MOTEL ROOM PART TWO

She hates all the men. All the unhappy, married men who come and use her to try to escape--however momentarily--from their mundane lives. They're always old and smell bad--like neglect and sadness.

Some, like the man she can hear milling about in the motel room, try to assuage their guilt by pretending to care about her. But to her they are all the same. She's already given them what they think they want but she can't give them what they really need. Every one of them only adds another layer of self hatred to her soul--she has no exoneration to give.

They may be lonely and sad, but still they come to her--a pathetic, young girl who has no other way. For if it were not for the profession she so despised, her family would have no place to live; no food to eat. She was blessed--or cursed--with the beauty in the family. Small, slim, beautiful innocent face--though innocent she was not. Daily, she cursed her beauty. Her family is shamed by her yet they live in the house she provides, eat the food paid for by sin.

In her bra and panties, which she would later soak to remove the smell of him--all the hims, she emerges from the bathroom.

He's looking at her searchingly. What's he thinking, she wonders briefly, because he had that same lost look last time they were in the motel room. She's so fragile and tiny, some think they can save her--like she is a stray kitten they can bring home and nurse back to health. These savior types are the worst of all. Because they use her like all the rest then try to justify it. She prefers those who just get it over with, throw down a wad of cash, and leave.

This one is conflicted. She can see it in his sad eyes--can see the pain of mis-spent youth, unhappy marriage, children who didn't live to expectations, a life of disappoinment. Looks she's seen so often. What do they expect from her?

He wants to make conversation. She wants to leave.

"What's your name?" he asks, more questions are in his eyes.

She smiles politely as she knows she must. "Jade," she answers with no emotion. She hates Jade.

"Jade?" he asks, hoping for more. She edges closer to the door, coiling for a quick escape.

Smiling coyly, "Wen-Qi," she lies, feeling immediate regret for besmirching her grandmother's name. She walks out the door, leaning on it momentarily, choking back the tears. After years of this, she wonders, when the tears will stop.

Out on the street, dirty, unclean Jade disappears and Li An walks into the shop to buy groceries. She picks up a jade necklace and puts it in her pocket. Later, she'll give it to her mother, hoping her mother will look her in the eye.

ALL THE WOUNDED

The wound was barely visible but it changed all their lives. A rain slicked road, a tree, a rental car with faulty brakes, a car driven by a father--filled with laughing children on their way to their lakeside vacation home.

But there was no vacation. The father’s young son lay for 536 days, blinking with sightless eyes, random movements, shattering silence. The mother at his side—always. The sister and brother amble in and out, uncomfortable with this silent stranger who looks like their brother but is not. It’s too painful for the father.

The wound is deep within his brain. Irreversible. The doctors say there’s no hope but his mother doesn't hear. For 536 days she sits with him, plays Abbey Road, his favorite album, massages him with Vitamin E oil, sings to him, writes in a journal, sees something in a perceived smile that no one else sees.

The day he turns 14, they bring balloons and festive streamers. Weave them around the machinery that monitor his existence, if you can call it existing. Presents are opened. Discarded gift wrap lays on the bed. The sister holds close to him the push-button toy that makes music noises and bright lights. He looks beyond it and blinks. Above his bed is a picture of the boy at his 12th birthday, blowing out candles, radiant smile, eyes bright with the joy of that moment. Unrecognizable.

Back at home, everything looks the same but the palpable aura of melancholy swallows anyone who steps within its midst. They bring casseroles and shed tears but then they stop coming. Who can blame them for not wanting to be infected by the inescapable sorrow. Life goes on, they say....but not for this family.

A year and a half later, on a rare night that no one is by his side, the boy develops pneumonia. An emergency call is placed. A mother and father have to make a snap decision whether to put their youngest son on life support. There's no time to waste. Sadly, heroically, they make the most difficult--or perhaps the easiest--decision of their lives. They decline medical intervention and alone, the child quietly dies. As quietly as he'd lived for the 536 days--when the exuberant boy fell silent.

Did he know something we don't understand? On some level, did he wait until he was alone; somehow sensing everyone's pulsing waves of fear and hope and love. Try to make the inevitable easier for everyone.

He always was a generous boy. His sister wishes she'd appreciated it more.

It's Not About the Accident

This is a story about a wound. And a scar. And a memory. But it’s not really a story about the accident. That is secondary.

Oddly enough, most stories are more about the wound. And the scar. And the memory. The accident is almost incidental. What really happened takes back seat to what is chosen to be remembered. Either intentionally or unintentionally. Broken limbs or broken hearts; it all sorts out the same way.

My wound takes me back to about age 8 or 9. It must have been summer, since my knees were bare. As you might guess, it was a knee wound. But not just any knee wound. And certainly not your average knee wound. As unexpected as snow in July, my stumble in the back hallway of my childhood home, where my right knee slammed into the wall as it met the floor (cushioned lusciously by the recently installed gold carpet to coordinate with the new wallpaper) produced a gash the size of a walnut in my knee.

Sitting back on my butt to recover from my stumble, I didn’t take in what had happened. After all, what was there to injure me? An unnoteworthy fall, by a healthy grade schooler, who went down, as I recall, unencumbered, in an empty, well-maintained hallway. There was no need to think otherwise. Yet there it was. And as I caught my breath (and no doubt my cool), rocking there in the hallway, a warm goo appeared on my knee. Accompanied by an incredibly large hole from an incredibly mundane fall.

Somehow my dad appeared on the scene, either having sensed the drama unfolding, or maybe I called to him. He surveyed the situation, no doubt making a comment intended to cheer and distract me. He fetched his first aid kit to clean the wound (he was, he’d informed me at a much younger age, an Army medic and was therefore highly trained to address any circumstances requiring first aid. I later figured out this was just a tale, but it worked its charm for many years.) Despite the intensity of this injury, he was up to the challenge and went to work. The gouge that most likely would have benefitted from a real doctor’s stitches was handily butterflied with two standard Band-aids. Dad pulled the skin as tight as he could from one side of the cut to the other, bringing the two jagged edges together in a satisfactory close. As he leaned back on his heels to admire his work, I remember wondering even then, “Was this too big a deal for two of J&J’s standard issues?” But who was I to question the medic? Who was I to doubt my Dad?

We did a search of the accident scene, for evidence of the offender, but nothing turned up. And despite the primitive care my Grand Canyon cut received, it healed reasonably, leaving me with only an impressive, now fading 1 ½” scar, just below my knee cap.

The scar (well earned, I think) and the unsolved mystery still oddly comfort me. Perhaps just transporting me back to my youth. Perhaps giving me a blissful moment alone with Dad, wrapped in his compassion. The wound was just the instigator and the accident, well I haven’t really given much thought about until now.

Circumstantial Pomp

It was a long shot from the start. Me graduating. Sure, I had lots of support, ripe with pom pom festooned cheerleaders in the background. But as always happens with school, it was ultimately up to me. Oooph! My parents claimed they believed in me, lauding me with praise and encouragement. They were genuinely supportive and ran through the lessons with me when we were home together. Still, I had my doubts. There were far more hours, when left to my own devices, I drew myself into a tight, skeptical circle. And got good and comfy there.

Anxiety was my new best friend as the material careening madly around in my head, like badly driven bumper cars with 8 year olds at the wheel, destined to only cause harm and confusion; without intention to actually succeed at the game. Even as I closed my eyes at night, I could hear my instructor calling me out on directions not followed; skills not mastered. It was during a particularly bad slump that I at least perfected the fine art of self-deprecation. To say that my confidence was eroding was an understatement. Perhaps others were struggling too, but I only visualized one student left behind. Me. Clearly something had to change.

The pivotal moment presented itself when I caught wind of a fellow student‘s performance. It’s not that things came easily to this chap; in fact quite the opposite. He’d appear to be trying, but was easily sidetracked; the instructor called him on it time and again. The class would watch in mock horror, secretly comforted by the fact that no matter how shoddy our performance, there was another classmate obviously in worse shape. Inspired, we all bonded together in a time-honored “us against them” mentality, determined to make the grade. No matter the cost, we would ALL graduate.

But our do-or-die team oath was abruptly shattered when our classmate was inexplicably yanked from school by his dad. Shocking and dispiriting for all and not the LEAST bit character building him; we all felt horribly. A remorseful howl in his honor was proposed, but we refrained in deference to the teacher. Later, the word leaked out: “our class was distracting him; getting him all worked up. He was unable to make satisfactory progress." He must have felt like a failure.

This got my attention quick. I had NO interest in being a failure. I had too many people expecting a sheepskin from me. I had to regroup. I had to re-motivate. I had to prove to all, but especially myself that this was not time nor money wasted. I would be worthy of a graduation fit for a king, not for a dog. I was ready to embrace my future with optimism and smarts. Let me at this final exam, baby. I’m ready. (And then went home and begged my family to prep with me. I was, after all, desperate.)

When the Day of Judgment came, I was unstoppable. I passed with flying colors. Even the instructor was amazed at my last minute surge in progress. “Determination!” I shouted at her (in my head, not being one to speak up and confront). My other classmates passed too. It was a series sweep for the team. We felt good, practically panting with pride. We’d come so far. We were graduates of Canine Obedience School and we were KING.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

Every night, in the middle of the night, when her husband falls asleep, she climbs out of bed and goes into the guest room. Before he falls asleep, she lays awake, eyes wide open, waiting until she hears the gentle snoring and feels him relax. Finally, she can get away.

They do it for the children--go to bed together. He has no trouble sleeping but somehow feeling him beside her makes her feel tense and afraid. When he finally slumbers, she literally feels her body melt into relaxation, her shoulders loosen, her breathing become deeper; she can escape.

During the day, they also keep up the charade. Ask the requisite questions about their daily activities. Neither one particularly cares, but they gamely play mommy and daddy. He never has anything to say. She used to have lots (and lots) to say but when she realized he wasn't listening, she stopped talking. It was sad when she realized that she'd call her friends first with exciting news about herself or the children. Sometimes she wouldn't even tell him because he was always distracted.

Of course, she can't sleep in the guest room so she ends up, always, at the computer. She wants to write a novel and has manic writing spurts where she churns out several chapters in a night. But when she reads them, she wonders if they would be remotely interesting to anyone but herself.

Her feelings are in her writing, essence woven into the words, voice unmistakable, loneliness palpable. The humor is there but the astute reader sees what lies beneath. Her book is uncomfortable to read so she gives it to no one.

During the day, she's out and about, chatting with friends, having lunch, participating in her many activities, hanging with her boys, involved in lengthy phone conversations. She loves going out, being part of a group, is energized by the interaction.

However, in the middle of the night, she's oftentimes churning out voluminous emails. Frenzied, stream of consciousness emails filled with stories she has to tell, questions she must have answered--they can't wait until the morning. All jumbled and annoyingly punctuated with CAPITAL LETTERS and exclamation points, the nightly missives likely exasperate the recipients no end, exhaust them even. She presses send/receive over and over to see who answers. It's the first thing she does each morning. If her emails aren't answered almost immediately, her insecurity sets in. What does she need? Or want?

In the middle of the night she wishes she could sleep. But sleep doesn't come.

THE WRITING PROMPT FROM BANGLADESH

Write about a day moon. This is our writing prompt today--our Writers' Net Group attempts to write to a daily prompt (What's this--the CMTs?) I mean, does this make sense to anyone? A day moon? I defy anyone to write anything remotely interesting about this topic.

First, I don't do sci fi so no crazy story about aliens reshuffling our intergalactic structure. No apocalyptic fantasy about a nuclear cloud interfering with the lightwaves and changing day to night, night to day.

Frankly, I'm suspicious of the origin of these writing prompts. One of our fellow bloggers is doling them out. Maybe he's trying to make us go mad so he can maniacally overtake the site.

Perhaps they now outsource writing prompt calendars? Is someone in Bangladesh sitting in some impoverished office hating everyone in the US so he or she isn't even going to attempt to think of anything remotely clever. And what the freak does this person care since he or she is probably making $1 per week.

Or maybe they're written freelance in India by exhausted, demoralized people whose jobs duties include things like spending three hours helping an irate person set up his new Dell printer. Or stuck in a Wal Mart customer service control center listening to someone harangue on about how her toaster burns bread even on the lowest setting.

Ok, I'll be a good sport and write to my prompt.

A man walked out his door and saw a day moon. He went back inside, lay on his couch, and vowed never to take acid again.

The End

Be A Dog

I got home from the gym and opened the kitchen door. The dog rose from his bed, looked at me expectantly and stretched. I tried to avoid his stare down. The one that said “You ARE going to come outside and throw the ball with me, aren’t you?” “No,” I telepathed back, still trying to avoid the pleading eyes, “its frigging 10 degrees outside. Even colder if you count wind chill. Do you even KNOW about wind chill, Rosco or does your hairy coat negate the necessity of that learning curve?” He clearly didn’t care. He may have needed to pee after being left, but as always; the ball was front and center. He yawned and let out one of his signature, low, growly howly notes to conclude the conversation. Still staring, however. Dang those puppy dog eyes.

“Come on!” I announced reluctantly. I walked over to the storm door, grabbing the handle firmly as the wind pulled hard, seeking that triumphant “wham!” all gusts hope to achieve when the door flies fully open. Rosco was now giving me the once over—he was beginning to understand what was about to happen. A classic toss and ditch was on the horizon. He knew I’d throw the ball. I knew he’d then chase it and pee. Ultimately we’d both be happy, so it was a fair trade. But I wasn’t going outside.

When he’d sauntered up close enough to me and the storm door to merit the momentary freeze I was about to experience, I opened the door for him, tennis ball in hand. He gave me one last longing glance and scooted into the cold, awaiting the ball’s release. As dictated by the toss and ditch, I catapulted the ball out into the yard; Rosco eagerly scampered after it. By the time he had reached it and had it in his mouth, I was fighting with the wind to get the door closed again. But as I stood there in the doorway, absent mindedly wrestling Mother Nature, I was struck by Rosco’s casual attitude to this biting cold. Having seen him cold and shivering before (he is a Terrier breed, after all), he HAD to be cold. But there he stood, next to his beloved ball, bladder full, hopefully sniffing the air. So intrigued was I that I remained planted, waiting his next move. He continued sniffing. After what seemed like a full minute, he started purposefully trotting around the yard, mission clearly in mind, only pausing briefly to do his stuff.

And as I returned to the warmth of the kitchen to watch Rosco from the window, it struck me that this was a good way to be: like a dog. Approach all situations with hope. Bravely forge onward, adverse conditions be damned. Even if you already know the conclusion, stop and take in the sights and smells along the way. And for Heaven’s sakes, make sure you enjoy your journey with purpose and conviction, especially if someone is watching. Just like a dog.