms and began waltzing around the living room. I thought I’d wee in my pants, it was so funny,” Cory smiled briefly at the memory.

“Take a slow, deep breath, Cory,” Marg instructed when she noticed Cory hadn’t inhaled for several seconds. Cory sucked in an audible breath and exhaled loudly.

“Good,” Marg said. “Go on,” she prompted.

“He put the plant on the coffee table and motioned me to step into his arms. It was so exciting. For a moment, I thought we were going to be Ginger and Fred. I put my hand on his shoulder. He pulled me to him roughly. It surprised me and I tried to step backward, but I couldn’t get away from him. His eyes looked angry, and his breathing was strange, almost like he was panting.”

Cory stopped, shook her head, and said, “I don’t know if I can do this.” There were tears in her eyes, and in Marg’s too, Cory noticed, when she looked up.

“I’m right here,” Marg said. “You’re safe. The worst has already happened. These are the feelings you blocked out. Take your time.”

“I remember thinking, ‘I’m going to die,’ then my mind just sort of went numb,” Cory said quietly. “He ripped at my blouse and was biting me on the neck. I think I remember trying to hit or scratch him, but he had my arms pinned. I could feel his erection shoved into my stomach. He moved back just enough to tear at my pants. He broke the zipper and jammed his hand down into my underwear. Then he made this horrible sound, like a dog hit by a car on the road or something.”

Cory covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed loudly. Marg moved her chair near the couch and leaned forward slightly. She placed the tissue box within Cory’s reach.

Moments passed as Cory wept unrestrained. Eventually, her breathing became more regular. She blew her nose and readjusted her position on the couch.

“And then?” Marg gently prompted.

“He grabbed my crotch hard. When he found himself with a handful of penis, he screamed in my face, ‘What the fuck are you, anyway?’ I was terrified and ashamed. He started hitting me with his fists. I fell over and hit my head on the corner of the coffee table. I remember curling up on my side as he kept kicking me and kicking me. He wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe.” Cory began to gasp for air. Her body went rigid and her hands were balled into fists.

“Cory,” Marg said, “Look at me. Look at me now.” Cory’s eyes were filled with terror. “You’re right here with me,” Marg continued. She softly placed her hand over one of Cory’s fists. “You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She continued the litany of soothing words until Cory’s body softened and she slumped back against the couch.

“He hurt me,” giant sobs raked through her body. Marg nodded, and waited. “That fucking bastard cut me, and kicked me, and hurt me,” she cried loudly.

“That was a terrible thing he did to you, Cory. You didn’t deserve to be hurt,” Marg said.

“No, I didn’t deserve that! He’s crazy. He’s sick. I hope he rots in prison,” Cory shouted. “Or in hell. He’s a bad man,” she whimpered now, sounding young and very tired.

“Yes, a very bad man,” Marg agreed.

Cory took a ragged breath, wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and looked up at Marg.

“How are you doing?” Marg asked.

“I think I could use a hug,” Cory said.

Chapter 12

The crisp winter air made the hair follicles in Cory’s nose stiff. She stomped slush off her snow boots leaving puddles of muck on the top step as she rang the doorbell.

Jessica appeared behind the frosted glass window in a long-sleeved, floor-length maroon bathrobe and fuzzy blue bunny slippers. She pulled a forest green scarf tighter around her neck before opening the door.

“Quick, get in here,” she grabbed Cory by the sleeve and pulled her through the doorway. “Temperatures like this should be illegal,” she declared.

Cory sneezed, blew her nose, and removed her gloves, coat, and boots.

“Here,” Jessica plopped down a pair of sheepskin lined slipper boots and helped Cory slip her feet into them.

“Thanks,” Cory managed before another sneeze shook her frame.

“Follow me,” Jessica commanded. Obediently, Cory trailed her into the kitchen, oven warmed and smelling of freshly baked banana bread. Jessica turned the burner on under the teakettle. “Fix you right up,” she said. “Here,” she handed Cory a knife and pointed to the steaming loaf of bread under a cloth napkin.

Cory sliced thick pieces of banana bread while Jessica steeped ginger tea in a pot and added a dash of cayenne and a shot of bourbon for good measure.

After a scraping of chairs pulled from the table, a moment of shuffling around, they settling in.

“So, this is it then, huh?” Jessica held Cory’s eyes with a penetrating stare. “Most people head to Florida for Spring break. You go to Colorado to get your wiener schnitzeled.”

Cory grimaced. She took a sip of the brew Jessica had concocted. “Holy…” she choked on the cayenne floating on top. Cory cleared her throat and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Yeah, this is sort of—it,” she smiled tentatively.

“Cold feet?” Jessica asked.

“No. Just more information after the phone consult with the staff there. I’ve never had surgery. Still have my tonsils, never was really sick as a kid, no broken bones or anything.” Cory managed a small gulp of brew.

“I could go with you,” Jessica suggested. “I mean it’s not like I have reservations in Ft. Lauderdale or anything.” She stirred a teaspoon of honey into her tea.

Cory’s eyes moistened. She reached over and patted Jessica’s hand. “That means a lot, Jess, but this is something I have to do on my own. I’ll need you on the other end of the phone the week after the surgery though.”
“You got it, sister,” Jessica smiled. “So what did you find out about the procedure—I mean, what exactly are they going to do? You going to get boobs?”

“I have boobs, thank you very much,” Cory patted her B-cup padded bra. “I don’t need facial reconstruction; my bones are actually delicate enough. And my body fat has redistributed itself this year, so I have hips and thighs.”

“Nice hips, I might add. Good ass, too,” Jessica added, grinning.

Cory blushed and swirled her drink in her cup. “So, they’ll remove my testicles, use the skin of my penis and scrotum to line the vagina, and make a clitoris from the glans. I’ll have sensation and everything.” She glanced up at Jessica who sat wide-eyed and pale.

“Ouch,” Jessica said.

“I’ll be in the hospital for a week, and then I’ll probably stay another week for a follow-up support group.” Cory shrugged. “Then I’ll be—” Cory searched for the word, “done, I guess. I was going to say safe,” Cory admitted with a shudder.

“God, Cor, I’m so sorry about what happened to you.” Jessica picked up her mug, blew on it, set it back on the table. She opened her mouth, hesitated a moment, then closed it again.

“What?” Cory asked.

“I’m not sure how to say this, Cory, but—”

“Geez, don’t stop now,” Cory said.

“Women get raped. I mean, I know the circumstances were different here, but I just don’t want you to think that you’re going to be safe just because you no longer have a dick.” Jessica’s cheeks flushed.

There was a long silence. Outside the kitchen window, icicles dripped with a thip, thip onto a cement slab. The grandfather clock in the living room made a sound like an old man clearing his throat, bonged twice, then continued its subdued tick-tock.

“I’m only telling you this because I love you,” Jessica stumbled on, “and you don’t know everything about being a girl yet. Like it or not, you’ve been raised with a certain amount of male privilege—even as a gay guy.”

“First you try to poison me with this brew, then you scare the bejesus out of me. If this is love, I’d hate to be your enemy,” Cory said. The corners of her lips twitched slightly. “Thanks,” she said, smiling fully now. “No one else has had the courage to say that to me.”

Chapter 13

Cory shifted on the couch. The rain continued to pour in a steady stream. The earlier hailstones lay clumped about like mushy oatmeal outside Marg’s window.
“You seem restless,” Marg observed. “Are you getting nervous about the trip?”

“No, not nervous. I’m not feeling much of anything, actually. Can’t seem to make the plane reservations and rental car arrangements. I just feel sort of unmotivated.” Cory glanced behind her and out into the gray afternoon. “Maybe it’s the weather. I mean, I’ve been waiting for this my entire life, and it’s been the focus of my therapy for a solid year now.”

“Cory, this is such a huge step. It would make sense to have mixed feelings. It doesn’t mean you won’t go through with it, just that you need to proceed slowly—one step at a time, and all that,” Marg smiled.

Cory sighed. “I suppose I could at least check out the flights leaving from O’Hare toward the end of April.”

“Sounds good. You can tell me what you found out next week, okay?”

“Okay. And Marg—thanks. I mean, for everything. You just . . .” Cory wiped the tears that were running down her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Damned estrogen,” she muttered.

“You’re welcome,” Marg said as she tossed the box of tissues to Cory.

Chapter 14

Cory rolled her suitcase up to the United Airlines gate and found a seat in an unoccupied row of plastic chairs facing the plate glass window. Her attempt at isolation was broken when a young woman in purple spandex and a lime green parka dropped a bagged pair of snow skis and a backpack into the chair next to her with a clatter. Why me, Cory wondered, noting the row of empty chairs on either side of her.

“Hi,” the woman jabbed her hand in Cory’s direction. “I’m Sunny Tuesday. Going to Colorado to ski,” she chirped with enthusiasm. “You ski?” Her shaggy carrot orange hair clashed with everything in sight.

“Uh, no. Cory,” Cory offered her hand for a quick pump. “Are those going to fit under you seat?” she asked feebly, nodding at the skis.

“Nah, they’ll check them in the front cabin. That way I don’t have to mess with baggage claim. It’s a nightmare in Denver what with the tram and all.”

Cory gulped. Tram? No one said anything about a tram. A ribbon of sweat broke out along her hairline.

“If you don’t ski, why are you going to Colorado?” Sunny asked.

Cory blinked, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “To get my wiener schnitzeled,” she said, as seriously as she could. When a tide of giggles worked their way up from deep inside her, she excused herself, got up, grabbed her bag, and wheeled it out of the gate area. “Well, that went well,” she mumbled to herself between fits of giggles. Cory shook her head. What kind of name is Sunny Tuesday, anyway, she wondered as another spasm of giggles overtook her.

A woman shepherding two children under the age of five, threw her a look and placed a protective arm on each child’s shoulder.

Settle down, Cory, she admonished herself, or they’ll call Security. With two days before surgery, Cory saw no reason why she shouldn’t treat herself to a drink at one of the airport lounges to calm her nerves.

She lifted herself onto a stool at the bar and tugged her suitcase up close against her leg. The lounge was dimly lit and the pink and green neon around the mirror along the wall gave an eerie reflection to the odd assortment of travelers at the tiny tables behind her.

Not having much experience with mixed drinks, Cory pondered what to order that wouldn’t make her sound naïve. A gin rummy? No, that was a card game. Maybe a vodka and tonic. She’d heard of that at least. Cory glanced down the bar looking for the bartender. She turned back to find a clean-shaven, older man in a business suit had slid into the seat next to her.

“Buy you a drink, miss?” he asked, tilting his head and smiling pleasantly.

Cory spun around and flinched as the man’s face morphed into Kurt’s. She fumbled for the handle of her suitcase. Her heart pumped loudly in her ears and her mouth went Sahara dry. Unable to speak, she got off her stool and willed her wobbly legs to carry her out of the lounge.

Her face burned with heat and fear. Back into the flow of the crowd, under the glare of imitation light, she leaned heavily against the wall and counted her breaths—in, one-two-three-four, out, one-two-three-four—until the ringing in her ears was reduced to a faint hum.

This did not bode well for her life as a woman. Not well at all. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Marg called it. A frigging handicap, Cory called it. Label it, she heard Marg instruct. Trigger, Cory responded in her mind. It feels like it’s happening now, but it isn’t. This is now, and that was then, and I am safe right now. There are people all around if I need help, she reminded herself as her breathing regulated and the heat drained from her face and neck. How was she ever going to meet the man of her dreams, she wondered miserably, as she contemplated a life of celibacy.

“United Airlines Flight 132 to Denver, now boarding from Gate 23,” the nasal metallic voice intoned over the microphone attached to the check-in counter.

This was it, then. Cory took a long, ragged breath, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin in a show of bravery. Pulling her suitcase behind her, she stepped into the cross-hatched sea of humanity and wove her way back to the gate. With boarding pass in hand, she tried for the indulgent smile of a frequent traveler, and wondered, as she fell in line, how many other passengers would return from their travels with their lives inextricably changed.

Once on the plane, Cory folded herself into the cramped quarters of 16C and looked out the window at the ground crew slogging through the slush as they loaded the baggage into the belly of the plane. Feigning interest in this ritual made her feel less antisocial for avoiding the person struggling into 16B. A horrifying thought crossed her mind. What if her seatmate was the man from the lounge, and she was trapped for the next two and a half hours in her own personal hell? The plane was overbooked; there would be no seat changes available. Cory felt her temperature rise, her throat constrict. Reality check, she heard Marg say. Cory eased back in her seat and turned her head just far enough to scope out the person next to her.

“I’m sorry dear,” an elderly woman with a halo of white hair said. “I can’t seem to find the end of my seat belt. I believe you might be sitting on it.” She smiled warmly at Cory.

Tears of gratitude brimmed in Cory’s eyes. “Sorry,” she said as she lifted herself from her seat and extricated the runaway strap.

“Quite all right. My name’s Martha,” she held out her hand after strapping herself securely into her seat.

“Cory.” They shook hands. “Are you coming from, or going to home?” Cory asked for the sake of conversation.

“Oh, going home—finally,” Martha smiled. “I’ve been spending time with my son and grandson in Ann Arbor. Much as I love them, I’m pooped,” she chuckled good-naturedly. “What about you?”

Just then a bell toned, and the flight attendant drew their attention to the front of the cabin where she demonstrated everything they would need to know to have a safe flight. Saved by the bell, Cory smiled with relief, silently grappling with the question: What about me?

The take off was smooth, and Cory thumbed idly through the in-flight magazine hoping to ward off conversation.

Moments later, the flight attendant took Cory’s order for a Coke, and handed it to Martha, who passed it over.

“You were about to tell me where you are headed when we were interrupted,” Martha said, an attentive smile on her softly wrinkled face. Her eyes were the kind of blue that inspired trust.

What if I just told the truth, Cory wondered. Would I cause this sweet old lady to have a heart attack? Would she be shocked and spend the next two hours trapped in silent horror next to a pervert? I’ll never see her again—what’s the risk?

“I’m going to Trinidad for surgery,” Cory stated simply.

“Oh,” Martha put a hand to her chest. “Most people who come to Trinidad for surgery are there for sex reassignment. It’s well known in these parts.”

Uh oh, Cory thought, and felt her throat tighten. She couldn’t read Martha’s face and there was no inflection in her voice. “That would be me,” she managed.

Martha smiled warmly. “What a coincidence,” she said. “My son, Sanders, led one of the support groups there before he transferred to Michigan. The head surgeon, Doctor B., is the best. Great staff, good aftercare, too. Small world,” Martha mused. She reached over and patted Cory’s hand reassuringly. “What a brave young woman you are.”

The intimacy of sharing her life with a total stranger and finding acceptance and support there, was just too much for Cory. She melted back into her chair and tried to regulate her breathing, she mopped her brow with the damp napkin from under her Coke.

Noticing the saturated napkin, Martha fished in her purse and produced a travel pack of tissues, which she offered to Cory.

“It’s all going to be okay. Everything will work out just wonderfully, you’ll see,” Martha said.

“I so want to believe you,” Cory said, casting a sideways glance at Martha. “I haven’t really felt scared until just this minute.” She blotted at her upper lip and took another deep breath. “I miss my Nana,” Cory said. “She’s dead. I don’t know why I’m telling you that. You remind me of her, I guess. She always made my world safe.” Cory tried for a smile.

“You must miss her terribly about now. I’m pleased to be here for you,” Martha said. Her soft blue eyes were like a balm.

The rest of the flight passed quickly with Martha securing a promise from Cory to phone her after her surgery, just to let her know how it went. Had it not been for a stay-over with an old school chum in Denver, Martha said, she’d have insisted that Cory ride with her to her home in Pueblo, less than an hour from Trinidad.

When they deplaned in Denver, Martha herded Cory through the throng to the tram that took them to the baggage claim, and then pointed out the car rental kiosk.

“You’re going to come through this just fine,” Martha reiterated. Grateful for their new friendship, Cory hugged Martha fiercely.

A dapper looking older gentleman approached and stopped a respectful distance from the two. He stood smiling, watching their goodbyes.

“Martha, there’s a man looking at us. Do you know him?”

“Malcolm!” Martha called out joyfully, as she fairly danced into the man’s arms and received a kiss that was passionate enough to make Cory avert her eyes.

“Don’t tell me this is your school chum,” Cory teased, when Martha beckoned her over.

Martha, giggling girlishly, made the introductions. “Promise you’ll call,” she said as Malcolm hoisted her bag and took her elbow with his free hand. Then they were gone, leaving Cory in her aloneness.

A spring chill hovered around the Avis parking lot like a criminal in a dark alley. Cory broke into a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the weather. She slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the Chrysler’s door closed. The rental agent, Sam, according to his name tag, sat next to her and breezed through a tutorial on how to use the navigational system.

“Any questions?” he smiled.
“Is it too late to trade down to a compact, and can I get a handful of maps?” Cory said, befuddlement contorting her face. Being tracked and guided by a combination of satellite and computer creeped her out.

“Piece of cake,” Sam reassured as he slid out of the passenger’s side.

“Wait . . .” Cory panicked. “I don’t think I can do this, really. Could you just put the address in for me, please?”

“Well, I could,” Sam offered, his voice less amicable than before, “but how are you going to get back if you don’t learn how to program this thing?”

“Triple A?” Cory grinned and batted her eyelashes.

“Let me walk you through it one more time, and then it’s up to you. Okay?” It didn’t sound like a question.

With South Bonaventure Avenue, Trinidad, programmed in, Sam waved Cory out of the parking space. “It should take you around three hours. Drive safely. Don’t panic. If you miss a turn, you’ll be directed back onto the route. There’s no such thing as lost with GPS.”

Miss a turn? Cory’s stomach churned.

“You are now on I-70 West,” the voice from the console verified as Cory left Denver International Airport.

“So far, so good,” Cory said, checking her rear view mirror. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Her shoulders began to relax. The computer voice was soothing, cultured, the kind of voice that inspired confidence. Cory wished she could engage it in conversation to pass time. The very least she could do for her own amusement, would be to give her guide a name. Penelope.

“My fate is in your hands, Penelope. I’m counting on you,” Cory said. “Would you look at that,” Cory’s voice was awe-filled. Snow-capped mountains, each one slightly larger than the one before it, lined up like giant dominoes ahead. A sheen of haze, like perspiration on the skin of the sky, subdued the plum color of the mountain range. “Makes you feel sort of insignificant, doesn’t it?”

“In one mile, turn left onto I-25,” Penelope answered.

“Gotcha,” Cory said. She made the turn and the four mountain ranges shifted to her right. “Oh, my gosh, there’s another one,” Cory gaped at Pikes Peak in the distance. “This is so amazing. Isn’t this amazing, Penelope?”

“You are now heading south on I-25.” That would be Penelope’s last contribution for the next two hundred miles.

Cory passed towns with names like Castle Rock that sported an oval shaped outcropping of rocks jutting from the earth, and Colorado Springs, where a huge jet, posed between the highway and the Air Force Academy, stood sentry over travelers like a futuristic bird. Overhead, an airplane towed a glider across the bluest of blue skies.

“Breathtaking,” she whispered. Her head swiveled as she took in the sky and the mountains. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Penelope,” she chuckled. The blare of a horn on her left, called her swiftly back into her own lane.

Cory turned on the radio. A sappy country tune played on the local station as she passed the industrial town of Pueblo. No matter how fast I drive, it’s a long way to go for your love, she sang along with the chorus. She clicked the radio off.

“Miles and miles of more miles and miles,” she said. The slush-covered plains stretched endlessly to the east. Cory wiggled in her seat. She was getting butt fatigue, and her stomach was sending out hunger messages.

She realized she’d been in a perpetual squint for the last hour or so, and rubbed the corners of her eyes with her thumb and index finger. The mid-day sun was bright overhead, but brought no warmth. The mountains to the west cast narrow shadows as she approached Trinidad.

“Turn left onto Benedicta Avenue. Go one-tenth of a mile,” Penelope directed.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Cory swung into the heart of downtown Trinidad with its nouveau-chic-Western motif. Splashes of primary colored awnings shaded coffee shops, curios, and bookstores.

“What do you think, Penelope? Quaint, huh?” Cory smiled.

The cobblestone street sang its own tune under the tires of the Chrysler. Trolley tracks ran past the First National Bank. It was a tidy town with tree lined streets and old gas-light style lampposts.

“This would be a nice place to visit someday, Penelope. Maybe we’ll come back when—”

“Turn left onto St. Vincent Avenue,” Penelope interrupted.

“Sure thing,” Cory responded.

Penelope led her right up to the hospital. “You have arrived at your destination.”

“You have no idea how true that is, Penny, my friend,” Cory said as she turned off the ignition. The chatty bravado waned and Cory slumped weakly against the back of her seat. “What have I gotten myself into,” she said in a small voice.

Chapter 15

“Trust me Jess, I couldn’t have called any sooner. The pain meds have only just worn off,” Cory said, breathing shallowly against the wooziness.

“I’ve been going crazy here, Cor. So, are you okay, really? I mean, do you have an innie now?”

“Yup. Pretty convincing, too, the doc says. Or it will be, once the swelling goes down. I’m so sore, though, that a life of celibacy is sounding good,” Cory said.

“That will pass,” Jessica laughed wickedly. Then, more seriously, “God, Cory, I don’t know what to say. I mean, this is such a big, friggin’ deal, you know?”

“I know.”

“I suppose you’re going to take Martha up on her offer to stay over for a couple of weeks.” The words were tinted with an emotion that Cory read as jealousy.

“Nah, I want to get home to my best friend. I am going to stay an extra week for the support group.”

“Okay, but you’ve got to tell me everything they say so I can be a good support person once you’re home.”

“Jess—”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Great—just what I needed. A straight girl in love with me. Get home soon, okay?”

Cory hung up the phone. “That girl is an emotional brick,” she said, shaking her head.

On the third day, Nurse Ann popped her head through the doorway. “Everything okay in here?” she asked. Cory nodded, and then winced in pain as she attempted to turn onto her side.

“The doctor will be by to see you this afternoon. You up for a visitor?” she asked. “She says she’s your ‘Colorado family,’” Ann shrugged her shoulders.

“Blue eyes, white hair?” Cory asked, with a smile so big it made her cheeks ache. “Kind of grandmotherly?”

“That’s the one,” Ann said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll show her in,” she said and winked.

Cory’s eyes were glued to the doorway. She blinked as the entrance began to fill with pink balloons—twenty-four in all, dangling long green ribbons. The message on each balloon was, ‘It’s A Girl.’ A hand pushed its way through to clear a space where Martha’s face appeared with a beatific smile. She looked like the center of a gigantic rose.

Cory roared. She grabbed her stomach, as everything south of her belly button hurt like crazy. She laughed until tears soaked the neck of her hospital gown. “Ow, ow,” she groaned, rocking back and forth, and laughed some more.

“Oh, my. I seem to be causing you more pain,” the center of the rose spoke. Martha popped her head back out, pushed the bouquet of balloons through the door, and fumbled them into the room. She tied them to the back of a chair near the bed stand and bent to give Cory a warm hug.

“Martha,” Cory said, wiping her eyes, “I couldn’t be happier to see anyone. Thank you so much for coming. How was your visit with Malcom?”

“The sex was great,” Martha beamed. Cory blushed. “He sends his regards,” she added. “How’s our girl?”

“I don’t even know how to put it into words,” Cory said. “I feel—I don’t know—real, I guess. Also scared, vulnerable. I don’t quite know how to be in this body yet. Does that sound odd?”

“It sounds like the exactly right answer,” Martha squeezed Cory’s hand. “I know you’re anxious to get back home, but you’re welcome to spend some time with me before you leave.”

“Thanks, Martha. Could I maybe have a rain check on that?”

“Of course. Maybe you and Jessica will vacation out this way some day,” Martha said with a warm smile.

“I think she’d love that.”

“I’ve been instructed not to stay too long and wear you out. I’m afraid I’ve already crossed that line,” she said as Cory tried to hide a yawn behind her hand. Her limbs felt heavy, her mind fatigued. “You need your rest. Promise you’ll stay in touch.”

“You know I will. I’m so thankful I met you.” Cory reached up to embrace Martha. “And, thanks for the balloons. You sure know how to celebrate,” Cory grinned.

“Take care, dear,” Martha waved and blew a kiss, as she slipped through the doorway.

The pain seared, throbbed, played a game of cat and mouse throughout Cory’s body as she dropped into a fitful sleep.

At the end of the week, Cory checked out of the hospital. The swelling was down, and the pain was manageable. The skin grafts were ‘healing nicely,’ the doc said, though Cory couldn’t bring herself to look just yet. She had also recommended that Cory spend the next week before leaving Trinidad in the aftercare support group.

“Did you miss me?” Cory asked of Penelope, as she programmed in the address of a cross-town motel. Penelope’s green light blinked spasmodically on the console. Cory grinned. “Thought so,” she said. “You can’t imagine what I’ve been through.” Cory rolled her eyes.

There had been a dusting of snow overnight. The tire tracks on the tarmac reminded her of ski trails crisscrossing down a mountainside as she backed out of the parking lot.

“Do I look different? Do I really, really look like a girl?” she asked Penelope.

“Turn right at the next corner; proceed six blocks,” Penelope responded.

“Yeah,” Cory said, “I think so too. I think it’s a noticeable change.” She smiled at herself in the rear-view mirror.

Safely delivered to the motel, she unpacked then turned on the shower. “Oops,” she said, remembering it would be a while before she could immerse herself in water. Sink-bathed, and fed, she readied herself for the afternoon group, and headed back out the door.

Cory pulled into the hospital parking lot and sat with the motor running. The heat that poured out of the vents did little to warm her clammy hands.

“I’m scared, Penny,” she admitted. Gingerly, she slipped her hand between the legs of her cashmere slacks and gave a gentle pat. “Yup, still gone,” she reassured herself.

Winding her way down the corridor, Cory found the conference room and stood peering through the glass door, unable to take the next step.

“The worst is over,” a tall, forty-ish, stunning redhead said, laying her hand on Cory’s shoulder. “Step into the next part of the rest of your life,” she smiled, swung the door open, and gestured Cory into the room. “I’m Gwen, the facilitator for this meeting.” Her eyes were green like forest moss, and there was a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. There was an earthy scent to her, like a freshly turned garden.

“Cory,” Cory wiped her sweaty hand on the leg of her pants, and then offered it for a shake.

“Well, Cory, since you’re the first one to arrive, how about being my greeter?”

“Uh, okay. What do I do?” Cory shifted from one foot to the other.

“First you relax,” Gwen smiled. “Then as people come in, welcome them, introduce yourself, and point them to the nametag table. There’s coffee, tea, and water on the second table,” Gwen called over her shoulder before she disappeared from the room.

Cory breathed in, slowly and deeply, and released it with a long sssssssss, a relaxation technique Marg suggested she use.

“You too, huh?” a young man in jeans and a Bronco sweatshirt said, startling Cory. “I’ve been sitting in my car doing that for about five minutes. I don’t think it helped, I just feel lightheaded,” he grinned.

“Hi, I’m Cory,” Cory offered her hand. “Welcome.”

“Thanks. I’m Rob—used to be Roberta. I’m from South Carolina. Are you on staff here?” he asked.

“Oh, gosh, no. I just came early. Gwen put me to work—she’ll be back soon—I hope,” Cory looked back over her shoulder. Three more people stepped tentatively through the door. Cory felt the warmth of compassion spread through her heart, like a candle under a chafing dish.

“Hi, come on in,” she smiled. “I’m Cory—welcome; there’s tea, coffee, and water—oh, and grab a nametag too.” Well, this wasn’t so hard after all.

As she shook each person’s hand, Cory smiled in recognition of the journey they had all made here. Her heart felt tender and open with a sense of belonging. There was pixie-like Erin from Pennsylvania, early twenties; down to earth Arthur, wearing overalls and a flannel shirt, thirty-something, from a ranch in Wyoming; and Charlie, formerly Charlene, tall, late twenties, with a soft smile, sea-green eyes, and hair the color of late autumn wheat. Charlie was from the Midwest and looked wholesome enough to cast in a milk commercial. He nervously fingered the top snap of his flannel shirt, a gesture Cory thought oddly endearing.

Gwen returned balancing a tray of chocolate chip cookies, warm from the oven.

“Good job, Cory,” she beamed, noticing people milling around, talking to one another. “You’re a natural.” Cory blushed.

“Welcome, people. My name is Gwen. Let’s settle in and get to know each other, shall we?”

Two hours passed quickly, with more intimate, intense sharing than Cory had ever experienced in a group—let alone a group of complete strangers. They talked about their hopes and dreams, their new bodies, their fears, and the losses—all the losses.

“I lost my family when I made the decision to have the surgery,” Arthur shared. “They were more or less tolerant as long as they knew I was still biologically their daughter. Like maybe I was just playing dress-up. They just sort of lost it when I was determined to get myself in alignment,” he cleared his throat.

“I like that term, getting ourselves in alignment,” Gwen commented.

“I’m an art major at South Carolina U,” Rob drawled. “My momma and daddy are amateur photographers. We had more pictures of ‘little Roberta’ hangin’ on our walls than the Louvre has paintings, I swear.” He shook his head. “When I came out as trans in my teens, my folks burned all the pictures of me. Left a whole lot of blank walls.” His grin touched a knot of feeling in Cory. Well, piss on them, she thought.

“I grew up Amish,” Erin said. “I’ve been banned from the church. I still get occasional letters from my sister, Laura, but she’d be in big trouble if my parents or the church ever found out,” Erin sighed heavily. “It’s hard to lose your family, and your whole community.” She wiped a tear. Rob laid an arm gently around her shoulders.

“I used to shadow my dad around the farm, work on restoring the Vet together, plow the field,” Charlie shared. “I’d ride on the back of the tractor, holding on to his shoulders. Man, that was the greatest,” he smiled nostalgically. “I knew I was in the wrong body when I started my menstrual period. My mom shrieked with joy, called my aunt and my sister, and told them her girl had just become a woman,” Charlie grimaced at the memory. “Now there was a fate I’d hoped to avoid. Men don’t have periods,” he said softly. “There were no more tractor rides after that.”

There was an uncomfortable shifting about. “God,” Cory said, as her own story clawed its way up from the sludge to be told. “I was beaten, stabbed, and left for dead by a man who planned to rape me,” Cory told the group. There were murmured words of recognition and support as she unfolded her story, slowly, as if it were wrapped in layers of burlap. “Thing is,” she said, “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to trust a man, intimately.” She lowered her eyes. “Even now,” she added.

“Well, I feel wrung out and hung up to dry,” Charlie said after the group. “How about you?” He turned a milk-and-cookies smile on Cory.

“Yeah. I usually only share things like this with my best friend, Jessica,” Cory admitted as she gathered her belongings.

“She must be pretty special,” Charlie said as he helped Cory on with her coat. “Hey, could you use some dinner or something? I mean, I’m not ready to be alone just yet,” he confided.

“Uh, well—” A kaleidoscope of emotions shifted about in her, colorful fragments of fear, pleasure, and curiosity.

“Oh, hey, no pressure,” Charlie stepped back tentatively. “I mean, I just thought if you were going to eat anyway.”

Cory looked into his eyes and saw herself reflected there.

“You know, I was going to eat anyway, and I would like company,” she smiled.

They strolled the downtown streets as the sun was setting. “How about this rib house?” Charlie suggested.

“You can’t imagine how relieved I am to find out that you’re not a vegetarian,” Cory said.

“We carnivores have to stick together,” Charlie said, as he ushered her into the restaurant.

“Oh, my God, this is so not hospital food,” Cory grinned as she gnawed indelicately on a barbecued rib. Red goo oozed down her chin. Charlie dipped a corner of his paper bib in a glass of ice water, reached over, and swabbed Cory’s chin.

“Oh, man, that was such a gender slip,” he said, chagrined.

“I think it was sweet,” Cory smiled. “You can wipe my chin any time.” Oh, way to flirt, Cory groaned internally.

Charlie chuckled. “I think we could both use some dating practice. How about it? We have another week here.”

Cory’s eyes widened. It felt like an elephant had just tripped over her collarbone and landed on her chest. “Date?” she wheezed. “Was this a date?” her voice squawked. “I haven’t had such a stellar dating career,” she admitted, memories of a middle-aged gay man, a straight art student, and a serial killer lurked in her mind.

“Hence, the practice. I figured it would be safer to start ‘in house’ than out there in the real world.” His smile was as warm as the hand he laid gently on top of hers.

“Ew,” he lifted his hand quickly.

“Oh, come on; it can’t be that bad,” Cory said, alarmed.

“Barbecue sauce,” he said, reaching for his napkin.

Chapter 16

“I don’t know, Cor,” Jessica’s voice was like ice water on Cory’s enthusiasm.

“Wait—hear me out,” Cory sputtered.

“Cory, you just met this dude. Do I have to say the ‘K’ word?” Jessica said.

“Jess, he’s nothing like Kurt, I promise.” Cory paced the carpet in her motel room kicking up static, frustration sparking like a downed transmitter.

“If you tell me Penelope approves, I’m hanging up,” Jessica said.

“Penelope hasn’t even met him yet,” Cory said, smiling. She knew Jessica was rolling her eyes.

“What do you even know about this guy? He is a guy, right? I mean, now?”

“He’s a guy. He’s a sweet Iowa farm boy, studying Vet Science at the University. Real down to earth. You’d love him, Jess, I know you would,” Cory said.

“He sounds like one of the Waltons,” Jessica said. “Tell me he doesn’t have a double name, like Billy Bob.”

“Charlie. His name is Charlie. It used to be Charlene.”

“Of course it did,” Jessica sighed.

“We’ve been going out every night after group. Jess, I can talk to him for hours. There are no secrets between us. We really connect, you know?” There was a moment of silence. “Jess, you still there?”

“Cor, when are you coming home? You are coming home, right? I mean, classes start in a week.”

“Tuesday morning,” Cory interrupted the tirade she knew was coming. “Can you pick me up at the airport? Ten-thirty?”

“Gosh, it will interfere with my bikini waxing, but I think I can manage it,” Jessica said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Of course I’ll pick you up. Baggage claim, okay? Bye.”

“All sentiment,” Cory sighed at the dial tone humming in her ear.

* * *

“How did it go with Jessica?” Charlie leaned over and nuzzled a kiss just below Cory’s ear as she eased herself into the booth next to him. “Did you tell her I’m looking forward to meeting her?”

“Didn’t get quite that far,” Cory sighed. “Some things are better said in person. Did you order?”

“Oh, man, she hates me, doesn’t she?” Charlie moaned. The waitress set two glasses of house red in front of them..
“She doesn’t hate you; she doesn’t even know you.”

“She hates the idea of me then,” Charlie said.

“Well, yeah,” Cory conceded. “She’s been sort of my main go-to person for years. But when she meets you, she’ll soften. I know she will,” Cory tried to convince herself.

Vera, their waitress, set a large vegetarian pizza in front of them. “Can I get you kids anything else?” she asked.

“Got any advice on winning over my girl’s best friend?” Charlie asked.

“Honey, a good lookin’ boy like you—you’ll have to bat her off with a stick,” Vera smiled. She unloaded a handful of napkins on the table and vanished, leaving Charlie grinning like an idiot.

“Made my day,” he chuckled as he slid a slice of pizza onto his plate.

Sated on carbs and slightly tipsy from the wine, they walked the cobblestone streets of downtown Trinidad, hand in hand. Cory’s grip tightened. For a moment, it felt like she was clinging to life itself. The air was crisp and the stars shown in bas-relief against the black sky.

“Look at that,” she pointed to the beautiful serpentine temple in the distance.

“That’s the Ave Maria Chapel,” Charlie said. “And down that street, past the First National Bank, that’s where the trolley runs.”

“How do you know so much about Trinidad?” Cory asked.

“Internet search,” he said. “I’m going to write a story about this some day. Do you realize how unique what we’ve done is?”

“Sometimes I’m not sure it’s real. I still have to check, you know?” Cory’s blush was hidden by the darkness.

Charlie wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. They stood, gazing into each others eyes with an intensity that raised Cory’s temperature to red alert. “How will it end? The story, I mean?” she asked, as she slid her hand around the back of his neck and stroked his corn silk hair.

“That depends on you,” Charlie said, and kissed her softly on the lips.

* * *

The sky was the color of gray ash as Cory drew aside one corner of the curtain. The window looked out onto the bleak motel parking lot, nearly empty except for the two cars outside Cory’s room, a battered RV several spaces over, and a moldy looking pigeon scratching about in the cinders.

“What time is it?” Charlie asked around a yawn. He stretched, rolled over on his side, and pulled the covers over his head.

“Seven,” Cory smiled at the long, lean lump in the bed. She ducked her head under the covers. “Don’t go back to sleep. We have group in two hours.”

Charlie drew her close.

“I want so very much to make love with you, Cory,” he whispered, his palm circling her breast.

She buried her face in his neck, kissing the morning stubble and breathing in the scent of him. “We will,” she murmured. “We just have to give it time. No rush, we have a lifetime,” she said as she trailed kisses up to his lips. She felt safer than she’d felt in years.

“Promise?” he asked, holding her chin tenderly and gazing so deeply into her eyes, her soul caught fire. “I know we’re new, to ourselves and each other, but Cory, this just feels so right. I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his eyes glossy with tears.

“Not going to happen,” Cory smiled. “We talked about this last night. You’ll come up for graduation in June; I’ll fly down for Christmas. We’ll make it work. By September when you graduate, we’ll know what our next step is.” She stroked Charlie’s chest and trailed her finger gently along the surgical scars from his breast removal the year prior. “We can do this,” she said with determination.

“Our first hurdle will be telling the group,” Charlie sighed. He brought Cory’s hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. “We’re in big trouble already. You know we’re going to get Gwen’s ‘give it a year’ lecture; Erin will cry; Rob will mutter something unintelligible in that southern drawl . . .”

“. . . Arthur will groan, click his boot heels together, and pull his cowboy hat down over his eyes,” Cory laughed. They lay quietly for a moment, lost in their own imaginings. “I’m really going to miss everyone,” Cory said softly. “It’s like having a house full of the brothers and sisters I never had, and getting ready to leave home.”

“I need a stack of pancakes before I deal with the siblings. What do you say to breakfast?” Charlie tweaked her nose and kissed her forehead.

After breakfast at a diner with a western theme, Charlie paid the bill and Cory waved goodbye to the moose head hanging over their table. The morning was bitter cold as they drove back to the hospital.

The smell of fresh perked coffee filled the conference room. The chairs creaked as the group settled in for the last meeting. Suddenly, the floor had taken on a new fascination. Eye contact was fleeting, the energy in the room subdued.

“Okay, we may never see each other again,” Gwen began, “So this is the time to say all those things you’ll wish you would have said two months from now.”

Silence seemed to have taken its own chair and was busy dominating the group.

Erin finally interrupted. “I’m afraid to go home,” she said just above a whisper.

Rob mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “home is where the heart is.” Arthur shifted in his chair and pulled the brim of his hat over his brow.

“That’s a start,” Gwen encouraged. “Let’s talk about going home. What’s your biggest fear, Erin?”

“I’m afraid no one will love me,” she said, as tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Cory felt a fire rage somewhere deep inside. You’re not my life anymore, she remembered Catherine saying.

“Well, that just sucks,” Arthur said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, peering up from under his cowboy hat. “You’re a lovely, kind, generous little lady. You’re brave and honest. Anyone should be proud to be your friend, let alone your family, and downright thrilled to love you,” he said, uncharacteristically effusive.

“The people who meet you now, will love the real you, not the you who tried to be what everyone else wanted. That has to be worth something,” Cory offered. Erin wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and gave a weak smile.

“And you’re starting off with five people who love and support you, whether we see each other again or not. We’re always there in each other’s hearts, right?” Charlie added. Erin nodded. Cory reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I know it doesn’t make any more sense than a skunk wearing Patchouli oil,” Arthur said, “but I’m afraid if people find out I’m a post-op trans, I’ll lose my credibility as a cowboy—at least in my neck of the woods. That’s not all I could lose. Some of them rednecks can turn on you like a surly snake.”

“You even going to be able to ride a horse for a while?” Rob grimaced, folding his hands protectively over his groin. Good-natured laughter bubbled around the circle.

“You’re the real-thing cowboy, Arthur, that’s what people are going to know about you,” Cory said.

“Safety issues are real,” Gwen added. She glanced briefly at Cory, who slunk almost imperceptibly down in her chair. “You’re all going to have to exercise a great deal of discernment as to who you trust and why you disclose to someone.”

Charlie cleared his throat, shifted in his seat, took a deep breath, opened and then closed his mouth. He glanced at Cory who had that deer-in-headlight look on her face, but nodded anyway.

“Yes?” Gwen prompted.

“Okay—Cory and I are in love, we’re going to go back to our own homes, finish school, then probably get married, and move to the suburbs,” the words spilled out like stuffing from a pillow.

Charlie looked around the circle. Four mouths were shaped in big ‘O’s, like donut holes. Cory’s lips were pressed tightly together. It was so quiet you could have heard a dust mite sneeze.

“Well,” Gwen said, breaking the silence, “Cory, do you want to add anything to that?”

Cory, red-faced from her own embarrassment, said, “We didn’t really talk about the suburb part.”

“You dawg, you,” Rob punched Charlie playfully on the arm. Erin burst into tears, Arthur clicked this boot heels together and said, “Hot damn.”

“We know about the one-year rule,” Charlie turned toward Gwen, “and by the time we’re ready, it will be just about that.”

“It’s a wonderful thing, to fall in love,” Gwen smiled. “The idea of waiting a year is really more about giving yourselves time to get to know how you’re going to relate to other people, so that you don’t just latch on to the first safe person who accepts you, out of fear,” Gwen said, looking at Cory and Charlie in turn, then to the group in general.

“But we really do love each other, Gwen,” Cory chimed in. “We’ve talked about this, and it’s what we both want. I have no interest in even meeting other men,” she cast a look at Charlie, who grinned and blew her a kiss.

“I know you love each other,” Gwen smiled sadly. “Just remember, that rules are made for a reason, usually based on life experience. That said, I wish you well.”

The conversation shifted to pragmatics of life back home, reestablishing connections, work, and school. There were promises to keep in touch, tears, hugs, even talk of a reunion. They said their final goodbyes as Gwen herded them out of the room like a momma hen with her chicks.

Back in the motel room they had shared for the last two days, Cory folded a pair of slacks and zipped her suitcase closed. Charlie made a last sweep of the closet and drawers, cabinets and counters.

“Man, I always leave something behind,” he muttered, as he checked the bathroom.

“That would be me,” Cory said, forlorn as a wilted flower. As she sat on the end of the bed, a scene replayed itself from the further reaches of her mind—in another motel room, during a different winter, saying to Jessica, I don’t want to date one, I want to be one. How many lifetimes ago was that?

Charlie moved the suitcase to the floor and sat down beside her. “Wish I could go visit Martha with you, but my flight arrangements are pretty much set in stone,” he smiled, and draped an arm around her shoulder. “I’m glad you decided to do that before you leave.”

“Oh, you’ll meet her someday, I have no doubt about it,” Cory grinned, thinking about her spry friend. “And Jessica, too,” she added.

“You’re going to work on softening Jessica up some before June, right?” Charlie said, intimidated by their tight connection, and Jessica’s abrasive style.

“What was it Vera said? You’ll have to bat her off with a stick?” Cory laughed. There was an awkward moment of silence.

“I guess we can only put this off so long,” Charlie said, and pulled Cory into a tight embrace. Their tears mingled as they kissed, sweetly, deeply.

“Call me when you get home,” Charlie said, wiping his eyes. “Don’t walk me to the car, or I won’t be able to see to drive, okay?” He kissed her quickly, shrugged on his coat, grabbed his bags, and walked into the cold Colorado morning without looking back.

With the guttural cry of a wounded animal, Cory curled up on the bed and wept.

Chapter 17

Cory slipped her glove off and banged harder on the metal door frame. No answer. She blew warm air on her fist, rubbed it with her gloved hand, and was about to try again when she was interrupted by a thirty-something, gorgeous specimen of man making his way around the shrub that separated the two lawns. He was athletically built, had a shock of red hair, and moss-green eyes that grabbed hold of Cory’s and wouldn’t let go.

“Hi, are you Cory?” he proffered a solid man’s hand.

“Yes,” she hesitated.

“I’m Brian, Martha’s neighbor.” As they shook hands, a tingle worked its way up Cory’s arm. “She said to expect you, keep a look-out for you,” he said.

“Has she stepped out?” Cory asked.

“More like carried out,” Brian offered. “The medics came a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh my God, is she okay?” Cory panicked and tightened the grip on the hand she still held. Brian’s eyebrows shifted toward the center of his forehead as he dropped his glance to their hands, fused in the cold. Cory followed his eyes. A band of red crept up her neck like a dickey, and she dropped his hand.

“Yeah, I just talked to her. They thought it was her heart, but everything seems to be all right now,” he offered a lopsided grin that made his left cheek dimple. Cory knew the tip of her little finger would fit that indent perfectly. “She was worried about not being here to greet you,” he said.

“That’s so like Martha,” Cory said, smiling in relief. She was fascinated by the specks of brown that brought out the mossy color of his green eyes, and the way his upper lip reached two small peaks, like a mini-mountain ranges. She’d never touched red hair.

“Come on, I’ll take you,” Brian said, commandeering her elbow and leading her across the lawn.

“What? Where? ” Cory felt like she’d follow this man anywhere, but would prefer to know where he was headed first.

“The hospital. Martha’s ready to be picked up,” he chuckled. “Where did you think I was taking you?”

Cory shrugged, her cheeks flamed. She lowered her eyes, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed. Give yourself time to get to know how to relate to other people, Gwen’s voice echoed in her mind. I feel like a crushed-out teenager, Cory thought. What’s wrong with me? I just left the love of my life, and I’m drooling icicles over a total stranger.

Brian opened the passenger door of the rust-fringed blue Chevy and Cory slid in. Penrose Hospital was minutes away, across I-25. They turned onto Lake Avenue and parked in the lot next to the ER. Cory opened her door, and stepped into a patch of slush. Her foot slipped, and she made a three-point landing in the cold muck. Brain stood at the front of the car searching for his passenger.

“Help,” Cory called weakly. Brian rushed to the passenger side, reached out a hand, and hauled her to her feet.

“Lord love a duck,” he chuckled, “you’re everything Martha said you were.” With his gloved hand, he swiped at her coat and pant leg, sluicing off the dirty snowmelt.

Struggling to regain some dignity, Cory brushed the hair out of her face, and straightened her coat collar.

With a firm grip on her elbow, Brian led Cory across the drive and through the doors of the ER.

“Well, for goodness sakes, what happened to you?” Martha greeted her from a plastic chair where she sat swaddled in a blanket.

“That was supposed to be my line,” Cory grinned as she threw her arms around the older woman, and inhaled the maternal scent of her. “Are you okay?” she fussed with the blanket, tucking it in where she’d dislodged it with her hug.

“Oh, I’m fine—checked out and ready to go home. I just like to throw some excitement in to my days,” she grinned wickedly. “I see you’ve met Brian,” her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Quite a hunk, isn’t he?” she stage-whispered.

Cory swallowed hard, counted to five before answering. “I suppose, if you like that sort of thing,” she averted her eyes. Brian, legs stretched out, hands folded in his lap, occupied a chair across the aisle. Occupied it well, Cory thought. His arrogant expression suggested he was used to being admired.

Martha stood, folded her blanket, and laid it on the back of the chair. “Let’s go home. I can’t wait to hear about your adventure,” she said, slipping her arm through Cory’s. Brian stepped between them, taking each one by the elbow. “Trust me, this is a better idea,” he grinned.

* * *

Brian ushered the two women into Martha’s cozy, sun-warmed kitchen. It smelled like cinnamon rolls, and Cory inhaled deeply. Martha put the copper teakettle on the burner of the white enamel gas range. “Will you stay a while?” she addressed Brian.

“Thanks, Martha, but I’ll leave you two to catch up. Cory,” he held out a tentative hand, “it’s been real,” he grinned.
“Mutual,” she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re in Martha’s life.”

“Mutual,” he said with a wink, and backed out of the door.

“That young man is enough to bring back hot flashes,” Martha said, fanning herself. Cory laughed.

“So tell me all about Charlie,” Martha said, setting a plate of cinnamon rolls on the table and filling two mugs.

“Charlie—” Cory began. Oh yeah, Charlie, she thought, rerouting her thoughts. Her face reddened with embarrassment.

“Are you okay, dear?” Martha asked.

“It must be the hormones,” Cory said, tugging at the neck of her blouse. “I’m so confused, Martha, I was actually flirting with Brian. I mean, shame on me,” she said harshly.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear. I flirt with Brian from time to time. He just brings that out in a girl,” she smiled. “Come on, sit down, have some tea and a roll, and tell me all about it.”

Two hours later, Cory glanced at her watch. “Oh, Martha, I have to go soon,” she sighed. “Part of me wishes I could cancel my flight, cancel my life, and just move in here with you. You’re the best,” she said. Cory got up and gave Martha a bear hug. “I never exactly had a Mom,” Cory confided.

“I’m sorry to hear that, dear. Please, come visit any time,” Martha said.

“You’ll be getting two for one, you know,” Cory teased. “Jessica is the sister I never exactly had, either.”

“I’ll expect you, Jessica, and Charlie to come visit real soon. Wait until I tell Sanders. He’s way too used to being an only child,” she chuckled.

Martha helped Cory on with her coat and fussed with her collar. With a last ferocious hug, the two women parted. “Love you, Martha,” Cory called as she opened her car door.

“Love you too, dear,” Martha called out. “Drive carefully.”

Cory programmed Penelope for the Denver International Airport. “In one block, turn left onto I-25,” Penelope instructed.

“I’ve missed you, too. I’ll talk fast,” Cory said, clicking on her turn signal, “we don’t have much time.”

The sky was dark, deep, and clear, when Cory reached the outskirts of Denver. Stars blinked and glittered like her Grandma’s diamond necklace, and Cory smiled.

“I guess this is it, Penny,” Cory said as she pulled into the rental lot. “I’ll never forget you. We’ll always have Trinidad. Here’s lookin’ at you, car,” she said, in her best Bogart impersonation.

Chapter 18

“Delayed,” Cory groaned and rolled her eyes. “Delayed how long?” she asked the agent behind the counter.

The woman’s forehead was creased with impatience and fatigue. “Snow in Chicago has everything backed up,” she said, for probably the hundredth time that evening. “Check the overhead. We’ll let you know as soon as there’s word,” she gave a smile that held no joy.

Cory selected one of the phones clustered in a maze of metal partitions and dialed Jessica’s number. The answering machine clicked on, and a surly voice stated, “Talk to me.”

“Jess, I’m stuck in Denver. Snow in Chicago. Don’t know for how long. I’m so sorry,” Cory sighed. “I hope you check your messages when you wake up. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything more.” She hung up with a sense of dread, knowing how Jessica hated last minute changes. “It’s out of my hands,” she explained to the phone as she eased it back into the cradle.

Cory collapsed in a cold, plastic chair, exhausted. The cinnamon roll had worn off hours ago. Motivated by hunger and boredom, she meandered back down the concourse in search of a restaurant, and found them all closed. Airport food, especially at night, didn’t really appeal to her, but neither did a low blood sugar attack that would make her woozy and unable to pull off even the simplest of transactions.

The green light over the lounge bar cast a cadaver-like sheen as Cory stepped up to the counter. There were no other patrons. She battled a wave of déjà vu and looked back over her shoulder as she hoisted herself up on a stool. The little round tables behind her sat empty and forlorn.

“Evening,” the bartender said, placing a small white napkin in front of her. “My name’s John. What’ll you have?” he smiled.

“Food. I need food, John,” Cory leaned her elbows on the bar. “Do you serve food here?”

John placed a short bistro menu in front of her. “Bless you,” she said, and scanned the menu hungrily. Cory ordered a pastrami sandwich and a glass of red wine, and John went off to work his magic in the tiny kitchenette.

Cory spun her stool around and watched the few weary travelers pass by. A fatigued looking young woman pushed a fussy toddler in a stroller and dragged an oversized suitcase on wheels behind her. She shot Cory a look. Cory sent her an encouraging smile. An older man in a blue uniform swabbed a large dust mop that looked like a giant dead moth back and forth.

“Here you go,” John placed the sandwich and wine on the counter. “Bon appetite,” he said with a wry smile.

Cory sank her teeth into the spicy meat with a grateful sigh.

“Excuse me, miss,” a man said from behind her.

With a mouth full of sandwich, Cory froze. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t cry out. Trapped. John had vanished. Eyes wide, she looked at the image behind her in the mirror that lined the bar. Business type, mid-thirties. Her shoulders tightened, and she felt like any moment she might choke.

“I think I left my book here a while ago—a paperback. Right where you’re sitting. Did you happen to see it?” he asked, catching her eye in the mirror.

Cory shook her head no.

“Okay, sorry to bother you,” the young man said. He turned and left the bar.

Cory spit the mouthful of soggy bread and masticated meat out onto her plate, and wiped the sweat from her brow with her napkin. She took a gulp of wine, then another. A few deep breaths later, her shoulders relaxed. How long will it take, she wondered, as she stared at the unhinged woman reflected in the mirror. On wobbly legs, she left the bar and her sandwich behind.

Cory paced the gate area. She pressed her face against the plate glass and stared into the dark nothingness. A young man, head pillowed on his backpack, stretched out along the baseboard of the window. His snoring was circular, nonstop, frenetic. It made her want to kick him. She rubbed her eyes and settled into a chair.

A middle-aged woman wrapped in a royal blue blanket thumbed through a magazine, cheater glasses resting mid-bridge on her nose. Now and then, a bronchial cough rattled the air around her. She shifted in her plastic chair, blew her nose, and went back to her magazine.

Cory dozed fitfully. Forty-five minutes later, she woke with a crick in her neck just as a bedraggled, but uniformed woman stepped behind the check-in counter, and spoke into the microphone.

“Flight 329 from Chicago will be landing in a moment. We’ll begin boarding as soon as the incoming plane has been prepped. That should be about twenty minutes,” she stifled a yawn. “We thank you for your patience.”

Cory offered up a silent prayer as she dragged herself back over to the wall of phones. After the beep, she said, “Jess, 7:30, baggage claim, Frontier, Flight 748,” she paused, “God, I can’t wait to see you,” she finished with a catch in her throat.

Northward bound on a moonless night, Cory reclined her seat as far as it would go, and tucked the blue micro-fiber blanket under her chin. Gravity and fatigue tugged at her eyelids.

A gentle hand on her shoulder shook her awake. “Miss, we’ll be landing in ten minutes. Please bring your seat upright,” the flight attendant smiled warmly. Cory blinked, disoriented. She’d been dreaming of the group, but instead of Gwen, Martha had been leading the discussion. Except Martha was really Nana. Reality fought its way through the dream fog as she realized she was about to embark on her new life, with her real self finally brought forward. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Excitement and fear battled for position.

Cory scanned the crowd as she made her way to the baggage claim. Hoping that Jessica woke in time to get the message, she reached for her bag and yanked it off the carousel with a solid clunk. She pulled the retracted handle out and turned to exit the throng of travelers.

“Yikes!” she said as she stood nose to nose with Jessica, crowned in green dreadlocks, wearing overalls and a pumpkin-orange turtleneck sweater under her fatigue jacket.

“God, Cor, you look awful…” Jessica grinned, “…tired, I mean—awful tired,” she amended.

Cory grabbed her, and hugged her hard. “I’ve missed you so much,” she chuckled softly into the mass of hair twisting away from Jessica’s face.

“Cut it out,” Jessica wriggled out of her grasp. “People are going to think you’re queer.”

“Martha sends her love,” Cory said as she rolled her suitcase behind her. “She wants all three of us to come visit soon. Jess, you’ll love her…”

“All three of us?” Jessica interrupted. She turned around and looked at Cory. “Is there something you forgot to tell me? Like what’s-his-face is hiding around the corner, waiting to join us? He’ll have to walk; there’s not enough room in my car for another person and their luggage,” she said, her words running together.

“Whoa, my jolly green friend,” Cory said. “No one is going to jump out at us around the corner. Charlie is back in Iowa. Martha just wants to meet the two people I love most in this world, okay? Someday. Not this week, not this month.”

Jessica hitched her chin, squared her shoulders and walked on, appeased for the moment.

“You know you’re going to have to meet Charlie at some point, right?” Cory slipped her arm through Jessica’s and flashed her a convincing you’re-my-best-friend smile.

“Not this week; not this month,” Jessica grumbled as she led Cory through the parking lot.

Chapter 19

“So—can I see?” Jessica bounced her eyebrows.

“Geez, Jess, no,” Cory flushed. “Is nothing sacred?”

“Hey, I’m just curious. No biggie. Well, at least not any more,” Jessica chuckled. She sat crossed legged on the futon and slurped her tea.

“You have no idea how good it is to be home,” Cory said, looking around her colorful studio. Batiks hung from the ceiling; stained glass caught morning sun through the window; overstuffed multi-colored pillows flumped against the walls and scattered rugs from Mexico lent bright splashes of color to the dark wood floor. On her way to the kitchen, she cranked the wall heater up another notch and it pumped out warm, dry air. It wasn’t cinnamon-cozy like Martha’s, but it was all right.

Cory poured steaming water from the bright yellow enamel kettle into her mug and dunked a ginger teabag. She placed four brownies on a cobalt blue plate and put them on the wooden crate-turned-table in front of Jessica.

“What, are we on a diet?” Jessica grumbled.

“There are more in the kitchen. Help yourself,” Cory said as she nestled three pillows together near the heater.

“So now what?” Jessica asked as she devoured a brownie.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s next in your life? You’ll be finishing your AA this summer. You going to fly to Iowa, join Charlie and the other Waltons, and plant corn or something?”

“I thought I’d see if Alise will hire me on at the gallery downtown. I thought you and I would hang out after work and on the weekends, like usual. That’s what I thought. You have a problem with that?” Cory lobbed a pillow at Jessica.

Jessica’s grin was flecked with brownie crumbs. “Think you could talk Alise into showing one of my metal sculptures?” Jessica swiped at her chin with her napkin, and then took a swig of tea.

“First, I have to get the job,” Cory said, then amended, “No, first, I have to call Marg and make an appointment.”

“You’ve been back a week and haven’t called her? What’s that about?” Jessica eyed Cory. “Used to be we couldn’t have a conversation that didn’t somehow involve Marg says this, or Marg says that.”

“Yeah, odd isn’t it. I’m just not feeling as dependent on her as I was back then.”

“Back then, before you were…” Jessica struggled. “I mean…” she glanced down at Cory’s crotch, “you know.”

“Let’s just say pre-op for that period of time, okay?” Cory picked up another brownie. “Anyway, I’m thinking I might be done with therapy for a while.”

“I hope you’re not thinking I can guide you through any snags you might come up against with what’s-his-name,” Jessica mock-shuddered.

“His name is Charlie, and no, I’m not thinking I’d turn to you for advice about our relationship. Sheesh,” Cory shook her head. “I do owe it to Marg to have a final meeting though.”

Chapter 20

Cory took her traditional seat on the couch in front of the large window. The lace curtains were drawn back to reveal the bare branches of winter and the pale shimmer of afternoon sun. The room seemed smaller to her.

“Did you move the furniture around or something?” Cory asked.

“Oh my,” Marg smiled, “we’ve come to that point in our journey,” she said cryptically. “I’ve experienced this before with clients who do a huge piece of work, go away for a while, and return. It’s as if you’ve outgrown the container,” she explained. “Sort of like coming back to a childhood home after growing up—it often seems smaller.” She settled into her overstuffed brocade chair.

“When I went back to my real childhood home, it seemed huge, cavernous in fact,” Cory remembered. “I guess in some ways, this has been more a home for me to grow up in.”

“As in most homes where we grow up, there comes a point at which we leave—we launch ourselves into the world. I sense that time has come for you, am I right?” Marg’s gentle, implicit permission made the next step feel like a graduation for Cory.

“I have been thinking of stopping for now. Do you think that’s premature? I mean, I know I have all these changes coming up,” Cory faltered.

“Hopefully, you’ll always have changes coming up in your life, Cory. That’s how we grow. You know I’ll always be here for you, right? Anytime you need,” Marg assured her.

Cory felt her throat tightened with emotion. She blinked back tears. They sat for a moment in silence, honoring the relationship that had become important to both of them.

“Can I tell you about this wild adventure I’ve been on?” Cory grinned finally.

“I’d like nothing better,” Marg said.

They spent the remainder of the fifty minutes in conversation about the surgery, the group and all its colorful members, Charlie—especially Charlie—Penelope, Martha, and Brian. What Cory chose not to talk about was her fear, that prickling feeling of dread in her stomach, like the clench before diarrhea every time she thought about having sex. Instead, they did a kaleidoscope review of their work together over the last two years, and parted with a hug and a promise that Cory would call anytime she needed.

Cory stepped out into the afternoon chill. If she had been Mary Tyler Moore, and, if she had been in Minneapolis, and if she had been wearing a beret, she would have tossed it into the air in celebration of her new self.

Chapter 21

“Buy you a beer, darlin’?” the stocky redhead asked, sidling up next to Cory. His face was puffy and his eyes bleary. He ran a grimy nailed, pudgy finger down Cory’s arm in a too-familiar way that made Cory want to recoil. But she didn’t.

“Sure,” she said instead.

Something cowboy played on the jukebox and a fog of cigarette smoke hovered over the bar. Couples leaned into each other on the dance floor, hands wandered over bodies, sloppy kisses slid over faces. You could smell sex in the stifling heat of the summer’s night. She downed half her beer. Her stomach clenched. It has to be someone unimportant, insignificant, she reminded herself.

“Vern,” he introduced himself, his boozy breath creating a palpable fog between them. Cory wrinkled her nose and stifled a cough. He was old enough to be her father. Cory felt a sneer forming on her face and worked her muscles to turn it into a smile.

“Carol Payne,” she said, nodding. “Pleased to meet you.” She cast a glance at her half-empty glass.

“Two shots,” Vern called to the barkeeper and moved the beer glasses aside.

She rewarded him with a grin. “Now here’s a man knows what a woman likes,” she forced herself to say. She knocked back the shot.

“So, what’s a sweet girl like you doin’ all alone in a dive like this?” he slurred.

Fair question, she thought. How do you tell a man that you’re looking for a cheap quickie to try out the new equipment so you’re not going into a long-term relationship a total virgin? And, God forbid, what if it doesn’t work?

“Looking for company, like everyone else, I guess,” Cory said, offering a closed-lipped smile that hid clenched teeth.

“In that case,” Vern said, leaning his bulk suggestively against Cory, “let’s blow this joint. I’ve got something back in my room that we can light up and have us a party.” He laughed and nodded vaguely toward the door.

Vern slapped some bills on the bar, slid off his stool, stumbled onto his feet and wavered there a moment. “Par-ty, par-ty,” he chanted, and then belched loudly.

The streetlight filtered in through the broken slats covering the one dirty window of Vern’s shabby studio over the hardware store. The stench wrapped itself around Cory’s neck and threatened to squeeze. Without turning on a light, Vern grabbed Cory’s hand and dragged her onto the bed made lumpy by an assortment of crap that Vern threw randomly on the floor.

“Got anything to drink?” she asked. What she needed was anesthesia mainlined into her veins, but whiskey would do.

“Got beer,” he said, “and some dynamite weed. Be right back.” He fumbled in the refrigerator, then the cabinet drawer and returned with two beers and a joint as fat as a slug. He handed Cory the bottles while he groped for a book of matches from his pocket and lit the joint. Vern inhaled deeply, coughed around the edges, and passed the joint to Cory.

Cory took a deep swig of beer, then imitated Vern and inhaled the pungent smoke. She held it in until she thought her lungs would burst and exhaled it in a coughing fit worse than the time she swallowed her gum.

“You got some capacity,” Vern said with admiration.

Cory took another hit, smaller this time, followed by a long swig of beer and set her bottle down on the nightstand, toppling an overfilled ashtray onto the floor.

“Come here, you sexy thing,” Vern said, grabbing a handful of her shirt.

Cory tried to focus her eyes on a crack in the ceiling and held her breath against the stench of Vern’s mouth. Vomit in the back of her throat threatened to choke her. She shoved Vern away from her and sat up, panting, her arms crossed tightly in front of her.

“I can’t. I just can’t do this,” she said.

Chapter 22

The tops of the gallery’s double Dutch doors were open to the sidewalk, and the flush of spring that had turned the grass green and filled in leaves on the trees, diffused the air with the scent of early wildflowers. Sunshine poured through the plate-glass and warmed the Italian tile floor where Cory stood. She wiggled her toes in her sandals as she considered the best placement for the new painting that she held in her hands. She turned slowly, eyeing the possibilities.

“Can you handle things while I slip out for coffee?” Alise asked, hand on the doorknob. Cory nodded. “Bring you anything? A mocha, maybe?” Cory nodded again. The Tibetan bells on the door jingled as Alise pulled it closed behind her.

Cory leaned the painting against a freestanding wall, stepped back and did a visual critique. It had to be perfectly placed. It was, after all, Josh’s first show—Josh of ‘paint fear using only blue’ fame. She smiled at the memory.

Absorbed in thought, she didn’t hear the door open behind her, and turned only when a shadow cast itself on the wall she was considering.

“Good morning. May I—” Cory was interrupted by a delivery man wheeling in a poorly taped rectangular box.

“Delivery for Cory Broadhurst,” he said as he removed the dolly from under the box. He handed Cory a clipboard with an attached receipt to sign. There was no return address.

“Who would send their art wrapped no better than this?” Cory said, cringing at the sight of the dilapidated box, addressed in a child-like scrawl of magic marker, frayed tape loosely holding the ends together. She pulled a box cutter out of her back pocket and sliced the flimsy tape, ripping at the cardboard, which gave way easily, to reveal the contents.

“Oh, my God—Charlie!” she screamed and threw herself into his opened arms. “What are you doing here? This is insane,” she said, looking at the remnants of box and tape at their feet. “You weren’t due until June,” she babbled, kissing the corners of his goofy grin.

He hugged her tightly and spun her around in a circle. “Couldn’t wait,” he said. He held her at arms length and appraised her. “I swear, you are still the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’m crazy in love with you. Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” he said.

“I can’t take one more surprise today,” Cory said, but obediently closed her eyes. She felt a disc in the palm of her hand and opened her eyes to a single diamond set in gold.

“Marry me,” Charlie said simply.

The blood slowly drained from her head and she felt a swoon coming on, which was interrupted by the jingle of Tibetan bells as the door swung abruptly open and then closed with a bang.

“Bad timing?” Jessica’s sardonic voice broke the spell. She took in the scene—a man grinning like an idiot, standing amidst torn cardboard, holding Cory’s hand in which rested a ring. “Charlie, right? You’re early,” she said.

“This could have been possibly the most romantic moment of my entire life,” Cory sighed.

Charlie smiled awkwardly and offered Jessica his now free hand.

Jessica stood, one hip cocked, glanced at the ring then at Charlie. “Might this be premature?” Her voice sounded schoolmarm-ish.

Cory’s foot tapped out a little rhythm of impatience. “Allow me to introduce you two—Charlie, Jessica. Jessica, Charlie. Now is when you shake hands like adults,” she set her jaw.

“Aw, crap,” Jessica muttered and stuck out her hand. “Sorry; you just caught me off guard,” she said.
“I seem to be doing that a lot today,” Charlie grinned and clasped her hand warmly. “You wouldn’t believe how scared I’ve been to actually meet you,” he said.

“Good; let’s keep it that way for a while,” Jessica replied. Her tough-girl act was belied by the quirks at the corners of her mouth.

The bells jingled again as Alise returned. “Ah, you made it,” she gave Charlie a hug. “I’m Alise. We finally meet,” she smiled.

“I called ahead to see if you could get the day off,” Charlie answered in response to Cory’s look of confusion.

“You knew about this,” she turned to Alise, “and you didn’t tell me?” Cory’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

“I have the day off too,” Jessica chimed in. Cory shot her a look. “Of course, I have about a month’s worth of laundry to do,” she backpedaled.

“I would be honored to take both of you lovely ladies to lunch, before we drop Jessica off to do her laundry, that is,” Charlie grinned.

“Cool,” Jessica said, wedging her way in between them and linking arms with both Charlie and Cory. “Let’s go.”

Charlie held the door open at By The Sea, and pulled out chairs for Cory and Jessica when the waitress led them to a table by the window. Jessica shot him a look as if he’d just sprouted a head of purple hair.

“So, what are your plans?” Jessica asked pointedly as she took a bite of spicy crab cake followed by a forkful of coleslaw.

“You have the appetite of a truck driver,” Charlie said with admiration. “That’s your second order.”

“Strong metabolism,” Jess said, gulping her Sam Adams.

“Plus, she works out and does Tae Kwon Do,” Cory added. “Don’t let her dainty presentation and genteel manner fool you, she could take you down in a minute,” she chuckled.

“Back to you, Chuck. What are your intentions here, if you don’t mind my asking,” Jessica said.

“Chuck?” Charlie said, amused. “No one has ever called me that.”

“Up until now,” Jessica burped and patted her chest. “Your intentions?”

“Well, I graduate in June, and I’ve been looking at the Vet school up here as a possibility,” Charlie smiled across the table at Cory. “I’d have to work for a year to establish residency—probably at the animal hospital. I thought maybe Cory and I would live together to make sure we’re compatible before we hitch our wagons, so to speak.”

“You haven’t even ‘hitched your wagons’ yet?” Jessica sounded incredulous. “Interesting visual,” she added as she speared a thick cottage fry doused in catsup. “Most people ‘hitch their wagons’ before they even think about compatibility or marriage for God sake. Unless you’re still sore from the surgery, or…”

“Jess,” Cory interrupted, “‘hitch your wagons’ means get married.”

“Oh,” Jessica took another swing of beer. “Talk amongst yourselves,” she waved at them, sliding out of the booth, “I’ve gotta pee.”

Charlie shook his head. “Is she for real?”

“She grows on you,” Cory smiled. “I’ve been scanning the rental ads since we talked last week. You’re serious about this?” She reached over and took Charlie’s hand.

“I’m serious about this,” he said. “Should we be looking for something with a granny unit?” he jerked his head toward the ladies room.

“Oh, horrors, no,” Cory chuckled. “She’ll settle down, really.”

Chapter 23

“This place is just as I’d imagined it,” Charlie said, patting an overstuffed, magenta pillow next to him on the futon. “Your apartment is an extension of the beautiful work of art that you are.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, yawning as she laid her head on his shoulder. “I wish you could stay longer.”

Charlie wrapped his arm around her and drew her close, kissed her forehead, her eyes, her nose, and worked his way down to her mouth. He stopped suddenly, glanced at the door, and said, “Locked?” Cory nodded. “I keep thinking she’s going to pop in any minute, or come crashing through the window or something.”

“She really does have a month’s worth of laundry to do,” Cory said as she parted her lips to allow the tip of Charlie’s tongue to dart playfully into her mouth. Cory felt the world begin to tilt on its axis, and a pleasant, melty sensation spread through her loins.

“Funny,” Charlie said, “Jess thought ‘hitching your wagons’ meant, well, you know, sex,” he said under his breath. Color rose in his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Cory smoothed a hand over his hair, touched his cheek, and kissed his chin. “I mean, I guess she has a point about compatibility,” she said. “We couldn’t really have sex before we left Colorado.”

Charlie shifted so his he was leaning into Cory, his weight on his elbows. He looked into her eyes and saw his own reflection swim in their depth. “Um, do you think we—I mean, we couldn’t then, but maybe now we should . . .”

Cory’s stomach shook with suppressed laughter. “‘Hitch our wagons’?” she grinned. “Wow, this will be a first,” she squirmed. “Are you healed enough?”

Charlie paused a moment, a look Cory couldn’t read passed quickly over his face and was gone. “I think so. How about you?” He propped himself on one elbow and was exploring the curves of Cory’s body with his free hand, playing with buttons, un-tucking fabric, jiggling her zipper.

Cory felt a wave of nausea and shoved a memory back into the dark corner of her mind. “Uh-huh,” she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I think so. I guess there’s only one way to find out,” she said as she pulled him to her. “Let’s go slow, okay?” she whispered in his ear.

Two hours later, Charlie flopped over on his back. “Not bad for the first time out of the gate,” he grinned wickedly as they lay sprawled, spent, on the futon.

“Not bad?” Cory punched him playfully. “I think that was a blue ribbon run. We should celebrate,” she suggested.

“I thought we just did. I need to at least catch my breath,” he teased.

“I mean our engagement. You know—champagne and caviar or something. Just the two of us,” she added when Charlie glanced over at the phone sitting on an overturned orange crate.

“You have some place special in mind?” Charlie asked.

“Chez Moi,” Cory responded. “I have an eclectic selection of foodstuffs left over from various potlucks. I’ll put the champagne in the freezer. You run a bubble bath.”

Over a candlelit bath in the old claw-foot tub, they spoke of love and their future. “This is real, isn’t it?” Charlie smiled slowly. “It’s what I’ve been waiting a lifetime for,” he said.

“This is as real as it gets,” Cory said. “I didn’t know if I’d ever have this experience once I started on my journey, you know?”

“I do know. I really, really do know,” he said, as he lifted her foot out of the bubbles and placed a gentle kiss on a water-wrinkled toe.

Down the hall, the kitchen phone rang. “Whoever that is can wait,” Cory said sinking back into the warm water and the look in Charlie’s eyes, as the machine picked up.

An hour later, Charlie pulled the champagne out the freezer and found glasses in the cupboard. Cory, wrapped in a plush white bathrobe, winked at him from across the room as she pushed the Play button on the answering machine. ‘Pop!’ went the cork.

“Cory, this is Gwen, from Trinidad’s After Care Program.” There was a pause. Cory smiled expectantly. “I know this is going to hard to hear, but Erin’s parents called me yesterday. Cory, Erin killed herself. I don’t have all the details yet.”

Charlie dropped the glass he was holding. It shattered on the tile.

“The parents asked that I let the group members know,” Gwen continued in a monotone, “but they don’t want to be contacted. They said this is a very private time for them, and asked that you all respect that.”

Cory’s legs no longer supported her and she reached for the chair. Missing that, she landed on the floor. Unable to take in any more, Cory didn’t hear the end of Gwen’s message, only the beep signaling the end of the call.

Charlie sat beside her, propped against the cabinet, in silence, his clammy hand holding Cory’s tightly. Shards of glass glittered from the floor near the sink as minutes passed with a muted ‘thick, thick, thick,’ of the clock in the living room.

Cory opened her mouth to speak. Her jaw trembled, and she closed it again. They sat, under the 60-watt bulb, for what seemed an eternity. Cory glanced up at the champagne bottle on the kitchen counter. “I can’t…” she said, struggling with the words. “I know,” Charlie replied. He struggled to his feet, held out a shaky hand and helped Cory up. He led her down the hall to the bedroom. There would be time for words tomorrow.

The next day, Sunday, started with a low cloud level, the gloom outside matching the gloom inside as Cory made a series of calls to group members.

“It’s Rob,” she handed the phone to Charlie. Charlie sighed and with a husky voice said, “Hey my man, how’s life in the south? We’ve missed you—yeah,” he said in response, “I wish it could have been under different circumstances too.” They talked back and forth for a while, Charlie nodding thoughtfully. He was silent for a few moments, and then said, “We’re good—aside from this, I mean. I popped the question, she said yes. Okay, I will,” he said and glanced at Cory. “You too.”

His eyes were moist as he hung up the phone, pulled Cory to him and kissed her gently on the lips. “From Rob,” Charlie said, smiling weakly. “He said to tell you life is for the living, and he loves us.”

Chapter 24

The weekend storm had cleared, and sun shone brightly through the living room window. The scent of fresh mown grass wafted in through the screen door. Cory had taken the day off, deciding to follow the ‘life is for the living’ theme, and was moving about the kitchen clattering dishes onto the counter. Charlie sat, legs folded yoga style on the futon, and slowly turned the pages of the album he’d brought from home. “I look like a dork,” he groaned.

“Everyone looks like a dork in a cap and gown. It’s like enforced geekdom,” Cory chuckled and handed him a glass of orange juice. “Don’t want you going hypoglycemic on me,” she said. “I wish your Mom could have been there.”

“Yeah, well…” Charlie ran a thumb over the picture of his Dad, next to him, with an arm draped over Charlie’s shoulder, grinning like the proud parent he was. “She could have been. At least Dad was there,” Charlie said, with a break in his voice. He took a sip of juice and set the glass down.

“I’m incredibly proud of you.” Cory leaned over the back of the futon and placed a big sloppy kiss on his cheek. Charlie grinned in spite of himself. “Do you think they’ll come visit after we’ve settled into the new house?” she asked.

“Don’t know. What time are Jess and her new girlfriend coming?” he said.

“Ten. Be kind, okay? Britta is sort of…” Cory searched for the right word.

“Odd?” Charlie supplied, catching Cory’s hand and bringing her around to sit next to him.

“Intense, I think would be fair. Look, she’s the first girl Jess has dated in years.” Cory got up, went into the kitchen nook, and pulled out the coffee grinder and beans. She measured out eight cups worth of beans and pushed the button on the grinder.

“Guess she finally got it that you’re not available,” Charlie said under the metallic whir.

“What?” Cory said, pausing, “Couldn’t hear you.”

“Nothing,” Charlie said, closing the album. “I’ll set the croissants out. You want me to make Mimosas?”

“Let’s wait until they get here. You could start the bacon,” Cory said just as the doorbell rang. “Scratch that,” she amended. “Go for the Mimosas. I’ll get the door.”

Jessica opened the front door as Cory left the kitchen, and led a wispy, pale-faced young woman by the hand into the hallway.

“Jess, good morning,” Cory gave her a hug. “Britta, welcome,” she offered her hand.

Britta was sheathed in black; the lower half of her head shaved, and from the crown sprouted a tuft of strawberry blonde hair. Her eyes were dilated, and rimmed in ebony. Her cheeks were concave, her lips were thickly layered in white, and she slowly lifted an anorexic hand that Cory was hesitant to shake for fear of wounding her.

Cory clasped the fragile hand gently. It felt like a spider web.

Jessica rubbed her hands together briskly. “Smells great in here,” she said. “Where’s the little man?”

“In the little kitchen, making those great smells,” Cory bantered back. “Come on in. Honey, the girls are here,” she called to Charlie.

“What’s this, a throwback to the old days?” Jessica whooped when Charlie stepped out of the kitchen wearing a white lace apron and sporting a spatula.

“Bacon grease,” he punched Jessica playfully on the arm. “Hi there,” he addressed Britta, “I’m Charlie. Hope you brought your appetite.”

As if through a haze, Britta struggled to focus her eyes on Charlie’s smiling face. Failing that, she dropped her attention to the floor and waited for further instructions from Jessica who obliged and guided her into the kitchen.

Charlie glanced at Cory who shrugged her shoulders and mouthed ‘be kind.’

Charlie poured the Mimosas while Cory finished the bacon and scrambled the eggs. “Jess,” she directed, “could you get the cinnamon rolls out of the oven for me?” They moved like a well-oiled machine, each navigating around the other efficiently in the tiny kitchen. Britta was propped at an angle, against the doorframe, like a branch that had been snapped from a tree.

Once plates had been filled, they assembled on the living room floor, propping themselves with pillows and creating makeshift tables out of whatever surfaces were available.

“So, Britta,” Charlie turned to her, “tell me how you and Jess met.” His smile ricocheted off her blank face.

“We met in Philosophy 200,” Jessica said. “Britta is an Existentialistic Nihilist,” she beamed.

“Great,” Charlie managed. “Cor, breakfast is great,” he reached over and patted Cory’s knee. “Great,” he repeated, and fixed her with a ‘get me out of here’ look.

“What do you hear from the realtor? Wish somebody had left me an inheritance. Can I have your place when you move?” Jessica asked through a mouth full of cinnamon roll.

“They’re considering our offer,” Charlie said. “We should know by the end of the week.” Cory added, “I can recommend you to the landlord. It’s not like we’re interchangeable.”

Jessica chortled. “I should say not. Can you imagine me living with Chuck?”

“Now there’s a truly scary thought,” Charlie said playfully.

Britta hiccupped and the three turned in surprise having forgotten she was present. She blotted her white lips with her napkin, and then returned to moving her food around on her plate with a fork.

“Could I get you something—different?” Cory asked, concerned that perhaps Britta was a vegan or a vegetarian and Jess had overlooked that detail.

“She doesn’t eat much,” Jessica said. “So yeah, put in a good word for me with the landlord. I can’t believe you’re willing to move to the burbs,” she rolled her eyes. “You’ve really changed, Cor.”

“Duh,” Cory said, and the three of them broke into laughter.

* * *

“That was awkward,” Charlie said later as he dried the dishes. “I don’t think Britta said a word the whole time. Strange girl. What is Jess thinking?”

“I think she’s afraid I’m leaving her,” Cory frowned, “so she’s responding in her Jess-sort-of way—you know, extreme.”

“She’s replacing you with a zombie? Real flattering,” Charlie grinned. Cory grabbed the towel from his hands, and snapped him on the backside with it.

“Last time I abandoned her, she dropped me like a hot potato. I had to grovel for forgiveness, and ply her with lots of food.” She leaned her head on Charlie’s back and breathed in his scent. “I’m not abandoning her, I’m moving across town for God’s sake. And I’m not selling out. I just want to live in a nice house.” She sounded petulant even to herself.

Charlie turned and planted a kiss on her nose. “It used to be you and Jess against the world, you know. Things change,” he pulled her close.

Cory laid her cheek against his shoulder. Suddenly serious, she said, “Sometimes I wonder if we deserve to be this happy.”

Chapter 25

“Please, tell me you’re kidding,” Cory said into the phone the following morning. With her free hand, she stirred a pot of oatmeal on the stove. The smell of French Roast filled the kitchen and the toast popped just as Charlie came into the room. He pantomimed taking it out of the toaster and Cory shook her head.

“I know Belize is beautiful, and you can live there for practically nothing,” Cory said. She thrummed her fingers on the side of the stove as she listened.

“I don’t care that she lived there half a year after she dropped out of high school,” she rolled her eyes at Charlie, “Jess, you can’t just up and move to Belize with Britta. That’s nuts.” She flailed about for a good argument. “Besides, I was counting on you to be my brides—uh.”

Charlie leaned back in his chair and snickered.

“Forget Britta,” Cory snapped. “Jess, I need you as my bridesperson. I don’t know how I could get through this without you by my side.”

She turned the heat off under the cereal and glanced at Charlie, who sat with hands folded, and stared out the kitchen window. Her heart clenched with love for this man.

“Jess, you have it all wrong. This isn’t like before.” Cory clattered the lid on the pot and slumped against the counter. “We need to talk. Get your butt over here for breakfast—right now,” she said, and slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

She turned to Charlie, “Pull out the waffle iron,” she said, “this is war.”

Twenty minutes later, the three sat around the small table in a pool of sunlight. Jessica, eyes downcast, sniffed runaway mucus. Her face was splotchy and her once punked-out hair had lost its oomph.

“You look like someone just hung your cat,” Charlie said as he passed her the box of tissue. As she reached for the box, Charlie noticed a dried smear of blood from one of three deep scratches across her wrist. He looked away.

After a loud honk into a handful of tissues, Jessica took a ragged breath. “I haven’t forgotten what happened the last time you got all involved with a guy,” she said, still staring at the table.

Cory scooted her chair closer and took Jessica’s hand. “I was younger and stupid, okay? That was a terrible way to treat a friend. Jess, this is a different time in our lives. Our lives,” she gestured, taking in all three of them.

“We want a family,” Charlie said, “and our kids are going to need an auntie to keep us from ruining their lives.”

Jessica jerked her head up with a quizzical look. “How can—I mean, you can’t—uh—can you?” She blinked and swiped at a tear.

“Adoption,” Cory said. “That’s not the point. Jess, you are part of my life, and by extension, part of Charlie’s as well.”

“You’re stuck with me kid,” Charlie bobbed his head, trying to elicit a smile. “Jess, we’re just moving across town.” Charlie lifted her chin so she had to look him in the eye. “We’ll see you as often as we do now. Well, not exactly…”

“What Charlie is trying to say is, nothing is going to change between us,” Cory said. “I love you. You’re my chosen sister, you know that.” She pulled Jessica into a clumsy hug. Charlie joined the hug.

“Now, will you please break up with Britta?” Charlie chucked her on the chin.

They were interrupted by the jangling of the phone. “I’ll get it,” Charlie said, disengaging himself. “Hello?” There was a brief pause. “Sure, hang on,” he covered the mouthpiece and said, “It’s someone named Brian for you.”

Cory jumped up and ran over to the phone. “Brian,” she squealed. “Are you in town? Great to hear from you…” she stopped mid-sentence. Her face went ashen and her eyes pooled. Charlie pulled a chair up behind her and motioned her into it. “No. Thank you. I wish it had been under different circumstances too,” she said, the phrase an echo of only days ago. “I’m so sorry. Yes, she certainly was.”

Cory finished the conversation and fumbled the phone back into its cradle. She stared out the window. In barely a whisper she said, “Martha’s dead.” Jessica moved behind her and stroked her head as Charlie wrapped his arms around her. “Aw, honey,” he crooned.

“I had hopes, you know,” she said over Charlie’s shoulder, “that Martha could be sort of like the mother I never had.”

“She was the mother you never had—for a little while,” Jessica offered. Cory nodded. Charlie winked appreciation at Jessica. They stood together, a little splotch of sadness on an otherwise sunny day.

“So, are we going to have waffles, or what?” Jessica asked.

Chapter 26

“I guess it’s a moot point,” Jessica answered her unasked question as she wrapped newspaper around a pottery goblet and fit it gingerly into the packing box.

“What’s that?” Cory looked back over her shoulder from the top of the stepladder. To Charlie she said, “Here, hon,” and handed him a platter from the cabinet shelf.

“Whether or not we were going to meet Martha before the wedding,” Jessica said. “I mean, it’s sad. She was going to be your matron of honor.” She folded and tucked the flaps of the box.

Cory sat down on top of the counter for a moment and shook the kinks out of her arms.

“Who’s giving you away?” Jessica asked.

“No one is giving me away. I don’t belong to anyone,” Cory said with a look that dared anyone to disagree.
“I’m not wearing a funny dress,” Jessica declared.

The rest of the day was spent hoisting boxes, driving back and forth across town, working together as a team. That night over pizza, Jessica said, “Honey Dew Lane. Could you get any more burb-ian?” She took a swig of her Sam Adams. “I saw your neighbor peek from behind her curtain. Wonder what she’s thinking.”

“She’s probably thinking a nice couple with a peculiar friend is moving in next door,” Cory shot her a look. Charlie chuckled and threw another log in the fireplace. The room smelled homey and lived-in already. He stretched out on the tan carpet, plumped a pillow under his head and sighed with satisfaction.

“Are you going to tell them? Your neighbors?” Jessica wiped pizza sauce from her chin with her sleeve.

“It’s not like it’s a secret,” Charlie answered, “but I don’t know that it’s really any of their business.”

“If someone asked directly, I’d give them an honest answer. I think,” Cory added.

“Sure. Like someone’s going to say out of the blue, ‘Hey, did you used to be a guy?’” Jessica chuckled.

“One hurdle at a time,” Charlie said, as they cleared the pizza box and beer bottles from the living room floor. “Are you coming back over to help unpack tomorrow?”

“Sounds like I’m not staying the night,” Jessica said with a grin. “I’ll be here for breakfast,” she called over her shoulder on her way down the hall and out of the front door.

The next morning, Cory stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her teeth while Charlie finished in the shower. At the front of the house, the doorbell rang.

“Good God, it’s eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Jess isn’t due until nine,” Cory grumbled as she rinsed, spit, and slipped on her robe. She peeked through the security hole before opening the door, and groaned.

On the other side of the door was a middle-aged woman with a saccharine smile plastered on her face. She wore a jogging suit, and her honey blonde hair was tightly bound on top of her head, exposing her brown roots. She rang the doorbell again and Cory jumped.

“Good morning,” the woman chirped as Cory opened the door. She shoved a loaf of something covered in a cloth napkin forward as she sized up Cory. “I’m Mrs. Geraldine Fortney . . .” her voice raised at the end, as if she questioned that fact. “My hubby, Sam, and I are your neighbors across the street,” she pointed with a brick red nail, in case Cory had missed the behemoth structure taking up more than its share of the block. “We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” she rattled on, “and to say how glad we are to see a nice young couple move in.” She took a breath.

“Thank you, Geraldine. How nice of you,” Cory was about to introduce herself.

“You just never know who’s going to move into a neighborhood these days,” Geraldine launched out in a new direction. “Just last month a homosexual couple looked at the place.”

Cory could feel her eyes begin to squint and she fought the urge to back up and slam the door in the woman’s face.

“I told Sam we’d have to go to church twice a week and pray real hard for an acceptable buyer for this house, and look—here you are,” she spread her hands in glee, her smile stretched even farther.

“What? Oh, okay honey,” Cory called back over her shoulder. “I’m sorry Geraldine, my husband is calling. Thank you for the lovely loaf of, uh . . . We’ll talk again,” Cory backed up and began to ease the door closed.

“That’s perfectly okay, honey. You just go take care of that man of yours,” Geraldine waved bye-bye as the door clicked shut.

“Holy shit,” Cory muttered as Charlie came down the hall, towel clad and smelling of soap and new beginnings.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie stopped and tugged his towel closer. “I guess I should have put a robe on?” his expression was quizzical.

“Oh, no, love, not you. The neighbor—a real whacko,” Cory said shaking her head.

“At least she brought food,” he said, taking the loaf from Cory and peeking under the napkin. “Mmm, banana bread—still warm, too,” he smiled appreciatively.

“If she’d known who we were, I’d be checking it for arsenic,” Cory said. “Charlie, our across-the-street neighbors are raving bigots. I’m not so sure I feel all that safe at the moment.” She leaned heavily against the wall.

A sound at the door made both of them jump. “Don’t answer it,” Cory whispered. They stood, staring wide-eyed, as the doorknob turned. Jessica shoved the door open and stepped into the hallway.

“Geez,” Cory hissed with exasperation, “since when don’t you knock?”

“Well, excuuuuuse me,” Jessica said. “You two look like you were expecting a burglar or something.” She dropped her backpack on the floor and headed for the kitchen.

“Worse,” Cory said. “A bigot.” Cory recounted the experience with the neighbor over banana bread, eggs, and coffee.

Jessica raised her eyebrows. “She said what?” She choked on the bite of bread she was chewing. “I ought to ride my Harley back and forth across her well-manicured lawn…”

“You don’t have a Harley,” Charlie interrupted.

“I ought to get one then,” Jessica said. “Or maybe I’ll sneak over late at night and rip out that azalea bush by the front door.”

Cory paled. Butter smeared down the tablecloth as the knife slipped from her hand and fell onto the floor. “Azalea bush?” she said in a whisper.

“Oh, shit,” Jessica muttered. She jumped up, ran around the table and threw her arms around Cory, whose body was shaking. “Cor, let it go. That was a long time ago,” she said in a soothing voice, resting her head against Cory’s. “You’re safe now,” she added.

“No, no I’m not safe now. There’s a crazy woman across the street that could hurt me,” her voice wobbled. “Charlie, I can’t live here,” her eyes flashed desperation.

“Whoa, babe, slow down,” Charlie took her hand and looked into her eyes. “Take a breath. We’ve got you covered. You’re safe right this very moment. Jess and I won’t let anything happen to you,” he crooned. Cory’s hand was cold and Charlie rubbed it briskly to restore the blood flow.

“PTSD,” Jessica said, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” she explained at Charlie’s look of confusion. To Cory she said, “I think you’d better call Marg.”

Chapter 27

“I feel like a failure,” Cory said, her voice thick with emotion as she stared at the carpet. She pulled a pillow from the end of the couch and held it close to her stomach.

“Cory,” Marg’s voice was gentle, yet firm, “look at me please,” she urged. “Thank you. You got triggered. You realize that, right?” Marg maintained her soft gaze. “The azalea reminded you of the harm Kurt did.”

“But, this woman really is dangerous,” Cory defended.

“Her mindset is dangerous,” Marg agreed, “but there’s no reason to believe that she will cause you physical harm, no reason to believe you have to leave your home.”

Cory remained unconvinced. “She doesn’t know me. If she knew who I was, I’d be in danger. You should have heard her.”

“Take a breath, slow down,” Marg urged. “What she believes is that you’re a happily married young woman who has purchased her first home. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but, I don’t know that my goal in life is to ‘pass’,” Cory said. “I want to be able to be myself without worrying about my personal safety.”

“Do you remember a long time ago,” Marg settled back in her chair, “we spoke of all the ‘firsts’ you’d be facing in your new life? And that you couldn’t hide from life to avoid them? That you’d have to learn from them what you could?”

Cory nodded.

“What you choose to disclose about yourself, after getting to know someone, is entirely a separate matter. Right now, what she knows about you is true and accurate, is it not?” Cory nodded again.

“I’m not suggesting this woman will ever be someone you’ll call a friend, but here’s an opportunity to get to know her over time, and perhaps by doing so, expand her world view a little.” Cory’s shoulders relaxed and her jaw unclenched. “Possible, don’t you think?”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference with Kurt,” Cory said.

“No, it wouldn’t have made a difference with him,” Marg acknowledged. “Try to separate the two events in your mind. I’m not talking full disclosure,” Marg said, leaning forward. “As you get to know her over time, you might take a small, safe risk and see how that goes.”

Cory looked doubtful. “Maybe. I guess I can at least see that she’s not the same as Kurt,” she conceded.

“Cory, you’re a wonderful woman, and anyone would be all the richer for knowing you,” Marg said.

* * *

“How did it go with Marg?” Charlie asked that evening. He handed her a glass of Merlot, sat down next to her on the sofa, and threw an arm around her shoulder. Cory snuggled in close, took a sip of her wine, and released a long sigh. She stretched her legs out and rested her feet on the ottoman.

“I guess we don’t have to put a For Sale sign on the lawn just yet,” she smiled. “Maybe they’re not all like her,” Cory said.

“Maybe…” Charlie said with a wicked grin, “we could put a For Sale sign on her lawn.”

“This is truly scary,” Cory teased. “You’re starting to sound like Jess.”

Chapter 28

Outside, colorful lights lined houses and wrapped trees. They twinkled and cast their hues onto the snowy crust covering Honey Dew Lane. Bright chips of stars glittered overhead against the black night. Inflated plastic Santas, snowmen with derby hats, reindeer, and all manner of holiday bric-a-brac covered the lawns. Icicles, real and electrical, dripped soundlessly from the eaves.

Inside, Cory steadied the chair as Charlie leaned precariously to top the tree with their first ornament purchased as a couple.

“John and Peggy, Mrs. Alexander from down the street, and, I don’t know—maybe five or six more people,” Cory counted the neighbors expected for the annual holiday party at Geraldine and Sam Fortney’s house—or, The Fort, as Sam liked to call it.

“How long do you suppose Jess will pout over not being invited?” Charlie asked. He climbed down, stood back and admired his work.

“I don’t know why she’s pouting at all—she hates the Fortneys,” Cory said.

“Good food, open bar—my guess,” Charlie leaned his head to the side. “It’s crooked, isn’t it,” he said, looking at the tree topper, an antique angel with spun glass hair and feathered wings. “Why didn’t you tell me while I was up there?”

“I like it crooked,” Cory smiled and wrapped an arm around his waist. “It’s like the angel’s smiling down on us, blessing our first Christmas together.” They kissed, celebrating the moment.
Charlie broke away with a quick pat on Cory’s behind. “Get your coat,” he grinned. “We might as well get this over with.”

“I’m thinking it might not be so bad,” Cory said. “We have some pretty interesting neighbors,” she pointed out. “Did you know Mrs. Alexander’s parents were Holocaust survivors? She just finished a book about her life. And Mary Drew used to be a daytime soap star. How cool is that?”

Charlie chuckled as he helped her on with her coat. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed the top of her head. “And Marg would be proud of you, too.”

Across the street, they were greeted with Bing Crosby crooning ‘White Christmas’ through speakers hung from an evergreen. The sound of laughter and raucous conversation drifted out of the door as the Fortneys welcomed their neighbors.

Cory kept one arm linked through Charlie’s as they wandered among the guests, smiling and exchanging small talk. A fireplace crackled warmth and good cheer in the background.

“Damned Democrats think they can get that gun legislation through—over my dead body,” Sam was trumpeting to a captive audience. “Sweetheart, it’s Christmastime,” Geraldine said as she led Sam away, releasing the grateful quartet he’d cornered. “And, look, Cory and Charlie are here…” she embraced each in turn, and Sam slapped Charlie on the back.

The food was divine, and the champagne flowed freely. Sam gathered the throng around the fireplace, “A toast to the holidays, to good neighbors, and a prosperous year ahead,” he said, raising his glass. Cory and Charlie clinked glasses and exchanged a kiss.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Geraldine said, smiling at the pair. The tone around them had dropped to quiet conversation with neighbors sitting and standing in small, intimate groups. Sam stood next to his wife and threw a hearty arm around her shoulder.

“So, tell us, Charlie,” he said with a champagne slur, and a nod toward Cory, “how you and the little woman here met.”

Cory’s teeth clenched and she stepped closer to the fire, warming her hands behind her. “Yes, dear,” she smiled, unhinging her jaw, “tell the people how we met.” She looked around and saw a crowd of eyes focused on them. A film of sweat broke out on her upper lip.

“Well, you see . . .” Charlie slid his arm around Cory and pulled her gently to him, “we met in a support group following our gender reassignment surgeries.” He paused and noted the polite smiles and attentive nods. He cleared his throat and continued, “Cory having been a man originally, and I having been a woman, that is.” He brushed a quick kiss across Cory’s cheek and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “It was a match made in heaven—well,” he corrected, “actually in Colorado, at the hospital.”

The cemented smiles began to crack as the story seeped into each guest’s information processing center. There was a palpable sense of collective breath held.

“Hah!” chortled Sam. He whopped his leg with an open palm. “That’s a good one. You really had us going there for a minute, Charlie.” The spell broken, the guests laughed heartily, milled about, refilled their drinks, and chatted noisily.

Cory’s feet tingled with sensation after experiencing a few moments of the numbness that comes with being out of body. “I can’t believe you said that,” she whispered.

“I figured it was just easier to tell the truth,” Charlie winked at her. “Merry Christmas.”

Life on a Seesaw

2011-03-26T10:38:00.000-07:00

Stranded at the end of a seesaw, feet dangling above the sand, five-year-old Jason scowled. “Come on, Quil, let me down,” he said. Their eyes were locked in a battle for power. Jason risked a quick glance over his shoulder. “Mom, Quil won’t push up,” he called in the big guns to settle the humiliation.

The playground was a buzzing hive of children in perpendicular and vertical motion. Inside the drone of squeals, shouts, and laughter, Jacqueline Temple, age seven, legs stretched in front of her, locked in defiance and control, squinted against the sun. She wasn’t being mean, it was just important for her to be able to stop the ups and downs somewhere in her life.

* * *

The sun angled through the bedroom window and warmed a patch on the bed where her feet lay. She smelled summer as the perfume of lilac and the sharp green scent of the neighbor’s cut lawn drifted through the screened window. She stretched her thin body and untwisted the sheet to create a smooth garden of pink rosebuds that spread from chin to toe. Her white-blond hair splayed across her pillow like dandelion fluff. The freckles that were sprinkled across her nose and cheeks rearranged themselves as she smiled. This was her favorite moment of the day; her bed was a safe cocoon. In the summer, it was harder to tell what kind of a day it was going to be.

In the winter, there were clues before she even left her room. On an up day, her feet would feel the warmth of the wooden floor of her upstairs bedroom. Momma would be up, heater on, making pancakes, bacon, and eggs in the kitchen. From the bathroom, Quil would hear the upbeat bantering of the morning news show on the television downstairs. The living room would be ablaze with all the lamps on against the dark of winter mornings as she descended the stairs. A certain kind of energy, like a vapor of expectancy, would emanate from the kitchen and quickly fill the remaining spaces.

On a down day, the floorboards would be cold. Silence, or more accurately, the absence of sound, of life energy, would make her shiver as she crept down the stairs only to see the door to Momma’s bedroom closed against the world. The stench of overflowing ashtrays would permeate the living room from a nighttime of chain-smoking. She would be left to fix herself a breakfast of cold cereal, if there was any, and milk, unless it had gone sour.

In the summer, she couldn’t tell until her feet were almost at the bottom of the stairs.

This morning, the windows and doors were thrown wide open, and vases overflowing with bright-colored flowers were randomly scattered throughout the living room as she padded down the stairs. “Uh oh,” she said to herself, “this is going to be one of those flip-flop days.” Momma was humming a tune in the kitchen, and the smell of cinnamon rolls wrapped itself around Quil like the hug of a best friend.

“Hey, sunshine,” Momma greeted her. “What do you say we go to Disneyland today?” Jacqui Temple, thirty-seven going on fifteen, hair in a pixie cut and the same light blue, saucer-round eyes as Quil, wore capris and a sleeveless white top. She was barefoot; she liked the uninterrupted feel of the earth beneath her feet, she would tell strangers. Jacqui grinned impishly at her daughter as she separated the circle of cinnamon rolls with a knife. A pitcher of milk sat on the table surrounded by vases of iris, roses, daffodils, and bunches of lilac. Breakfast in the garden, Jacqui called it.

“Disneyland? Isn’t that, like, really far away?” Quil asked, less as a question than a reality check.

“Mars is far away,” Jacqui said. “We’d go there, if I could figure out how to get us on a rocket.” She continued her tuneless hum as she placed two plates of rolls on the table, poured the milk, and retrieved a bowl of fruit from the refrigerator. She scooped Quil up, spun her around and plunked her back down with a big kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t be a downer,” she instructed. “I know . . .” Jacqui said with a gleeful clap of her hands, “let’s call some of your friends to go with us.” She looked expectantly at her daughter.

“Oh, Momma, let’s just spend the day together. We never get to do that,” Quil said without hesitation. Silently, she recalled the day they took Julie with them to the park. Julie had not been allowed to play with her after that.

“Well, okay, precious, whatever makes you happy.” Jacqui poured the milk. “We could stop in Santa Cruz on the way—catch the Boardwalk? Ride the roller coaster? Oh, and let’s take the coastal highway. I love the blue water this time of year,” she chattered on, her voice full of excitement. Finishing ahead of Quil, she called over her shoulder, “Hurry up. We’ve got places to go, things to do.”

Quil sighed and took her unfinished breakfast to the sink.

The traffic was sluggish on southbound 101, and people seemed testy—horns honked, drivers made unfriendly gestures. Quil noticed her teeth were clamped, and worked her jaw to release the tension. K-JAZ blared from the rear speakers of their Toyota and spewed from the open windows, blasting everyone in a three-car range around them.

In the driver’s seat, Jacqui blew big bubbles from her strawberry gum and seemed to derive no end of pleasure from popping them with the tip of her fingernail. “Did you see that one,” she turned to Quil, her eyes wide. The cloying fruit smell of the gum made Quil nauseous. She turned her nose to the window and inhaled.

“Mom—you’re weaving out of our lane,” Quil warned, noting the close proximity of a car on her right. Her head ached. She’d rather be home buried in one of the books on her Summer Fun Reading List from the library. Flip-flop days made her stomach hurt.

“Such a little worry wart,” Jacqui chided. “You’ll be gray before you’re ten. Oh, look—we’re on empty,” Jacqui peered at the gas gauge. “We’ll get off at the next exit. I could use a cup of coffee anyway,” she said as she slid across traffic. Brakes squeaked, horns honked. Jacqui smiled into her rear-view mirror, stuck her hand out the window and waved a fleeting apology. Quil took a raggedy breath, and with white knuckles, clung to the armrest.

Jacqui pulled into the Chevron and paralleled next to the pump. She swiped her card, pushed the Regular button and inserted the hose. While the gas was pumping, she said, “I’m going into the mini-mart to pick up some snacks. Hungry?”

Quil sat with one hand holding her stomach. “Not really—probably later though.”

“Good morning,” she said with enthusiasm to the clerk at the counter. “Great day to be out traveling. Do you get off before sunset? Sure hope so. Kind of day you don’t want to miss,” she chattered on. “Oh, I’ll take a couple of these too,” she said, adding two packs of gum to the pile of chips, cookies, sunflower seeds, sodas, M&Ms, a package of cashews, and some beef jerky. She dropped a twenty and a ten-dollar bill on the counter and said, “Keep the change. Have a lovely day.”

“Here ya go, sunshine,” she handed the bag through the window to Quil, and walked around to extricate the hose from her gas tank. “You know, I’ll bet I can get just a little more in the tank,” she chirped. “They always short-change you,” she said loudly to no one in particular. She squeezed the nozzle tentatively, and then gave it a quick blast. Gas back-splashed from the tank, drenched her hand, shorts, and ran down her leg. “Shit! Shit!“ she screamed. She dropped the nozzle on the ground and wiped frantically at her shorts and leg. “Damn!” she yelled, stomping her foot.

“Mom . . .” Quil jumped out of the car, grabbed a handful of paper towels and started to blot at the gasoline. “Damn it, Quil. Leave me alone,” she sputtered and slapped Quil’s hand away. Jacqui was crying now, and pacing back and forth. “This would never have happened if you hadn’t been whining about stopping for food.”

Quil looked at the ground. A man in an SUV behind them stepped out of his car. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he offered.

Jacqui glared at him. “Get a vasectomy,” she shouted. He got back in his car and slammed the door. “Well, now the day is ruined, thanks to you,” she turned on Quil. “I hope you’re happy. Get in the car.” She slammed her door and revved the engine as Quil slid into her seat and fastened the seat-belt. “Why do I even bother,” she shouted. With a squeal of tires, they shot out of the gas station and onto 101 North.

Quil regulated her breathing and looked straight ahead. She pretended she was sitting on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, surrounded only by the sky and sea. In the distance, a seagull called and a raven soared high above the waves. The sound of the surf soothed out the wrinkles of her mind as she turned her face toward the sun.

Jacqui flew past Petaluma at 80 mph cursing drivers as she swung the Toyota in and out of traffic. Stuck for a moment in the middle lane, she blared her horn until the white haired woman in front of her pulled to the right.

Quil stayed in her oceanic safe place until Jacqui swung the car into their driveway, jerked to a halt, and ripped the keys from the ignition. Wordlessly, she slammed the car door, and then the front door of the house, apparently oblivious to the fact that Quil was still sitting in the car.

Quil sat quietly for a moment. She glanced through her open window at Mr. McLaughlin next door, mowing his front lawn. His wife, Gladys, sat on their front porch sipping from a tall plastic cup, which she raised in greeting. The sun made the car a cozy haven, and the drone of the lawn mower pulled her towards sleep. Perhaps it would be okay to lean her seat back, just for a few minutes. No. She knew what she had to do.

She paused at the front door, with her hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, and released it with a quiet ‘whoosh,’ before stepping inside.

There was a trail of debris all the way to her mother’s room—keys, Jacqui’s purse with contents spewed about the floor, the bag of junk food smashed and scattered like a bulimic’s nightmare, shoes kicked off peeking from under the chair and the table, clothes tossed randomly lying crumpled and abandoned, and a vase of jonquils sideways on the floor, water spreading in an ever-widening puddle. Jacqui’s door was shut against the world.

Quil retrieved and put away the items, and restored a sense of order to the living room. She padded into the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, and opened the potato chips from the salvaged junk food bag. She poured herself a glass of milk and took her lunch into the living room where she sat in a spill of sunshine. She ate, and waited.

It came later that afternoon while Quil was curled up on the sofa reading Tom Sawyer, imagining a life that included lazy summer days on the banks of the Mississippi river. It began as a low mournful cry, and built like a tsunami into a wounded-animal keening that pierced the bedroom door, careened down the hallway, and wrapped itself around Quil in a choke hold.

Quil took a ragged breath, and walked quietly down the hallway. She didn’t knock, but slowly opened her mother’s door and stood for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the darkened room. On the bed, pale, covered in sweat, hair matted, arms wrapped around drawn up knees, Jacqui rocked herself back and forth as tears streamed down her face. “Help,” she sobbed, and held out her arms to her daughter.

* * *

“Help,” the reedy voice beckoned from the bedroom across the hall.

Déjà vu all over again, Quil thought, as the twenty-year distance from childhood vanished in a word.. Fatigue threatened to hogtie her to the bed. She wiped at the grit in her eyes with her fist and reached for the bedside lamp. Its low watt bulb gave an eerie, fog-like cast to the room as she stumbled from her bed for the third time since midnight.

She flipped on the hall light and peered through Jacqui’s open door to see her mother, sheet pulled up to her chin, sitting like a small sand dune on the hospital bed.

“Help me, I’m dying,” she said, with arms outstretched. Quil padded across the carpet, sat on the edge of the bed and held her mother; she breathed in the familiar scent of her mixed with the odd new odor of a cancer-wracked body. Thin wisps of gray hair plastered themselves to the teary cheeks of Jacqui’s otherwise parched face.

“It’s okay, Mom, I’m here,” she crooned, and rocked her mother gently back and forth, her hands lightly stoking the frail bird-like skeleton of Jacqui’s back. She eased Jacqui back onto her pillow and held the paper bendable straw to her dried, cracked lips. Jacqui choked and foul smelling water seeped between the wrinkled folds of skin on her neck. Quil dabbed gently with the corner of the sheet.

“It won’t be long, you know,” Jacqui rasped.

“I know,” Quil’s words threatened to catch in the flood of mixed emotions. ‘Please don’t leave me,’ fought with ‘die already.’

“You deserved better than this. I’m sorry,” Jacqui managed. Her voice was like sandpaper.

“It’s okay –”

“I mean for everything,” Jacqui interrupted. “You never got to be a kid, you know.” She took a ragged breath in. “Someone had to be responsible, and it turned out it couldn’t be me.” A tear squeezed its way out of the corner of her eye and evaporated half way down her cheek.

“We did alright,” Quil stroked her cheek softly.

“We just didn’t know back then,” Jacqui turned her face to the wall, eyes closed.

“No, we just didn’t know,” Quil murmured. She sat back in the padded bedside chair and watched the frail figure of her mother as the sheet that covered her rose and fell, barely perceptibly. Eyes heavy, Quil drifted toward the edge of sleep, the wet, gurgling sound from her mother’s chest a steady background to lean against.

A week later, Quil sat alone in the near-empty house, in the stillness, on the cold hearth. She held Jacqui’s ashes in a box on her lap, and noticed she seemed somehow “heavier” than in her frail last days. Quil leaned her cheek against the cool marble fireplace and mused that the same fireplace could be cold and ungiving one day, full of warmth and comfort another. A sardonic smile rearranged her grieving face as she contemplated the metaphor of the fireplace and her mother’s Bipolar life. A tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a crystalline snail-trail.

* * *

Quil sat on the beach at the edge of the ocean, surrounded only by the sky and sea. In the distance, a seagull called and a raven soared high above the waves. The sound of the surf soothed out the wrinkles of her mind as she turned her face toward the sun. It wasn’t so much a celebration of her mother’s death that led her to Maui, as the release from the tyranny of her life.

A sea gull flew close overhead and deposited a plop of white feces on her leg. Quil screeched. Instantly, seething rage consumed her. Profanities flew out of her mouth, and she shook her fists against fate. Quil ran to the water and threw herself in, thrashing about madly to wash off the offending poop. Wild-eyed, she looked back over her shoulder, at the beautiful beach where she was just moments ago.

“No,” she said, simply. She knew what she had to do. She looked up at the sky, then out to the farthest edge of the ocean. With determined steps, she waded deeper and deeper into the ocean. She brushed aside floating detritus and moved through the froth and foam of the waves as they broke around her.

One more step, and as her head slipped below the surface, she inhaled.

Catching Hell

2011-03-17T14:20:00.000-07:00

In my therapy practice, I frequently work with adult clients who have survived childhood emotional and verbal abuse. I see the crippling, ego-smashing toll it can take, sometimes even worse than physical abuse--at least those scars heal over time. Joshua defies the odds.

Joshua spent his childhood catching hell. He didn’t even know he was chasing it.

“I swear to God, Joshua, you are good for absolutely nothing. Even that retard down the street can hammer a nail in a board,” his father yelled so loud that the neighbor down the street whose child was the said “retard” was probably offended. “Go on, get outta here before I backhand you,” Mike Perky said. “Nobody needs your help,” he mumbled under his breath as he focused his attention on aligning the board just so.

Deflated, Josh shuffled over to the old oak in their back yard, parked himself beneath the overhanging boughs in the shade and leaned back against the trunk. Through the curl of his long lashes, the kind no ten year old boy wants, he watched a singular ant crawl up and down one blade of grass after another accomplishing nothing of value that Josh could see. “Stupid ant,” he said, and thumped the insect so hard that it arced into the air and fell like a miniature comet.

The kitchen door opened and Marcella Perky, hair in pin curls partially covered with a red bandanna knotted at the base of her neck, stepped out on the back porch. She pulled the belt of her chenille robe tighter. “Joshua, what are you doing just sitting there? Nobody respects a lazy bum. The yard isn’t going to rake itself you know.” She retreated back into the kitchen slamming the door behind her.

Josh pursed his lips and expelled the air that puffed out his cheeks. It sounded like a moped engine. He dragged himself toward the potting shed where the Perkys stored their gardening tools, and grabbed the rake. In the garage, the sound of his father’s hammer rhythmically striking wood matched the pounding in his head.

Josh raked the leaves into a pile in the back yard. He wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve and went inside. “Mom, can I have some lemonade?”

Marcella stood at the kitchen smoking a Camel cigarette. She tapped the ash into the sink basin and turned to regard her son standing just inside the door. “Your arm isn’t broken far as I can tell. Nobody wants to wait on you hand and foot, mister.”

He poured himself a glass of lemonade from the fridge, turned a kitchen chair around, and plunked himself down. “Can I go to the movies? Everyone’s going to be there.”

“Nobody’s going to want to hang out with you—look at you; you look like a ragamuffin.” His mother shook her head, rolled her eyes, and heaved a sigh. She lit another cigarette from the glowing ember of the last one and expelled a long stream of smoke through her nostrils.

Months and years faded into one another. Joshua struggled through junior high. When he brought home two Ds and a C- on his final report card, nobody cared. When he came home after midnight in the middle of the week, nobody noticed. When he started hiding boxes of cookies and crackers in his closet and munching them in bed at night, nobody knew. And when his weight shot up to 160 pounds, Marcella merely said, “Nobody likes a fat boy. Nobody will ever love you.”

Joshua, worn down by years of repetition, began to believe that was true. When he turned twenty-one, with his critical parents well internalized, Joshua moved to another town, took a job at a low-life bar on the wrong side of the tracks, and began his career as an alcoholic.

At a gathering of “influential people,” to which he was invited to tend bar, he slipped out onto the balcony for a break. A lovely young woman stood in the moonlight, sniffing, and wiping at her tears. Joshua screwed up his courage and said, “Hi, I’m Joshua. Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m nobody,” the woman replied with a sad smile and downcast eyes before turning her head away.

“I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet you,” Joshua replied.

“What’s this?” Mike Percy asked, tossing the envelop on the kitchen table.

“Looks like a card from the kid,” Marcella answered, ripping the top of the envelop with her red-polished nail.

“Haven’t heard from him for a year or so, have we?” Mike glanced at his wife.

Marcella extracted a wedding announcement from the envelop, and eyed the date which had passed a month earlier. She read from a note scrawled at the bottom of the invitation:

Mom, Dad, you were right; Nobody loves me, Nobody will take care of me, Nobody believes in me. Nobody respects me. Nobody wants to be with me. And I’ve never been happier. Joshua

Bits and Pieces

2011-03-09T08:35:00.000-08:00

I woke up one morning with the thought, "What would happen if you came into your house and saw confetti all over your floor?" Truly, I don't know where these thoughts come from, but they're usually the precursors to a story unfolding or a new piece of music that wants to be composed. Here's the end result:

“Babe…” Wendy called as she stomped snow from her boots in the foyer before padding stocking-footed down the Italian-tiled hallway toward the kitchen. The strident chirp of a bird was the only response.

She stopped short and grinned at the profusion of red rose petals and brightly colored confetti that littered the entryway to the kitchen. “She remembered,” she said, her eyes moist with emotion. Wendy was a sucker for romance. Visions of chocolate dipped strawberries and champagne, brie, pate, and her favorite crispy crackers danced in her mind as she stepped lightly over the confetti and into the kitchen.

A chirp and a twitter greeted her from the cage on the counter top. “Can you say ‘Happy Birthday, my favorite person’?” she addressed Pesto, the green parakeet she’d inherited along with the apartment a little over a month ago.

Wendy cast a glance around the room. Not only was there no Xena, the current love of her life, and no strawberries—dipped or otherwise—the sink was still full of last night’s dishes abandoned in lieu of impulsive, hot sex followed by a shared bubble bath. Wendy grimaced at the marinara sauce tenaciously clinging to the white china plates. It almost canceled out the frisson of excitement at the memory of the preceding evening. Almost. She smiled.

“Xena?” she called into the emptiness of the rooms beyond the kitchen. Perplexed, she returned to the plethora of confetti and petals strewn about the hallway.

“Hunh,” she mumbled, as she bent down for a closer look. There were letters on eight of the tiny squares of colored paper which she carefully extracted from the mass. She returned to the kitchen and laid them out on the table like Scrabble tiles. “She knows I love a good game,” she said over her shoulder to Pesto, who squawked his agreement.

Crossword puzzles came easily to her, and her mind, trained to see patterns, quickly picked out the word ‘bitch.’ “Well,” she huffed, “that’s some birthday greeting.” There were three letters left. Her hand began to shake as she arranged them in front of ‘bitch’. Wendy gasped for breath as she read ‘die bitch’ spelled out in colorful confetti in front of her. She glanced furtively around the kitchen. The shades were drawn, the door to the patio locked. An ominous feeling of dread and danger began to seep its way into her muscles, and she hunched her shoulders self protectively. She’d read in the tabloids about roommates who turn out to be serial killers.

It was true, she didn’t know Xena all that well; they’d only been officially dating for a couple of weeks. Xena had shown up last month to look at the apartment the same day as had Wendy; they had quickly acknowledged a mutual spark over dinner at an intimate little Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood. In fact, they’d gotten on so famously, they had decided to share the two-bedroom apartment. In her head she heard the exasperated responses by her straight friends when she told them she and Xena were moving in together. “You’ve known her how long?” was the now-familiar refrain, followed by snide references to the clichéd lesbian second date involving a U-Haul. Two weeks ago, the attraction between them had grown so intense, they’d waived the white flag and surrendered.

Wendy was deep in thought and didn’t hear the door at the end of the hall click shut, or the quiet footsteps approach.

“Happy Birthday,” Xena shouted, grinning broadly and waving a bouquet of iris in one hand and a dozen purple balloons in the other.

Wendy screamed. Pesto began flapping about wildly in his cage, squawking and screeching hysterically.

Startled, Xena lost her grip on the balloons; they floated up to the vaulted ceiling and clung there as if in fear for their lives.

“What the…” Xena stammered.

“Stay back,” Wendy hollered, grabbing a spatula from the sink. She held it in front of her like a weapon. A dried noodle clung comically to the handle.

“Wen, get a grip. What’s wrong with you?” Xena, hands up in surrender, backed carefully away from her spatula-wielding girlfriend. “You’re freaking out the damned parrot,” she added.

“He’s a parakeet, you psycho,” Wendy retorted. “Do you want to explain this?” she shouted, jabbing the spatula at the lettered squares on the table.

Xena came forward carefully, not taking her eyes off Wendy. She glanced down at the table. “Die bitch? If this is some new game of yours, I don’t think I want to play,” she said.

“Game of mine? You left this for me in the hallway,” Wendy accused.

“No, I didn’t,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “It’s so like you to go to the worst case scenario.” Even as she said those words, Xena realized she didn’t really know what was ‘so like’ Wendy. She’d only known her a month, and truthfully, anyone could be on good behavior for that long. Wasn’t there a personality disorder where people had erratic mood swings?

“What do you mean, worst case scenario? How else would someone interpret die bitch?” Wendy said, slowly lowering the spatula.

Xena reached over and arranged the squares to spell ‘itch’ and ‘bide,’ then rearranged them to spell ‘bit’ and ‘chide.’ She raised her eyebrows and shot Wendy a look.

The phone rang and Wendy jumped. She backed up slowly, still keeping her eyes on Xena, and reached her arm out to lift the receiver from the wall-mounted phone.

“Happy Birthday to you,” her mother sang, “Happy Birthday sweet daughter, Happy Birthday to you. Did you get my surprise?”

Wendy turned toward the wall and lowered her voice. “Did you leave it in the hallway?” she asked.

“Yes,” her mother said gleefully. “Wasn’t that fun? So when will you go?”

“Go where? What are you talking about?”

“The gift certificate for that 5-star restaurant you and what’s-her-name have been wanting to visit. What did you think I was talking about?” her mother sounded genuinely confused.

“Her name is Xena,” Wendy said, casting a quick glance back over her shoulder. “Hang on a minute, Mom,” Wendy said, and laid the phone on the counter. Xena looked at her quizzically as she rushed past her to the hallway. Wendy brushed aside the pile and retrieved a red envelop, camouflaged by the petals and confetti. She ripped it open, extracted the certificate, and squealed with delight as she ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

“Mom, this is wonderful! Thank you so much. But, I need to know, what’s with the lettered confetti?”

“The what?” her mother said.

“The confetti—it has letters on it, and…” Wendy realized she couldn’t begin to explain what she’d just been through.

“Oh, I didn’t realize that. It was sold by the ounce at the Smarty Party Store; I guess they recycle it. Honey, Harriet is honking outside; I’ve got to go. There’s a sale at Macy’s. Love you. Happy Birthday.”

Chagrined, Wendy hung up the phone and turned back to face Xena.

“I think you can put the spatula down now,” Xena said.

Virtual Choir

2011-03-02T09:47:00.001-08:00

One of the joys in my life is singing with approximately 80 other beings of light in the One Heart Choir (see left) through the Center for Spiritual Living in Santa Rosa, CA. Occasionally, I step off the beaten path and into spontaneous gatherings where music is being made—a group that travels to rest homes and hospitals and sings old tunes from the 30ies and 40ies, or a flash mob that breaks into song at the local mall.

Not having been born into an era where the technological concept of virtual space was common, I find things like the video (URL below) spine-chilling (in a good way). Eric Whitacre’s amazing virtual choir puts a whole new spin on singing in a choir. Please enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7o7BrlbaDs&feature=player_embedded

My great-grandma Godlove could never quite grok the idea of the automobile. Perhaps it’s genetic coding, but I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around the miracles of the computer. I’m working on it.

When Your Brain Breaks

2011-02-13T18:25:00.000-08:00

http://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html

I’m so glad I chose the focus of creativity for my blog—it feels giddily limitless, like when I watch an escaped balloon float off into the sky until my eye can no longer track it.

One of the ways I recognize creativity is by noticing how different individuals utilize life experience. What if you woke up one morning and couldn’t recognize who you were; couldn’t do the regular things you’ve done every morning for most of your lifetime? I have a friend who had a brain aneurysm some years ago. It changed everything about how she did and saw life. I believe she is stronger for having gone on that journey.

In this week’s video clip, another survivor, Jill Bolte Taylor, a researcher fascinated with brain chemistry, utilizes a life-changing moment when her brain short-circuited due to an aneurysm. She explores in detail the process she was going through and shares it so eloquently and with such heart-opening authenticity, that I couldn’t possibly not pass it along. I laughed, I cried; it moved me. Creativity of the human spirit is what she brings to mind. Enjoy.

Don’t Go Numb

2011-02-12T16:49:00.000-08:00

Once again, technology trips me up. On January 18, I saved a blog entry along with a video on vulnerability, connection and the role of shame, to be posted this week. It seems that when I tried to bring it out of the Edit file and post it today, it chose to cling tenaciously to its January 18th original date. Please scroll down to January 18th and check out this inspiring video.

Toilet Paper and Creativity

2011-02-05T17:27:00.000-08:00

The Web is an amazing and strange instrument, mysterious to those of us who didn’t grow up in the cyberspace era. It’s Saturday morning, my mind is on idle; I’ve checked my e-mail, peeked in on my blog to see how many hits it had gotten in the last week, checked a friend’s blog, all in hopes of some moment of inspiration that would grow in the crawlspace of my mind and lead to another blog post idea. I click on Google, and type in Visual Arts, just to see what will happen.

There seems to be no particular definition for visual arts. It’s definitely not a ‘one size fits all’ sort of proposition. For me, it’s a visual, rather than tactile or auditory experience, that elicits an emotional response. Still a pretty broad category. It could include paintings, drawings, computer generated art, sculpture, photography, silent movies, installation art, even mime. As I scroll through the infinite possibilities at my fingertips, I come across the School of Visual Arts website and see some photos that stop me up short—rolls of toilet paper. Yes, toilet paper—glow in the dark toilet paper, paper with a Valentine’s Day motif, paper printed with Kakuro puzzles or Origami directions, to name a few. One roll was all black. Ponder that.

Not only do I find myself chuckling heartily, but I begin to wonder just how one would create personalized toilet paper. Okay, so that’s another part of my definition for visual art—it’s inspirational, it loosens any hold on logical or rigid thinking, gets the brain cells firing.

Maybe personalized toilet paper isn’t your thing, but you have to admit, as a concept in the larger scope of design, it may have some merit. What would be my signature toilet paper if I were to go out on a limb for this? Since one of the things I enjoy most in life is composing music, finding a way to transfer sheets of music onto a roll of toilet paper would make me chuckle. Admit it, aren’t you just a tiny bit caught up by this idea? Don’t you wonder just how someone would actually pull this off? Those of you stuck in the literal will probably answer, “Oh, about six sheets at a time.”

If it gets you thinking though, that’s creativity in action. The product is secondary. It all starts with those creative juices flowing, refusing to be suppressed. What you do with this (product wise) is up to you; but for a moment, just enjoy the feeling of being in touch with that source and surge of creative energy that’s available to us as our birthright. No one can take that away.

Lost in the Dessert

2011-01-22T20:29:00.001-08:00

You know those ideas that get stuck in your head, the ones that you don’t know where they came from? It’s 3 a.m., and I wake with the peculiarities of a spelling dilemma on my mind—of desert (that sandy place) and dessert (those sweet things). Don’t even get me started on the ridiculousness of the English language (two, too, to, tutu), (do, dew, due) Stop! Stop!

So, as I’m laying there, noticing that I’m not sleeping, my mind wanders—sort of gets lost in the desert of those arid, vapid thoughts that are a part of the 3a.m. landscape. What if I were writing an essay or a story about getting lost in the desert, but accidentally typed dessert, and Word Check didn’t catch it because it doesn’t do context? That idea bridged itself over to, well, what would it be like to be lost in a dessert? Chocolate mousse being my favorite, could I lose myself in it? And, what does it mean to lose yourself? Or better yet, what is the Self that one fears losing? Do you see how quickly this goes from bad to worse?

There’s no one to talk to at 3 a.m. Well, actually, there are probably hundreds—perhaps thousands—of women up at 3a.m. (it’s a menopausal thing), but just in case this is the one morning their sleep hasn’t been ripped from them by hormonal fluctuations, I certainly don’t want to risk jangling them into consciousness via a phone ringing in the dark. That’s always bad news, right?

I’m stuck with the cobwebby trail of trying to follow the obscure thought of being lost in a dessert. Let’s suppose for a moment, that lost means totally given-over to, or absorbed by the experience or idea of something, as when you lose your heart by falling in love.

I’ve had a total absorption experience like that—with a dessert—where there was nothing for that moment but the taste and texture living its life to the fullest in my mouth. For an instance, I lost track of who I was with, the hustle and bustle of wait staff, the clatter from the kitchen at the far end of the room that had just a moment ago been hugely irritating. Gone. Absorbed. The culprit was a slice of Double Chocolate Caramel Torte with Hazelnut Gelato at a local pizza house. There was an explosion of flavors all over my tongue—the more I chewed, the richer and more complex the flavors became. There was nothing but the moment. If you could take a bite of Heaven, that might be what it would taste like.

Where did I go while that dessert was busy blowing out my brain cells? I’m tempted to make reference to the 60ies when this sort of experience was more the norm, but not all of you lived through that era, and it might be lost on you. However, surely, I’m not alone.

There’s a Comment button just below the post. I’d love to hear about your experience of being lost in a dessert. Let me know a little something about who you are, what the dessert was, and your experience of that moment. I’ll be glad to post it on my next blog update.

Oh, and it was around 4:15 a.m. when I finally got back to sleep…

Don't Go Numb

2011-01-18T09:54:00.000-08:00

Many times, I discover someone who can put into words what I think, believe, or feel so much better than I. This week, I offer you a wonderful 20 minute video of Dr. Brené Brown, Professor at the University of Houston. I have dubbed her talk, "Don't Go Numb." She addresses the subjects of vulnerability and connection in a way that might just get under your skin-in a good way.

Anne Marie Cheney - Guest Blogger

2011-01-15T08:07:00.000-08:00

Guest Blogger Anne Marie Cheney

It occurs to me that I don’t have to do everything myself—that’s the plight of most Virgos. There’s a terrain of creativity where I don’t wander on foot, but watch and appreciate from a distance. Poetry. I’m overwhelmed by it, a little bit in awe; I don’t understand the structure. One of my favorite local poets is Anne Marie Cheney—she’s also in my writers group—and I’ve asked her to be a guest blogger today. She writes:

So this is me, writing a blog. Who would have ever thought? But my dear friend, Jo, asked me to be a guest on her blog and it seemed rude to say no. To be honest, I’m pretty much of a Luddite when it comes to technology, a technophobe if you will. I am writing this at my desk with a fountain pen and a pad of clean lined paper. I can’t compose on a keyboard (I almost said typewriter!). I can barely type. I love the feeling of pen-in-hand and ink-on-paper. My reluctant Muse need coaxing and the cussing and corrections that attend my typing spoil the mood.

Jo thought it might be interesting for me to talk (or write) about why I write poetry. But really, you might as well ask “Why do I breathe?” Poetry has always been a part of my life. My parents both read and sang to me from the time I was a baby. I loved the rhythm of the words in those Golden Book stories and The Child’s Garden of Verses. As I got older, Mom would sometimes direct my friends and I as we acted out scenes from Shakespeare, those wonderful words rolling off our tongues: “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.” I was also fortunate enough to go to school when actual education was considered important, so poetry and art were always a part of the curriculum from kindergarten through college. My childhood friend, Mary, and I started writing poetry (badly) when we were 12 or so and I just never stopped. I love the mystery of poetry, its metaphors and magic. Poetry has rhythm and luscious language that can seem out of place in the prosaic world of everyday.

GODDESS OF THE SEA

The sea
beautiful, inviting, treacherous,,
all turbulence and undertow
waves of foam and power
eroding the hardest rock.

Yet that wildness
calls to me.
I long, from the safety of the shore,
to loose myself in its depths,
rising up
to ride waves of delight
wind in my hair
goddess of the sea.

NIGHT SKY

I am the night sky
deep velvet
full of emptiness, mystery.

Stars scattered throughout my hair;
fire and ice collide in my embrace
creating comets to sing my stories
across galaxies.

Travelers Through Time

2011-01-01T22:05:00.000-08:00

Happy new year to all. May your best dreams come true.

December was a musical month, singing, composing, playing with the muses who drop tunes on me like rain from a passing storm cloud. I’ll never get used to that hit-and-run feeling of being left with a snippet of tune, or half a line of lyrics, and a lingering sense of some ethereal being saying, “Okay, see what you can do with this,” before blowing on out of here. Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful, but it’s always shocking.

I knew I’d have an excess of free time in December, with clients away for the holidays, or saving their money for gifts, or down with the winter flu-bug. I had every intention of using my downtime to work on my novel—it’s coming along nicely. I’m already on Part 2, and I didn’t even know there was going to be a Part 2! Even my editor was okay with ending the story where it ended; but no, my characters weren’t finished.

“You can’t just leave us hanging, homeless,” they clamored.

“O. Henry did it all the time,” I retorted. “He was known for cliffhangers.”

“O. Henry was published,” they jeered.

Really, what can you say to that? Anyway, as the fates would have it, I didn’t get much done on my novel. A new song, a trancy little tune, found its way into my consciousness, and another song I’d written—a blues piece—begged for two more verses and a bridge. What’s a girl to do?

Travelers Through Time (click on the picture above to enlarge it) speaks from that part of me that knows we are all just passing through, from somewhere else to somewhere else, touching down briefly in these earth-bodies before moving on. If you read music, I hope you’ll play this and let me know what you think.

Hallelujah Chorus sung by hundreds surprises shoppers in San

2010-12-18T20:53:00.000-08:00

Now For Something Different

2010-12-18T17:18:00.000-08:00

What are these unsuspecting folks, just grabbing a burger or a taco at the local food court of the Santa Rosa mall to sustain themselves before launching back into frenetic Christmas shopping, about to experience?

My post on Dec. 2nd (scroll back a little ways), dealt with the disappointment of a dream interrupted. Sometimes in life, we’re lucky enough to have what we refer to in therapy as a corrective experience. I had one of those.

Like many great ideas that catch on and spread like wildfire, someone posted a “flash-mob” (a pre-arranged, but impromptu-appearing gathering of a bunch of people for a particular reason—sort of like guerrilla theater back in the 60ies) on YouTube of Handel’s Messiah. These folks gathered at a mall and broke into song to the delight and astonishment of shoppers milling about.

Michael, a local DJ in Santa Rosa figured if the east coast can do it, surely we--out here on the west coast--can pull it off. Word spread through various choirs throughout the city; it spilled over to random singers in the community. We were told not to refer to it as a “flash-mob” for obvious mall security reasons, and began referring to it as Project Messiah. It was a well-guarded secret that couldn’t be contained due to the enthusiasm it created. Word spread, and spread. It leaked to Facebook. “Just show up at the food court at the mall at 2:20; don’t ask me why,” was a common buzz phrase about town.

I dug into my music file and extracted the Hallelujah score. I carried it, along with a huge amount of excitement, to the Monday rehearsal preceding the big event. We reached the last page, the last stanza, the last measure, and—what? No highest note? Surely there must be a mistake. I didn’t miss anything the first time around? At all? What a revelation, and how strange to feel let down by something I didn’t miss.

Regardless, the rehearsal sent the hundred-plus singers gathered in the music room sky high. It was amazing, and promised to be even more amazing when we (and others who would join us) appeared interspersed amongst the crowd of shoppers and munchers to sing one of the most beautiful pieces of classical music ever composed.

Saturday afternoon around 2pm, familiar faces appeared in the mall, hanging out, trying to look casual. Many of us, myself included, just don't "do" mall. That much energy in one place makes my teeth itch. We glanced at each other, gave quick nods of recognition or conspiracy, or a brief smile as we melted into the crowd. My friend Trudy was among the throng and agreed to video the event. I’m sure the food court has never housed so many people milling about, not eating.

It was wonderful when, on cue, we all burst into song! Even without that elusive last note from the past, this was a highlight of my holiday. The very best to you and yours as this Christmas season unfolds.

Never Say Never

2010-12-12T13:06:00.000-08:00

As a therapist, I often discourage my clients from using global-type words, like never, always, no one, everyone—as in no one has ever liked me; I’ll never be any good at anything; everyone thinks I’m incompetent, etc. It sets off a chain reaction of futility and hopelessness. And, it’s usually not even accurate. I mean, surely someone in all your years on the planet, has liked you; you must have, at one time, been good at something; and most likely not everyone you know thinks you’re completely incompetent. Really, why tell yourself things like that?

There is one exception, however. I’m NEVER going to make another dessert as long as I live—never. I’ve had it. I can’t do it; I never could; I’m lousy at it. And I defy anyone who knows me to think of an exception to those claims.

Let me walk you through my day. Actually, it started a couple weeks ago with an on-line search for tortes—something yummy for the holidays. I found it: a layered caramel, chocolate torte lightly sprinkled with sea salt and topped with dollops of Chantilly whipped cream, sprinkled with a special chai spice blend. Does that send chills down your spine, or what?

I priced out torte pans at Williams-Sonoma and other fancy-schmancy places, and decided just to borrow one from my friend, Trudy. I mean, how many times a year do I make tortes? Never before. Oops, there’s that word again.

My writer’s group has been on sort of an extended holiday season hiatus; with so many distractions, no one has had much time to write. Two months had gone by without meeting. One member had reached his tolerance peak, and suggested we have a combined Chanukah and Christmas potluck meeting. Ah, a perfect opportunity to try out this new recipe.

What was I thinking? Had brain fog settled in like the marine layer that drifts inland from the ocean, obscuring my memory of all desserts past? Somewhere in the far reaches of my awareness, I heard a small voice saying, “at least don’t attempt the crust—they make perfectly fine pie crusts now that you could use.” Okay, I could cheat a little. The recipe is pretty complex and will demand most of my attention. No use worrying about how a lousy pie crust will turn out.

I assembled all the ingredients, the measuring spoons and cups, the various sized pans and plates that I would need. I fought my way through the mental cobwebs that seem to string themselves across my mind whenever I try to follow a recipe (or directions on how to assemble something, or program something).

Meticulously, I measured out just the right amount of sugar and water. I cooked it just until it began to turn caramel colored, as the directions said. I added the cream ever so slowly, whisking to blend it just so, and added in just the right amount of sea salt before setting it aside.

The ready-made pie crust had baked the appropriate amount of time and was golden brown. When it was cool, I oh-so-carefully poured the caramel layer onto the crust, and put it immediately in the refrigerator to “set.”

Twenty minutes later, I checked my creation. Not only had it not “set,” it had leaked out through a crack in the crust and was pooling onto the refrigerator shelf. This did not bode well. I shut the refrigerator door. Maybe another five or ten minutes and it will be firm? At least not ALL of it had leaked out. Perhaps the crack had sort of plugged itself up with gelatinous filling.

Ten more minutes, and I peeked again. Okay, it was sort of firm; maybe firm enough to gently add the next layer of heavy cream infused with chocolate malt Ovaltine and melted bittersweet dark chocolate bits. This layer was gloriously rich, shiny, luscious. I slid the partially filled crust carefully from the shelf, and mopped up the sugary goop that had oozed out.

V-e-r-y carefully, I began to drizzle and spread the chocolate on top of the caramel layer. Every now and then, I had to stop and breathe. The next step was to return the whole thing to the fridge for another half hour to continue setting up. The chocolate was mostly staying on top of the bottom layer, but threatened to overflow the edge of the crust. I was so focused on not tilting the torte, that I caught my sleeve on the handle of the saucepan in the sink.

Have you ever had the experience of a moment when time just stops? It just plain stands still in honor, or horror, of whatever irreversible thing is about to happen. The whole torte, in slow motion, began to slide off the plate and into the sink. In my attempt to intervene in fate, I over corrected, causing the torte to break in half. One half landed in the sink in chunks and blobs, the other sort of landed on the counter and spread in an ever-widening circle of slushy caramel and chocolate. A piece of crust fell onto the floor, as if to make a point, and crumbled into granules that defied retrieval.

Well, what can you do? Cry, scream, throw things? I thought about those as viable options. I checked the clock. Still enough time to bicycle up to the bakery and pick up some dessert. I cleaned up the mess, hopped on my bike, and arrived at the bakery counter all without shedding a tear. There in the glass case were four mini-chocolate espresso tortes with wells in the middle that just begged to be filled with that chai-flavored Chantilly whipped cream that I hadn’t yet dropped or ruined—or made.

Come on—whipped cream? How hard can that be?

I did that once...

2010-12-02T13:21:00.000-08:00

So, I notice I haven’t written anything for a couple weeks now. I had something—honest I did—but it’s gotten lost in wherever one thinks one saves things then finds out there’s nothing there. I've replaced it with a video of Handel’s Messiah, the Hallelujah Chorus—the sing-along version.

I did that once many years ago, the sing-along Messiah, and it was amazing. I picked up my many-paged sheet music a month in advance, studied it a bar or two at a time, following along my part as best I could. I was stupefied at the way the music wove in and out between the parts. They don’t call those guys the Great Composers for nothing.

We gathered in a large sanctuary, the several hundred of us who were to sing this piece together. There was much anticipatory anxiety, clearing of throats, rustling of papers, sipping of water, and even a few vocal exercises around and about—the kind where you make bubble sounds with your lips. I was wedged I between a teenage girl in a Santa hat and an elderly woman sporting a festive Christmas tree pin on her blue woolen coat. I found myself distracted by the pin—if you pull on a little chain, which she did as a nervous tic, tiny lights on the tree would twinkle. I took a deep breath and reassured myself that if a kid and an old woman with a funny pin can do this, surely I can make it through to the end. I found out later that the “kid” was a musical prodigy and the old woman had been an annual participant in this sing-along for as far back as it had been sung.

There was a whole orchestra on stage warming up, flipping through their music, setting up stands, stretching. Stretching—that should have been a clue as to what we were getting into. Behind the orchestra was a choir of maybe sixty who tried not to fidget once they found their spots on the risers. The orchestra finished tuning up, the lights blinked to signal the audience that we were about to move together into this musical experience. There was a collective inhale as the conductor stepped smartly onto the stage, took his position in front of the orchestra, turned and bowed to us. I suppressed the urge to bow back and instead, joined in a round of applause for what was sure to be a riveting experience.

The baton was raised, the music began, my finger lay ready just under my first note. Just at the moment I didn’t think I could contain myself any longer, the choir, the hundreds of people around me, and I burst forth in song. It was so explosive, my knees threatened to buckle and I lost my place for a few bars. I glanced at the kid and the old woman to relocate myself on the musical score; they, too, were following along with their finger. Page after page we filled the auditorium with joyful noise. My heart pounded with anticipation as I waited for that really high note at the end—you know the one if you’ve ever sung this piece of music. Could I? Should I even try? My finger kept moving through the music. Occasionally, I’d stop singing so I could hear what was happening around me, but my finger tracked the notes like a hound dog on the scent. It was powerful, magnificent; we rose and fell like the waves of the ocean. I fully expected sparks to shoot out of the end of the conductor’s baton, or the heavens to open up, or something even more magnificent to happen.

We were getting closer to the end. That impossible note beckoned me like a seductress with a dark sense of humor, daring me to push beyond my comfort level. Yes! I was going to go for it. “Ha-lle—lu…” (here it comes, the last note) “Cough, cough, hack, cough,” the woman next to me wheezed into her fist. I turned my head to see if she was all right as the final and highest note was sung out “…jah!” And I missed it.

Just in case you missed it…

2010-11-20T12:25:00.000-08:00

I know art is in the eyes of the beholder and is hugely subjective in nature—I’m remembering the large white canvass with a red square in the middle and a black dot within the square that drew attention when it was labeled art and hung in a museum. All forms of art, however, are creatively inspired. Someone had to have had a vision.

Jason de Caires Taylor’s underwater sculptures are truly inspired works of art. Part of their allure is watching the way the underwater environment works on them, how they age over time and become coral reefs. I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, but I encourage you to Google him for more information on his process and a full gallery of his art.

I remember the first time my friends Joan and Trudy took me snorkeling and I was able to see for myself the wonders of the under-water world of fish and coral reefs, dolphins and eels, all manner of life. I’m sure anyone on the surface end of my snorkel would have chuckled at the oohs and aahs coming from the tube. Imagine swimming into a de Caires Taylor scene! Surely I would have inhaled the ocean.

Creative Abundance at CSLSR

2010-11-12T22:12:00.000-08:00

November is my favorite time of year at the Center for Spiritual Living in Santa Rosa, CA; it is the month we celebrate creativity and the arts. Wildly talented, often completely unknown artists display their art forms, including short films. There’s a section for children as well.

There are gasps of recognition as people wander through the free-standing walls displaying oil and pastel paintings, found-object composition and installation art, photography, quilts and fabric art, jewelry, pottery—the list goes on. Overheard snippets of conversation: “Oh, she’s in the choir; I had no idea she quilted;” “He taught my Foundations class this year—who knew he was a photographer;” “I know her from the usher group—I didn’t know she did such beautiful jewelry.” This is creativity in community and it excites my heart to be part of it.

Our One Heart Choir is filled with quietly creative beings such as Cyndi Cunningham, whose first-time entry quilt hung proudly on the wall. From her story, I recognize the time/space distortion of complete immersion in your craft: “I get lost in the process,” she writes. “When I get started I have to set a timer, or the whole day will disappear and I will still be in my jammies in front of the machine.” Here is Cyndi’s story.

“My grandmother was a crafter, and my mother sewed garments. I seem to be somewhere in the middle, quilting—the clothes I make are not really fit to wear.

“I started when I was 28, taking classes at the new quilt shop down the street. I sew mostly because I love to make things, it give me a place to be creative, and the ability to give gifts to those I love is so special. It takes a lot of time which is a precious commodity.

“At this time, I have not sold anything because those I have finished have been gifts. I do have several quilt tops that need the attention of the long arm quilter to finish. They remain unfinished because they do not yet have future homes. The name of the quilt in the picture above is ‘buggy barn hearts.’

“In addition to quilting, I do several different crafts: jewelry, scrap-booking, and Japanese hand bound journals.

“My full-time job, up to 60 hours a week, is as a Unit Supervisor at the Developmental Center in Eldridge. The clients I serve are in many ways my family, and I love my job—most of the time. It is stressful work, and the ability to carve out some time at home to be creative really helps to keep my life in balance. It’s something that I give myself. Quilting is also a social outlet; I tend to be a homebody, and a bit of a loner. Taking classes, shopping for fabric, and going to retreats gets me out of the house and involved with other people.”

Have something you’re good at, or have just discovered you have a talent for? Send me a photo and your story so I can share it here (josrca@sonic.net).

Creative Contributions

2010-11-06T10:32:00.000-07:00

Happy November, a time to focus on thanksgiving for the abundance of good in our lives. A quick update--my song, Sundowner, was beautifully performed by the extraordinarily talented jazz singer, Claire Victor, at the 2010 Choir Showcase at CSLSR last month. The process of writing songs is a gift of creative endeavor in itself, but to hear that music brought to life in performance is another whole kind of experience. I am immersed in thanksgiving.

There are so many ways in which we can contribute in life that sometimes I get overwhelmed and do nothing. In days gone by, political activism was important to me. My focus has become more on creative expression at this point in my life. When someone makes it just plain simple and effortless to contribute in a meaningful and creative way, I just can’t pass it up.

I drink orange juice—every morning. I go through cartons of the stuff each month. When I found the following website from Tropicana, a way in which I could contribute to saving the rainforest with no more effort than typing in a ten letter/number combination found under the cap on the carton, it became a welcome ritual. To date, I’ve contributed to the care of close to 2,000 square feet of rainforest. Not a lot, but it’s a start. You can make a difference in the next three months. The program ends Feb. 28, 2011, so don’t delay. Here’s to good stewardship and the ecological health of our world.

Just cut and paste: http://juicyrewards.tropicana.com/login/home.aspx and then click on “Rescue the Rainforest”

Is it just me, or does this bush look like a pig?

2010-10-16T14:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes creativity is inspired and spontaneous; sometimes it’s the result of hours of planning and intricate execution. Sometimes it’s just plain accidental and perhaps only in the eyes of the beholder. The pig took me by such surprise, I almost fell off my bicycle. Then again, I see pictures in clouds, so you decide: was this pig topiary or just shear accident?

I came across a video by Brenda Walker that explores the use of technology in the area of creativity. For those of you who know me, you’re probably laughing hysterically. I’m more or less known as a techno-dinosaur. It doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate those who have the skill. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/ then type in Brenda Walker 2020, Creativity and Technology, Shaping Ideas.

The next couple of months are going to be crazy-busy. Instead of weekly blogs, I’m cutting back to a monthly entry for a little while. Please check back in November. May you enjoy the shift of seasons.

Just Because You Don’t Know How

2010-10-09T10:34:00.000-07:00

…is no excuse not to try. I’d be a rich woman if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard someone say, “Oh, I’m not creative; I don’t really know how to do (this or that, fill in the blank).” Most of us didn’t have a clue how to walk when we were infants, but at some point the desire to get somewhere fast overcomes the fear or clumsiness or outright pain that often accompanies those first few steps. Most of us didn’t give up because we tumbled over the first few attempts we made.

If there’s something you’ve yearned to do, but lacked the support or courage to try, or feared looking ridiculous, or failing, this blog entry is for you.

I’m thinking back to the things I would have missed that have enriched my life if I’d given into the belief that I didn’t know how to do them. Have I done them all well? No, not all of them; but there was joy in the doing and in the walking through the “I can’t(s).” I’m thinking here of my first sewing project when I was pregnant. I come from a long line of quilters, tatters, knitters, crocheters—women who created family heirlooms that have been passed down and treasured through generations. Not being a real eye-hand kinda gal, it wasn’t until I was pregnant that the heirloom treasure bug bit. Not being in the possession of a sewing machine, I was determined to make a welcoming gown from the prettiest, girliest, softest flannel, by hand, for my daughter that would be passed down to her children, and their children, and so on. And I did it. Well, sort of. If she’d been born 18 lbs, maybe 26 inches long with a pin head, it would have fit her perfectly. We didn’t get a lot of use out of it, but I loved every stitch in that garment. Fortunately, she had twin boys.

The point is, I tried. I’d been looking for a way to sort my thoughts and share some things I was learning about altered states of reality back in my late forties. Friends said, “You should just write a book.” Write a book? Are you kidding? I don’t even have an MFA; I don’t even spell all that well. “That’s what editors are for,” they insisted. Editors? How do you find an editor? The task seemed daunting. What if I wrote a book and it didn’t sell? (Don’t get ANY writer started on that one) I figured out the structure by reading other books in that genre. I asked a million questions of other writers. I found out how to locate and work with (and pay) an editor, and the value of having someone in that role. I learned about query letters, synopses, marketing plans, agents, and how to receive rejection letters without disintegrating. I tried different genres: short stories, novellas, screenplays, non-fiction, blogging. It literally opened up a whole new world for me. After years of efforting and reams of paper, I’ve even been rewarded by having a few things published.

Then, songs started floating into my head—songs that were waiting to be written by me, it seemed. But I don’t know the first thing about composing songs, I complained. I read music, I sing, I play a little piano, but writing music is a whole different animal. I couldn’t possibly… People do it all the time, I rationalized; how hard could it be, really? Okay, so it’s hard. There’s a whole lot to it that I had to learn by trial and error and humiliation and feeling totally stupid. I asked a million questions of people who were doing what I wanted to be doing. I figured out how to use a music composition program on the computer that turned my creations into sheet music that could be printed out or played back on the computer. How cool is that? After more years of efforting, and reams of paper, I’ve actually had some of my songs performed by professional musicians. The reward of hearing something you’ve created brought to life by performance is mind-boggling.

A friend joked, “Is there anything you don’t do?” Widows, I replied. Then again, how hard can that be? Two final words of encouragement, just try. I’d love to hear about your experience.

Until then, here is some inspiration to hang onto—a moment in the life of someone who refused to believe she couldn’t: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJIDr15dyzk&feature=related Enjoy.