Mindlessly, I pulled the pillows off the bed
Thinking about what my husband had just said
About feeling adrift in a world gone mad
Fighting over things that folks once had had

Pillowcases not so gently tossed aside,
My mind roamed to all those soldiers who had died
Fighting against the wind in lands far away
Laundry on a line, too tightly bound to stray

The plaid coverlet dumped carelessly on the floor
Landed, with aplomb, blocking the bedroom door
So many paved paths deadlocked by tragedy
Murdered teens drowning in the filth of the city

Layer by layer I stripped my place of rest
As if preparing for a traveling guest
Who’d put alterations in my troubled brain
Inspiring change, much like a runaway train

It came to me, then, the trouble we are in
Referred back to when the world began to spin
Dirt drifted down, quickly tarnishing the soil
Sturdy stains from which all men would recoil

Yet, like drawn to the fire of a brand new day
Cleansing ideas floated in with the sway
Influencing hearts to always seek the truth
Strive to avoid the repulsively uncouth

Gathering the detritus of my hard work
I realized that there is one mammoth perk
When assembled together, my bed will please
Only then did I relax: my mind at ease

“You must be watchful,” Jimere said. His long, gray hair fell over his shoulders as he stood. “The Spirits love to surprise. Especially that one, Elodia.” With a trembling right hand, he pointed to a small potted plant near the doorway. “Elodia sends her scent to entice the unwary, and then paralyzes the body and the mind with the slightest taste.”

“Elodia’ll also give you a nasty rash if you don’t handle it carefully, but it’s the best thing for healing deep cuts when made into a poultice,” said fourteen-year-old Bitina. “Tell me something that I don’t already know. Maybe about that herb over there,” she said as she pointed to a tidy bundle of brown hanging from the rafters. “I want to know everything about healing, just like you do.” She crossed her arms over her budding breasts and glowered at her teacher.

“Time may be running out for your studies because your trial day is coming up, and if you don’t pass the test…”

“I’ll not get to be a healer. I know all this, Jimere,” Bitina said. She walked over to the working area and picked up a pestle. “Show me how to grind Kashere. I want to brew a tea to ease my grandma’s pain.”

“Yes, yes. In all good time.” Jimere lovingly ran his fingers along a row of clay pots on a shelf just above his head. He picked one up and looked inside. “Ah, Dulio. What is this good for?”

“I know,” shouted Renji as he rushed to his teacher’s side. “It takes the fight out of one who is possessed.”

“Right, my apt pupil.” Jimere ruffled the boy’s curly brown hair. “You’re the smartest eight-year old in the class.”

“I’m the only eight year old.” Renji’s shoulders squared with pride. He beamed at his sister, feeding the one-upmanship that marked their relationship.

“You said I was the smartest,” snarled Bitina. “Besides, I asked about Kashere. Please, Jimere, show me how to make the tea! Grandma’s fingers and toes ache so bad she can’t sleep.”

“Patience, dear one.” Jimere limped over to his work stool, leaning heavily on his cane. “Since you are also the smartest, tell me, Bitina, what Rodden looks like, and what it’s good for.”

“If I show you, will you answer my question?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

Bitina strode passed Jimere, her eyes scanning the shelved herbs. She pulled down a tied-together bunch with small, curly leaves. “This is Rodden. When someone is weak with fever, you take one leaf, crush it with a pestle, and then sprinkle it into a cup of boiling water. The sick one is to drink slowly, one sip at a time. If the fever does not go down in an hour, strengthen the dose and repeat.”

“So, you do listen and remember. That is good. That is very good. Now, go get the Kashere jar.” Jimere’s body suddenly began trembling and his face turned the color of old ashes. His eyes rolled back, he fell off the stool, and collapsed to the floor.

“Renji, watch his head,” Bitina said. “Make sure it doesn’t bang against anything.”

“I know what to do. Quit treating me like I’m stupid,” the boy said as he knelt by his teacher’s head. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he intoned as he stroked Jimere’s arms.

Bitina knelt by the old man’s side, and counted the seconds as the tremors continued. “Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one. This is bad, Renji.”

Instead of easing in intensity, as they usually did with time, the seizures seemed to get stronger and stronger.

“It’s never been this bad before,” Bitina said as tears poured down her pallid cheeks.

“Should I go get Lynnaia? She might be able to help,” Renji said.

Bitina nodded. Despite her years of training with the learned one, she felt incompetent in this situation. Jimere’s seizures usually went away quickly and then he was walking and talking normally, as if nothing had happened. She did not know what to do to help him, and so she simply sat and held his hand.

While Bitina kept watch, Renji ran down to the lake. Everyone in the village knew Lynnaia as the spiritual advisor, but she had also studied under Jimere when a young child. Going for her was a logical choice.

As time passed, and Renji did not return, and Jimere’s condition did not improve, Bitina knew that she had to do something. Her eyes flew about the room. What magic can I blend to make the seizures stop? She scanned the various plants growing in pots all along Jimere’s walls. Talluse. No, that’s to cure shyness. Denoy. Maybe. It can cure depression. I know! Altair. It’s good for all sorts of illnesses.

Bitina ran over to a cactus-like plant growing in the darkest corner of the room. She broke off a one-inch piece of leaf and carried it over to Jimere’s worktable. The defender. Yes, that will do. And I’ll add in a tad of Dulio, to ward off the darkness.

The girl put a pot of water over the warm fire. In the mortar, she crushed together the two herbs, working with the swiftness of a practiced healer. When the water boiled heartily, Bitina poured some into Jimere’s favorite mug. After carefully scraping the herbal mixture into the mug, she stirred.

What’s taking Renji so long? Lynnaia’s house isn’t that far away. Even if they crawled all the way back, they should have been here by now. Anger at her brother’s slowness would not help, and so Bitina tested the medicine to see if it was ready.

Jimere’s seizures had eased in intensity, but had not stopped completely. His mouth hung open as if to scream, and his back arched like a cat’s.

Bitina slowly knelt, being careful not to spill even one drop of the remedy. “Jimere,” she said. “I’m going to put some liquid in your mouth. When I do, swallow. It’ll help.” Bitina tipped the mug until a few drops fell into her teacher’s opened mouth. She didn’t see him swallow, but the medicine didn’t come back out, either. So she dripped in some more, and then still more.

The seizures slowly lost more and more power, making Bitina feel confident that her concoction was the right mixture. After she had managed to get the entire cupful into Jimere, his body noticeably relaxed.

She sat back on her knees and smiled. He’ll sleep the rest of the day now. She walked over to Jimere’s sleeping corner and got down two of his fluffiest furs. She carried them to where he slept. She spread one out next to Jimere, and then rolled his limp body over and over. When he was more or less in the middle, she stopped pushing. Then she covered him with the other fur.

After watching to make sure that he was out of danger, Bitina stood. Smiling with pride, she cleaned up the cooking area, humming a tune of thanksgiving. Renji should have been here ages ago. He probably found a frog and forgot all about Jimere. Wait until I see him!
Bitina wiped her hands on a clean towel, and then strode to the door. She looked toward the lake, hoping to see Renji and Lynnaia. There was no one near Garnock’s stall, one of the busiest shops in the village. No cluster of old women around the cooperative cooking pots. In fact, she could see no one milling about no matter in which direction she looked. This disturbed her, but she couldn’t just leave Jimere unless he was out of danger.

After checking on her teacher one last time, Bitina stepped into the street and headed toward home. As Bitina passed one house after another, she noticed no smoke coming out of chimneys, no noisy boys throwing rocks into the lake, and no men crafting weapons in the work area. A prickling sensation arose along the back of her neck. I’m being watched, she thought as she spun around. No, no one’s there.

She headed toward Lynnaia’s house, thinking she’d find Renji inside, eating peppermint candy. When she stepped on the old woman’s porch, Bitina noticed that there were no candles lit. Where’d she go?

Bitina took off, running past Jeca’s unkempt house, expecting to find her messing about in the dirt along the road. She wasn’t there, and she never goes anywhere.

Not knowing what else to do, Bitina headed toward the meetinghouse. There was almost always someone there, most likely another healer.

She ran as fast as she could up a small hill, leaping over rocks and fallen logs that were in the path. Bitina took a leap across a small stream, landing securely on the opposite side.
She ran and ran, and even though her side ached, Bitina ran some more. When she entered the meadow of the meetinghouse, she stopped to wipe the streams of sweat from her eyes. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, which was weird as that fire was always lit. If no one is here, then where could everyone be?

Terrified that some unimaginable evil had happened while she was tending to Jimere, she sped to the entrance door, hastily bowed the requisite number of times, and then lifted the latch. The door didn’t move. Bitina tugged again, leaning back on her heels and using all her weight as leverage. The door slowly opened, revealing total darkness inside.

A comforting breeze washed over Bitina as she stepped inside. She slipped off her shoes according to custom, and then pulled back the heavy curtain that lead to the worship room.

There was no glow in the fire pit, something that Bitina had never seen her entire life.
She shivered. First Jimere’s sickness, then Renji’s disappearance, the whole town empty and now the missing fire. It frightened her so much, that she stood frozen.
When something tickled the back of her arms, Bitina turned, terrified of what she’d see. But there was nothing that she could make out in the darkness.

Suddenly, from a corner of the room, beads rattled.

“Who’s there?” Bitina took a step forward, even though only silence greeted her shaking knees. “Is someone there? Please, speak to me,” She called out. Despite her best efforts to be brave, tears streamed down her face.

“The Spirits have chosen you,” a nearby voice called out. “Step into the heart of the darkness.”

“Who are you?” Bitina stayed close to the door, prepared to run away.

“Do not be afraid, for you are among fellow travelers,” a high-pitched voice intoned. “Step into the heart of the darkness.”

Bitina reached forward with both hands, and while waving them about, took ten tiny steps. “I’m in the center, I think.”

“Close your eyes and pray the prayer of hope,” the high-pitched voice commanded.

“Spirits of night and day, come to me today,” Bitina said. “Lead me far away to where my center lay. Bless me, bless me I pray.”

Sparkling lights suddenly erupted, filling the room with blinding color. Blinking rapidly, Bitina watched the display as awareness slowly came to her. She knew that this was how the crossing over ceremony began and so was no longer afraid.

With a loud swoosh, the fireplace burst into flame and strong arms wrapped around her chest, holding her firm.

“My child, do not fear,” the tender voice of Jimere whispered in her right ear. “You are to be named shaman. No longer are you apprentice.”

“But you were asleep when I left,” Bitina said.

“I know, I know. Thank goodness I taught you well. I was afraid that you would accidentally poison me. If I had not healed, you would have failed the test.”

“The test? That was my test?” A smile of pride lit Bitina’s face. “If I hadn’t thought of the right medicines, you might have died!”

“No, no. Lynnaia was right outside looking in through a window. If anything had gone wrong, she would have come in and taken over.”

“But, Jimere, how did she know to be there?” Bitina’s eyes got huge when she realized what had happened. Jimere had taken one of his own medicines, simply to trigger the seizures. “Why did you do that?”

“You had to pass the healing test. It’s the way that it’s always done. Now, look around. We are here to celebrate your special day.”

Bitina did as told. She recognized the people gathered around the fire. Renji stood with her parents. Lynnaia was next to Kitchell, and Alywin and Mercel stood together, holding hands. More and more faces became visible as Bitina’s eyes adjusted to the light.

Jimere chanted the crossing over song with pride in her voice. Soon everyone joined in, including Bitina. As expected, she fell to her knees and placed her hands on the soft dirt floor. Bowed, she gave thanks for all the time spent with the learned one, for her parents who had allowed her to study, to her brother Renji for helping her practice, and especially to the spirits, who guided her constantly. This was a truly special day.

Jonathan and Susan held hands across the smeared tabletop in Good Brews, their coffee cups pushed to the side. Oblivious to the bustle of the crowd around them, they stared, glittery-eyed into each others faces.

“Do you really love me?” Jonathan asked, leaning within inches of Susan’s forehead.

Susan squeezed his hands and smiled. “Yes, I do.”

“You do what?”

“Well, you mean a lot to me,” she said. She disengaged her right hand, picked up her cup and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee.

Jonathan seemed to shrink as he lost his luster. “That’s it? I mean a lot to you?”

Susan picked up her fork and cut into the piece of tiramisu before her. She closed her eyes as the bite entered her mouth. She nodded as she chewed. “Yes, you are everything to me. I don’t know how I existed before we met.”

“But do you love me?” Jonathan sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his one-inch black hair. “Because you never say the words.”

“I do,” Susan said. “Maybe you just aren’t listening.”

“Oh, I’d hear that,” he said, “if you actually said it.”

The waitress stopped by their table. “Is everything okay?” she said.

“We’re fine,” Jonathan said. “Could you bring the check, please?”

“Sure.” The waitress pulled it out of her pocket and placed it next to Jonathan’s empty cup.

“Have a great day,” she said as she  walked away.

Susan rooted through her purse, took out a twenty and handed it to Jonathan.

“What’s this for?”

“My half,” she said.

“But this is my treat.”

Susan sighed. “We’ve been over this before. I always pay my half. You pay yours.” She stood up and pulled her t-shirt down over her ample hips. “I’m going to use the restroom. I’ll meet you outside.”

Jonathan watched her walk away. Although he felt like crying, no tears fell. He stood and stumbled past all the occupied tables, picking up snippets of boisterous conversations along the way.

Outside, the early morning air still held the crispness of a foggy San Francisco morning. Noisy trolley cars ran up and down the street, blocking out the sounds of countless panhandlers begging for money.

When Susan emerged, they headed east on Market Street, toward the business district.

Jonathan wanted to hold her hand, but held back. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“Not sure,” she said. “My sister mentioned something about shopping on Saturday and some friends want to see a movie on Sunday afternoon, Why? What did you have in mind?”

They split temporarily to dodge a shopping-cart lady blocking the sidewalk.

“I was thinking,” Jonathan said. “Well, never mind. It’s not that important.”

Susan pulled ahead when they crossed at an intersection, giving Jonathan a good look at her swaying hips. He shuttled forward to catch up, lightly touching her on the shoulder to get her attention.

“Can we talk a minute?” he said.

Susan looked at her watch. “I guess so.”

“Are we a couple, or not?”

A man in a topcoat brushed past, knocking into Jonathan.

“We care about each other,” Susan said. “Isn’t that good enough?” She tapped Jonathan’s arm on his bicep.

“No.”

“Why not? We’re doing fine as is,” she said.

Jonathan put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her near. He kissed her on the forehead. “I need you to need me. To love me as much as I love you.”

Susan pulled away. “I’ve got to go to work. Can we save this for later?”

Jonathan’s shoulders fell and a dejected look crossed his face. “So you’re turning me down.”

“Not really. I just need time to think.”

“Time away from me.”

“I guess,” she said. “Yeah. I’m not ready to commit.” Susan opened the door of her office building. “You’re a great guy. I like you a lot. But I can’t handle the pressure.” She turned and walked through the door.

Jonathan watched her go until she entered the elevators. He checked his watch, then turned and walked back to Good Brews. Standing inside was a lanky redhead. “Hi, Estelle.”He planted a kiss on her cheek, placed a hand in the middle of her back and guided her to a booth.

There is no quicker way to end a pleasant conversation than by bringing up the topic of death. Beyond the saying of requisite condolences, we don’t really know how else to respond. Death touches us all eventually, but interestingly enough, we have never mastered the art of talking about it, despite the fact that we all will eventually die.

There are many terms to describe the process of dying; passed away, late, no longer with us, moved on. For some reason we find all of these terms more palatable than the simple word, dead. We try to sweeten it up, either for the benefit of the sorrowing ones, or to mask our own discomfort.

Some of us are lucky enough to go peacefully and quickly. We are alive one moment and gone the next. No lingering, no suffering, just blessed peace. Is it part of our genetic makeup? Are some of us destined to die with our dignity still intact while others of us disappear slowly, particle by particle? Is that also part of the design?  Science might not have the answers, but maybe it will someday.

It is interesting how far we will go to avoid the topic of death, yet our media is inundated with gory images of death. Every day the news is filled with stories about children caught in the crossfire, families killed in horrendous car accidents, fatal home invasions and violence deliberately enacted on the targets of unsuppressed rage. We watch and listen, but seldom discuss.

Movies and television programs thrive on the study of death, almost to the glorification of the act of killing. Almost every night, on every channel, there are police scenarios, crime scene investigations, mentalists who look into eyes and can determine guilt, and gang-style organizations that wreak havoc in our cities. Video games allow players to reenact, over and over, the countless deaths of perceived enemies, not just in the act of war, but of those who simply have the audacity to cross our paths.

Has all this made us immune to the reality of death? The permanence of death? There is that possibility. How often do we cry over the news? Probably not all that often. We might shake our heads and bemoan the loss of life, but do we truly mourn, deep inside, for those unknowns who have left us. Until death becomes personal.

An elderly woman, full of life, yet living in a residential care facility, dresses every morning as if she is going out for the evening. Neatly pressed dress, hat, white gloves. She goes to the art room to participate in a class. Sits down. Keels over. Just like that. Quiet, peaceful, with dignity intact. Dressed as if she knew it was her final act in a one=person play.

A man in a skilled nursing facility who can still walk and talk, gets up one morning and slips. As he falls, his head strikes the metal bed. He dies immediately, with his family wondering what happened. Yet they are spared of watching his mind vanish and his body crumble.

There are those who linger, caught in a never-never-land of oblivion. Their hearts continue to beat, lungs to breathe, organs to process, yet there is no one home. They are force-fed in order to keep them alive. But is it living? Does quality of life count for anything?

As we age, death becomes more of a reality. We develop conditions. We are hospitalized. We have surgery. We learn again to walk, talk, eat, be human. But we know and understand that we are dying incrementally every day. No matter how much we exercise, eat the right foods, abstain from the vices of drugs and alcohol, our bodies fail us by degrees. We hope that our end is not near, that by taking care of ourselves we are postponing what is to come.

But what happens when we are touched by death? Do we cry? Wail? Pound our heads against the wall? Climb into bed and bury ourselves in our covers? Or do we realize that others need us to be strong, to support them as they accompany us through the grieving process?

We walk through this life with others standing by our sides. Holding our hands. As good citizens we must be there to listen, to hold, to comfort, even when we are hurting inside.

After all, isn’t that what we hope for when our time comes?

The woman’s right arm thrust forward, her finger pointing at the huddled mass on the kitchen floor. “What’s that thing doing in here?”

“I got me a dog,” the man said as a self-deprecating smile crossed his face. He walked to the refrigerator, got out a can of beer, popped the top and took a huge sip. “Norm and me are going rabbit hunting tomorrow.” He gulped down the rest of the can, scrunched it up and set it on the counter.

The woman leaned against the sink, reached for her lit cigarette, brought it to her lips and inhaled in one fluid motion. “It ain’t gonna live in this house.”

The man shrugged. “I knew you’d say that.” He got another beer, threw back his head and swallowed. “So I’m gonna build her a house out back.”

The woman took another puff. “Then you’d better get busy.”

“C’mon, girl,” the man said as he led the dog outside.

The woman laid her cigarette in the ashtray and then walked into the front room, her skirt making a swishing sound with every step. She turned on the television, switched channels until she was satisfied, sat on the couch and then lit a new cigarette.

She twisted a chunk of her hair into a tight curl, bobby-pinned it tight against her scalp, then picked up another swatch of hair and did it again. Again and again until her head glowed from the sheen of the pins. She stopped only long enough to smoke, each time the end of the cigarette glowing like the sun. When finished, the woman wrapped toilet paper around and around her head until she looked like a surgery patient.

All the while, from outside came sounds of sawing, swearing and pounding, accompanied by the occasional whine of the dog.

“Come outside,” the man said just as the sky was turning gray.

The woman followed him to the end of the yard, where now stood a finished doghouse with a rectangular doorway and a sharply pitched roof. The dog sported a chain attached to its collar, the other end looped onto a large stake.

The man smiled. “The dog will live out here.” He stood tall, with shoulders squared, proud of his work.

The woman turned and went into the house, sat on the couch and puffed on her cigarette.

The man followed, stopping long enough to chug down a beer. “I’m gonna take a shower and go to bed.”

That’s when the noise began. At first it was a high-pitched whine, but it quickly escalated into an ear-piercing howl that spoke of loneliness and despair.

The woman opened the back door, stuck out her head and yelled, “Shut up.”

The dog quieted down immediately.

The woman went into the bedroom, put on her nightgown and got into bed. As soon as her head hit the pillow, the howling began again, this time louder and longer in intensity. “Go shut that dog up,” the woman said when her husband came out of the bathroom.

The man went outside and cussed at the dog. It whined and whined and so the man cussed some more. When the dog was finally quiet, he got in bed. Pulled the covers up to his shoulders. Closed his eyes. The racket began.

The woman punched the man on the arm and said, “You’d better keep that dog quiet or the neighbors will complain.”

The man got up and slipped on his shoes and a shirt. Cussing all the while, he walked down the hall and outside. The door slammed.

In the morning the woman unwrapped her head and took out the bobby pins. She carefully fluffed her hair so that the curls kept their shape. She dressed and went to the kitchen where she found her old cigarette in the ashtray. She lit it and inhaled, closing her eyes as the wave of nicotine hit her.

She looked out back and saw that the dog was gone. So was the car. “By God, he did go hunting.”
In the late afternoon, the man returned. He staked the dog to its chain and came in for a beer. “That dog is worthless. She wouldn’t follow the pack and jumped every time someone fired a gun.”

The woman smirked.

“I’ll take her back tomorrow. I’m gonna go take a shower.” The man headed down the hall.

The howling started up as soon as the water began to pour, so the woman stepped outside and yelled, “Be quiet.”

The dog obeyed. The woman slowly walked toward it. “What kind of beast are you? You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you.”

The dog turned its sad brown eyes at the woman, laid down its head and rested its chin on its front paws.

“Look at those eyes,” the woman said. “You’d melt butter.” She bent over and rubbed the dog’s head. “My, your fur is soft.”

The dog inched closer until she was able to rest against the woman’s leg. The woman patted the dog on the shoulders and back. “You’re a sweety, but I’ve got work to do.” The woman walked away.

Immediately the dog began to whine, its tail flopping from side to side and its eyes wide and sorrowful. The woman returned, bent over and picked up the dog. She cradled it in her arms and rocked it like a baby. “I bet you’re hungry, poor thing.” She unhooked the dog and carried it inside. She gave it a bowl of water and some of the canned food her husband had brought home. The woman smiled as the dog wolfed down its breakfast.

When finished, the dog collapsed to the floor with a sigh and promptly fell asleep.

The woman moved her ashtray to the kitchen table, sat on a chair, and smoked with a satisfied smile on her face.

“What have you done?” The man hit himself on the forehead. “What’s wrong with you, woman? I thought you didn’t want that dog in the house?”

“She was lonely. And hungry. I couldn’t leave her out there, all alone, another minute.”

The man opened the back door. “You’ve ruined her. You’ve made a pet out of her. Now I can’t bring her back.” The door slammed shut behind him.

The woman smiled, inhaled, blew smoke in the air and said, “Now, what shall I call you?”

One September morning as my mom and I sat on our back porch steps, a group of children walked by, happily swinging colorful metal boxes. They laughed and giggled with huge smiles on their faces. I thought they were the luckiest kids on earth.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“To school,” my mom said as she lit a cigarette.

“What’s school?”

“You’ll find out in a few years.” She inhaled and then blew out the smoke. It drifted across my face, making me cough.

Two more happy kids walked by, also carrying those strange boxes.

“What’s in those boxes?” I asked.

“Their lunches.” She inhaled again, this time turning her head away from me before blowing out the smoke.

“Can I have one?”

“It’s too early for lunch,” my mother said.

“I mean, a box like that.”

“Not until you are old enough to go to school.” She ground the cigarette into the weeds next to the porch and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees.

“How old do I have to be?” I asked.

“Five.”

I thought about that for a bit as I counted on my fingers. “So in two more years.”

“Yes. Bill will go to school first, next year. Then you the year after that.” My mother put a new cigarette in her mouth and lit it. She inhaled and then blew a cloud of smoke that drifted my way.

“What do you do at school?”

“Learn things.” She inhaled again, this time blowing the smoke high over my head. She stood up, brushed off her skirt and opened the door. “It’s time to go inside.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “Why can’t I have a lunchbox now?”

“There’s no money, for one thing. Another is that you don’t need one.” My mother got down some pans and pulled things out of the cabinets and refrigerator.

“I don’t care,” I said. “I want a lunchbox anyway.”

“Go away,” my mother said. “You’re bothering me.”

I went into the bedroom that I shared with my brother. I climbed up on my bed and looked out the window. A few more kids went by, each of them swinging a lunchbox and smiling. I placed my hand on the glass, reaching out to those kids, wishing I could be walking with them. I watched for a while, but saw no more kids, so I sat on my bed and cried.

When my dad came home from work, I asked him for a lunchbox. I thought he’d understand since he carried an old black one. It wasn’t shaped like the ones the kids had and wasn’t new and shiny. But at least he had a box. “Can I have a lunchbox?” I asked my dad.

He did not answer. He looked at my mom. “What’s she want now?”

“She saw school kids carrying boxes this morning and that’s all she can think about.” My mother carried dishes to the table. “Dinner’s ready,” she said.

My brother was already in his chair. I slid into mine. “I want a lunchbox like the ones those kids had.”

“Let it go,” my mom said. She glowered at me. That was the signal to shut up and be still, but I was a stubborn child.

“Daddy,” I said, “Mother says I have to wait until I go to school. That’s too long. Can’t I have a box now?”

“Shut up and eat,” he said.

I did the best that I could with tears in my eyes. After dinner we went into the front room and watched TV. I sat on the floor with my legs crossed, looking at the set, but my mind was elsewhere. All I saw was me following those kids, carrying a pretty lunchbox.

When it was time for bed, I asked again. “Please, can I have a lunchbox?”

“Go to bed,” my dad said.

I did, but I didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

The next morning I sat on the kitchen steps again, watching the kids go by. “Mother, why can’t I have a lunchbox? I’ll take really good care of it.”

“Shut up about it,” she said. Her face looked angry, so I sat quietly until my mother finished her cigarette and went inside.

I drew pictures of lunchboxes and kids and me, all walking together, smiles on our faces.

When my dad came home I asked him again for a lunchbox. He did not tell me no, but he didn’t say yes, either. He walked into the kitchen. I heard my mom and dad talking, but I couldn’t hear their words. We ate dinner, watched TV, and then went to bed.

In the morning when I went into the kitchen there was a blue metal box sitting on the table. My eyes grew huge. “What’s that?”

“It’s a lunchbox that your father brought home,” my mother said. There was a funny look on her face that I didn’t understand. She didn’t seem to be angry, but she wasn’t smiling, either.

“Why didn’t he take it to work?” I asked. My fingers carefully touched the sides of the box. It was bumpy in places and smooth in others.

“Open it up.”

I did. Inside I found a sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple. “Is this Bill’s?”

“No. It’s for you.”

“For me?” My eyes grew huge with surprise.

“Yes, for you.”

I closed the lid and picked it up by the handle. I swung it by my side, just like those kids had done. “Do I get to go to school?”
“No, you’re too young.”

“Did Bill get a lunchbox too?” I asked as I held it tightly to my chest.

“No. He didn’t want one.”

“Oh.” I rocked back and forth, thinking. My brother didn’t get a box and he had to go to school before I could. “I get to keep this?”

“Yes. Your father got it from someone at work who didn’t want it anymore. It’s for you.”

I carried my lunchbox into the front room and sat on the couch. I opened the lid. The sandwich and apple were still there. I picked each one up, turned them from side to side and them put them back inside. I closed the lid and flipped the latch. “When will it be lunchtime?”

“Not for a long time,” my mother called from the kitchen. “Find something to do to keep busy.”

I went into my room and got out a coloring book and crayons. I put everything on my bed, with my lunchbox tucked neatly by my side. I colored several pictures, taking my time to stay in the lines like my mother wanted.

“Lunch time,” my mother called.

I put my things away and carried my lunchbox into the kitchen. I carefully placed it on the table and sat in my chair. I opened the lid and took out my sandwich. “Is this what kids do at school?”

“Yes. They sit at tables, just like you.” My mother lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke out into the room.

I took a bite of the sandwich. “Why did you give this to me if I can’t go to school?”

“Your father wanted you to have it.” She inhaled again. “Just be grateful that someone gave it to him.”

I was grateful. That blue metal box was my most precious possession for many years.

Needing spending money as a young teenager, I decided to take up babysitting as a profession. I had no experience with little children, had never changed a diaper, and was terrified of the dark. Big deal! I could do this.

I didn’t know how to drum up business either. I was incredibly bashful. Put me in a room with someone and I became invisible. I could hide in the middle of my own birthday celebration, simply by blending in with the upholstery on the couch. So how was I going to approach neighbors and ask for work?

Because my brother was a superb salesman, he did the legwork, and then I followed through with the delivery. This worked for the diverse things that we took on, such as a small Midwest newspaper that came out once a month. My brother knocked on doors to get clients; I left the merchandise on the porch.

We sold fruits picked from our neighbor’s backyard, vegetables from our own, seeds from catalogues and various kinds of magazines. All in all, we did well.

I loved the feel of independence that salesmanship gave me. With my bicycle tires humming along the pavement, I felt strong and brave. I envisioned myself as all-powerful: capable of doing anything, anytime, anywhere.

That all changed after I deposited the paper on the welcome mat on the Wilson’s front porch. Normally no one answered, so imagine my surprise when the door opened.

Mrs. Wilson smiled warmly. “Hello! Aren’t you the newspaper girl?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever babysit?”

I wanted to yell, Oh, yes, but I was a horrible liar. “No, but I am interested.”

“Are you free Friday night?”

Of course, I’m free. I’m always free. We never go anywhere. “Yes.”

“Can you come around seven? My husband and I are going into Dayton for a company party. We should be back by ten.”

I should ask my parents first. If I agree without their permission, I could get into big trouble. “Sure.”

“Can you come in and meet the kids?”

You mean the ones screaming in the background? The ones pushing each other off the couch? “Sure.”

Mrs. Wilson, with a fake smile plastered on her face, held open the screen door while I stepped inside. The living room floor was covered with bits and pieces of toys. The couch cushions floated between the detritus, like icebergs in an artic sea. On each cushion, stood a little boy.

“What’s your name?”

“Terry.”

“Terry, I’d like you to meet my sons. This is Billy. The one in the middle is Joe. That one over there is Mickey. Mickey and Joe are twins.”

Billy looked like a demon, primarily due to his flying red hair and jam-encrusted face. All he needed was a pair of fangs and some horns. Joe and Mickey were duplicates, down to the brown freckles dancing on their cheeks. They even wore matching clothes. As long as they didn’t move, I shouldn’t have any trouble.

“Come into the nursery. I want you to meet Nancy.” Mrs. Wilson led the way, with the flotilla of boys drifting in her wake. I brought up the rear, noticing as I did so, that either Joe or Mickey had sat in something brown and gooey. Could it be?

“There’s my little girl!” Mrs. Wilson stood in the doorway of a pale pink room. A stark white crib sat along one wall, a matching chest of drawers on another, and a changing table on the third. Fortunately, she explained how to operate the changing table, or I would have been in terrible trouble.

“When you come, the boys will already be in their pajamas. After you read them a story, send them to bed. They know the routine. Nancy will be asleep. You shouldn’t have to do anything with her at all.”

“Okay.”

The family headed for the front room, so I tagged along. By now I knew that I was in over my head. Three boys, all under five, plus a diaper-clad baby. I yearned to tell Mrs. Wilson that there was this family obligation that I just remembered, but the words failed me.

“Here’s the television. After the boys are asleep, you can watch whatever you like. You don’t do ironing, do you?” Her hand swept melodramatically toward an ironing board set up in one corner of the room. A huge pile of clothes filled up a nearby chair. “We’ll pay extra if you also iron. What do you charge?”

I had no idea. Not only had I never babysat, I’d also never done someone else’s laundry. “A dollar an hour.”

“We’ll give you one-fifty, as that is what our last babysitter charged. Then we’ll give you another fifty for the ironing. That makes two dollars an hour. Does that sound good?”

You’ve got to be kidding! For taking care of four little brats, plus ironing two-week’s worth of clothes, she should give me a hundred! “Fine.”

“Great! We’ll see you Friday!” Mrs. Wilson smiled as she escorted me to the door. Billy had his middle finger embedded in his nose, while Joe and Mickey clung to their mother’s skirt. “Say bye, boys!”

“Bye!” they chorused.

I stepped onto the porch, wondering what I had done to myself. True, I had wanted to become a professional babysitter. True, this was a prime opportunity to hone my skills. There were a few problems, one of which was telling my parents that I had accepted a job at a total stranger’s house. The other had to do with three little boys and a baby.

Surprisingly enough, neither of my parents complained about my independent thinking. My father’s only requirement was that he drive me to the house and meet both parents. I didn’t tell him about the ironing.

The next two days flew by, as all summer days do when you are young. This was long before the Internet, so I had no way to research proper babysitting methodology. I would just have to figure things out as they happened.

Just after dinner on Friday, my father picked up his car keys and headed out the door. By now I was scared nearly to death. My heart blocked my throat and my legs wobbled like pudding. Nevertheless, I picked up a book that I was reading, and followed.

When we got to the Wilson’s house, my dad said, “Let me do the talking. If things don’t check out, then I’m taking you back home.”

Please, please, don’t “check out.” Please take me back home. “Okay.”

With his normal swagger, my dad stepped on the porch and pounded on the door. He held his shoulders back, and a stern look fell across his face. He seemed much bigger than his five foot seven frame.

“Hello,” Mrs. Wilson said as she opened the door. “Is this your father, Terry?”

“I’m her father. I just wanted to make sure that she would be safe here.”

Not that routine! Please don’t embarrass me! Not tonight!

“No problem. Come on in.” Mrs. Wilson held the door open for us.

I felt like a little girl clinging to my father’s proverbial belt, as we stepped into the front room. “We should be back by ten. The boys are ready for bed, and the baby is sleeping. Terry is going to do our ironing once everyone is asleep. After that, she’s going to watch television.”

Why did she mention ironing and television?

Without saying a word, my father turned and left. I faced the boys, who sat on the couch, with hair wet from baths and faces squeaky clean.

“We’ll be going in a few minutes.” Mrs. Wilson disappeared down the hall, her skirt swishing behind her.

“Hi,” I said as I sat on the edge of the couch. “Want me to read to you?” Billy nodded and handed me a book. I found a spot between the twins, and began reading.

“We’re leaving now,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Boys, you be good and go to bed when the book is finished. We’ll see you at ten.”

Mrs. Wilson looked gorgeous, decked out in a fancy dress and high heels. Mr. Wilson wore a black suit and white shirt. They made a handsome couple.

After the car drove away, all hell broke loose. Billy climbed up the back of the couch and began shooting at the twins. Joe and Mickey ran in circles, dodging the imaginary bullets. Billy jumped down, picked up a sofa cushion, and threw it at Joe. Is that Joe or Mickey? Who cares anyway? Joe threw it at Mickey, hitting him squarely on the nose. Mickey crumpled to the floor, blood squirting between his fingers. Joe chased after Billy, threatening to kill him. As they ran in and out of the kitchen and family room, I got Mickey up off the floor and into the bathroom.

While I tried to stop the bleeding by pressing his nose with a cold cloth (ineffective, but the only thing I could think to do), Billy raced down the hall, shrieking like the devil he was. Joe wailed, complaining about an injury to his right ear. The baby woke up with the commotion.

I left Mickey in the bathroom, holding a blood-tinged cloth to his still-dripping nose. I caught Billy as he ran by, and held him up in the air, his feet pounding my thighs. His attempts to wriggle free worked. As soon as his feet found purchase, he was off and running. Meanwhile, Joe had found a plastic gun, which he was waving around like Clint Eastwood. Nancy’s screams reached ear-splitting level.

I decided to check on the baby, and to let the boys kill themselves. When I picked up Nancy, my hand squished something cold and wet. She was soaked all through her pajamas. The din in the hall had escalated considerably, as Mickey had joined the fight now taking place in kitchen, front room, hall, and family room.

I placed Nancy on the changing table, and unsnapped the pajamas. I got the clothes off of her despite her flailing arms and thrashing feet. Not only was she wet, but she had also pooped a gooey, sloppy mess.

The bathtub seemed too big for a baby, so I immersed her in the sink. Using the only washcloth that I could find (the one with Mickey’s blood on it), I washed off the urine and poop. Nancy stopped shrieking, which was the only good thing happening.

I got her reasonably clean and then carried her back into the nursery. I fished around the table until I found a diaper, a plastic cover, and a clean pair of pajamas. While she wriggled and squirmed, I got the diaper in place. Unfortunately, I didn’t know to put my hand between her body and the diaper pin, so she got stuck. Her face turned dark red, and then a wail erupted the size of Mount Vesuvius.

I could hear the boys, now hooting like banshees, throwing something that thumped and crashed. I prayed that it wasn’t breakable.

As soon as Nancy was dressed, I put her in the crib. That was not what she wanted, however, and so she resumed screaming. I picked her up, thinking that I had better get the boys in bed.

When I stepped into the family room, I thought a bomb had exploded. Books littered the floor, the pile of clothes covered all surfaces, and pieces of tableware (fortunately not broken) were balanced on the arms of the chairs and the couch.

“Stop. Please, stop.” When there was no change in behavior, I searched deep inside and found my “parent voice.” “Stop, now.” I put my left hand on my hip and glowered, as I’d seen my mother do. They’re stopping! Yes! Now what do I do?

“It’s time for you to go to bed. All of you,” I said.

One by one, they peeled off the couch and headed down the hall. I followed to ensure that their intentions were honest. “In your own rooms,” I said as all three turned into the same room. With a sheepish grin, Billy went into the next room and slammed the door. I watched as the twins climbed into their beds. I patted each one on the head, and said, “Good night.” Before stepping into the hall, I asked, “Do you want me to leave the door open?”

“No! Close the door! Close the door!” Mickey stood up in bed, and began jumping and chanting. Joe did the same. Nancy thought the whole thing was pretty funny, and she started giggling.

“Get back in bed. Your parents will be angry if they knew what you were doing.”

“No they wouldn’t. We do this all the time,” Joe said. “Jump, jump, jump,” he sang in his high-pitched voice.

A loud pounding came from the direction of Billy’s room, so I left the twins. When I opened the door, Billy threw a hardball against his wall.

“Stop,” I said.

“Make me.” He threw the ball, aiming for my head. Just as it bounced off the wall behind me, I grabbed it and tucked it into my pocket.

“Go to bed.”

“You can’t make me,” Billy sang. “You’re dumber than our last babysitter. She quit and won’t ever come back.”

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that this was too good to be true! Mrs. Wilson took advantage of me. Nevertheless, there was nothing I could do except get these kids in bed.

“Well, I’m here, and your mother wanted you to be in bed. I’m going to stand here until you get under the covers.”

Billy, for some strange reason, complied.

When I left him, I was feeling ill. My heart had grown ten sizes, and was ready to explode. My stomach churned like Niagara Falls, and my head spun like a carousel.

I stopped outside the twin’s room and listened. All was quiet. That left Nancy to get back in bed, and then tackle the ironing. I carried her into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and found a bottle filled with milk. Nancy pulled it to her open mouth. Thinking that all would be fine now, I put her in the crib. She sucked noisily, making a snuffling, gurgling sound.

There was still no noise coming from the other rooms, so I sighed, thinking that the worst was over. About that time, Nancy’s yells echoed off the walls. I scurried into the room. She had spit up, and a creamy vomit covered her pajamas, the wall, her blanket, and the sheet. I took off her messy clothes, only to discover another pooped-in diaper. I got her cleaned up, then put her on the floor.

After changing the sheet and blanket, and scrubbing the wall, (while trying not to throw up!), I got her back in bed.

By now it was nine, and I was exhausted. I straightened up the family room and kitchen while the iron warmed. With the television on, I made it through the huge mound of clothes. I hung up each item, proud of my work.

It took me over an hour, but I felt satisfied with my efforts. Thinking that the parents should be home at any moment, I stretched out on the couch to watch a little television.

I must have fallen asleep, for I jumped when a man leaned over me, calling my name.

“You were sleeping,” Mr. Wilson said.

“No, I was just resting my eyes.”

“So, you got the ironing done. That’s good. And the kids are asleep. Thanks. I’ll drive you home.”

“Okay.”

I followed him out the door. I got in the passenger seat and closed the car door. He drove me home, talking constantly. When we pulled up in front of my house, he said, “We’re going out next Friday. Would you be interested in babysitting?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, here’s your money. I put in a little extra since we got home so late.”

“Thanks.”

After I had closed the front door, I looked at the clock. It was two in the morning! Then I counted my money. Mr. Wilson had given me one dollar more than he owed.

You would think that I had learned my lesson and would never babysit again. Unfortunately, I gave it two more tries.

The next was on a stormy night. Branches scratched against the windows and the wind whistled as it blew. Lights flickered and all the shows on the television were frightening. I ended up calling home for help. My dad came and spent the time with me until the parents came home.

The last time I took care of a baby boy. When his diaper needed changing, at least this time I knew what to do. I took out the pins, removed the stinky diaper, but as I was putting on a clean one, the baby let out a stream of urine that shot into the air. I caught much of it with the diaper, but then I needed another clean one. Just as I got it into place, he pooped. I went through all the diapers on the changing table before I finally got one pinned on. When his parents came home, the mother was horrified.

After that I gave up babysitting for good.

Emma Healey’s debut novel, Elizabeth is Missing, deals with the issue of dementia. The protagonist, Maud, forgets the simplest of details. She writes things down that she does not want to forget and then stuffs those notes into her pocket where they become crumpled. Her daughter comes over every day to help out, plus there is a part-time hired assistant who arrives in the morning.

The effects of aging concern all of us who have reached a certain age. We have relatives who have dementia or other forms of cognitive deficits and worry that the same thing will happen to us. We see them struggling with basic tasks such as feeding, toileting and self-care. They lose their driver’s license and eventually can no longer live alone. They wear diapers, become confined to wheelchairs, cannot walk and lose the ability to recognize people that once were important in their lives.

Dementia is a frightening affliction as there is no cure. Drug companies are test-marketing medications that might slow down the process, but none can stop the progression of the disease.

We live in an instant-gratification world. When we want something, we can find it online if we can’t get to a store. Food, electronics, books, clothing, shoes, music are all available with a click of the mouse. But what happens when our memory fails and we can’t remember what we want, what we already have, what we have dreamed about?

In the novel, Maud is obsessed with one worry: she believes that her friend of many years is missing. She cannot remember what she has been told about her friend and so goes about pestering people with her concerns.
Spotty recall is one of the indications of dementia. Initially short-term memory is affected. The individual cannot remember what he/she just ate, who called or visited, what she watched on TV or whether or not he had a bath. Yet for some reason, he remembers the names of his children, but not grandchildren, where he lived as a young man, and even when he bought his television and computer. She isn’t able to turn on the computer or operate a remote, and following a conversation is nearly impossible. The only possible blessing is that dementia destroys so many connections in the brain that the individual eventually loses herself in the fog of the disease.

Of course there are other afflictions that are equally disabling. For a lover of books and movies, there is the loss of sight. Those inspired by music fear deafness. The physically active are troubled by impairments that leave them unable to walk without assistance. For the ones who cherish independence, the inability to drive and to live alone are profound.

Maud is a sympathetic character. We expect our protagonist to experience change in response to the plot, and are most pleased when the change leaves our character better off then when the story began. Unfortunately dementia has no happy ending.

Every summer hordes of sweaty children crammed into cars and headed into downtown Dayton, Ohio, where the nearest public pool was located in order to participate in lessons. Suits and frilly caps were donned, and then swimmers, dragging towels, paraded onto the deck. Blue-suited instructors sorted the swimmers by skill level, with the least talented in the shallow end, the more competent ones down by the diving board and all the in-between ones in groups along the deck. The smallest kids generally fell into the first group, while the taller ones stood proudly in the second.

When I was nine years old my mother decided that it was time for me to learn to swim. She was tired of my floundering around whenever we went to Indian Lake and so had decided that only a proper instructor could teach me. After purchasing a proper one-piece suit and gathering needed supplies, the day arrived when our family joined the others heading into town. I was extremely nervous. Terrified, really.

Now you have to understand that I was fat. There is no kind way to phrase it, for my legs were puffy pouches even at that tender age and my belly jiggled like Santa’s when I walked. Putting on a suit that showed every bodily flaw was not my idea of fun.

On top of that, I was deathly afraid of the water. Not all water, mind you. I could happily sit in my neighbor’s baby pool and splash in the six inches of water for hours at a time. I could even walk around the edges of a lake or river, feeling the gentle pull of the water against my ankles. When forced to go into deeper water, I could float on my back for the briefest of moments, until I felt some imaginary “thing” brush against my tense body and then I would flounder from panic. But I could not swim and so the thought of getting into that large pool filled me with fear.

After demonstrating my total lack of skill when asked to tread water or swim the crawl stroke, I was assigned the “baby” group for my two weeks of lessons. I was the oldest and the fattest student in the group. Because of these two conditions, I believed that the instructor hated me. I was the antithesis of everything she stood for: fitness, image, skill, and self-confidence. She was young, slim and oozed a certain degree of arrogance. In my mind, she was going to pick on me, humiliate me, and cause me to do things that I would never have done on my own.

But I had no choice. My mother had paid for the lessons. She had given me firm instructions to pass the first level so that I could progress to the next. And so when told to get into the water, I complied. I clung to the side of the pool with a death grip and only let go when held by the instructor.

Day after day we blew bubbles, bobbed our heads under water, floated on our backs with the aide of the teacher, and learned a rudimentary form of crawl stroke. Being a relatively intelligent child, I quickly mastered blowing and bobbing, keeping my eyes tightly closed the whole time. Floating was the one skill that I could demonstrate with some prowess, and so I willingly flaunted my ability whenever the opportunity arose. Coordinating arms, legs, and rhythmic breathing however, was not even in my vocabulary and so the crawl stroke was out of the question.

Nevertheless, every day I put on a determined face and gave it my best shot. My teacher was encouraging for the most part, although she sometimes lost patience with me, especially when the tiny kids mastered skills that I still could not. Surprisingly enough I did show slight improvement over time despite my continuing fear of the water. Some days I could swim a few feet before panic set in and I flipped onto my back to float.

Most days I could put together about eight strokes before I began to sink. Even at my best, the distance from wall to wall was as insurmountable as climbing Mt. Everest.
The last day of lessons everyone had to demonstrate their skills, and if they passed, they earned a coveted certificate that allowed them to go on to the next level. In order to advance, I had to dive in the deep water and swim the width of the pool and back. There is no way in God’s watery world that I stood a chance of passing this test. In fact, I was convinced that I would drown.

One other thing that you need to know; I was a master at excuses. I could drum up the crème de la crème of stories in seconds, without much thought required. Give me a scenario, and my creative little mind went to work. So it should come as no surprise that on test day, I came up with a list and plied them all.

Before lining up to take the test, before putting on my suit and cap, even before we parked in the lot, I began to plead in earnest. I told my mother that I was feverish and had the chills. She rolled up the windows of the car, creating a stifling situation for the entire family. Then I told her I was going to throw up; she rolled the windows down and told me to stick my head out. As the air rushed by, it stole my breath away. My hair flicked into my eyes, so I cried in pain, declaring that my eyes had been injured, so I couldn’t swim as the chlorine would seep into the cuts and blind me. My mother said that chlorine is a disinfectant, and so it would kill any germs that might have blown in with the wind.

When we arrived at the pool, I suddenly remembered that my suit was still at home. “No worry,” my mom said as she pulled it out of a large bag in the trunk. “Now get in the locker room and get dressed.”

Off I went sulking. While in the dressing room, my intestines did a mighty jump, sending me rushing into the bathroom where I sat as everything I had eaten for days gushed out. Convinced that I really did have the flu, I stayed close to the toilet, waiting for the next attack. Unfortunately, my mother appeared and unsympathetically dragged me to the poolside, towing me like a tugboat pulling a recalcitrant ocean liner.

After depositing me with my teacher, my mother joined the expectant parents in the bleachers. I sat on the deck, wrapped in my towel, nervously waiting my turn. I watched the all the little kids jump in and swim to the far wall and back. I saw the smiles and heard the applause, knowing all along that none of that praise would be for me.

My arms and legs morphed into molten rubber and my head pounded with the intensity of a jackhammer. I truly believed that I had lost the ability to stand, let alone walk to the edge of the pool and jump.

When I was the last one left, the instructor smiled. “It’s your turn,” she said.

“There isn’t enough time,” I offered. “I’ll try next session.”

“Move to the edge of the pool.” She smiled encouragingly as she pointed to the red tile border.

“I’ll do it next week.”

“There isn’t a next week,” she said. “Come on now. Everyone is watching.” Again she smiled, although this time her teeth did not show.

“I have to go to the bathroom really bad.” I stood and adeptly performed the ‘bathroom dance.’

“You’re wasting time. Get up there and do your test!” Her eyes narrowed and her lips formed a tight line.

“Please don’t make me! I’ll drown! I know I’ll drown!”

“No you won’t,” the instructor stated. “Put your toes on the edge, right there.” She pulled on my ankles until I had no choice but to step forward. “Good. Now bend over and jump.” I bent over, but did not jump. “I said, jump!” The instructor hit the back of my legs with her metal whistle.

I physically couldn’t do it, but the instructor didn’t know that. I was frozen in a bent over position, arms glued to the sides of my head and legs straight as rods. My eyes glazed over and my breathing became shallow. A cold sweat covered my entire body, and speckled spots appeared before my eyes. Not only did time stop, but also did sound and sensation.

I would have stood there forever if it weren’t for an unexpected push from behind. As I flew through the air, I broke out of my cement-like stature with the wide-eyed look of a startled hare. With arms and legs akimbo, I hit the surface of the water with the mightiest belly flop. Gasping for breath, I floundered like the breached whale that I resembled at the moment, my eyes searching for anyone empathetic enough to rescue me.

“I can’t swim,” I gasped. “I’m drowning!” Another gasp. “The water’s too deep!” Yet another strategically timed gasp accompanied my frantic thrashing of arms and legs.

“Quit whining and swim!” The instructor hollered from the safety of the wall.

“I can’t do it! I can’t!”

“I won’t let you get out until you swim to the other side! Now, go!” She pointed to the far wall with a sharp finger.

“Please! Please,” I pleaded as my arms and legs began to tire.

“Swim.”

With tear-filled eyes and a rapidly beating heart, I turned toward the opposite wall, and began to swim. Because of a combination of exhaustion, fear and incompetence, my legs didn’t kick in a coordinated way and my arms barely skimmed the surface of the water. Breathing rhythmically was out of the question. I was at the point of sink or swim. Choosing swimming over sinking, I tried my best.

That’s all anyone can say about my effort. I’m sure that my mother was humiliated. After all, here was the oldest kid in the group performing like an injured baby whale, putting on one of the greatest whining shows ever seen. Instead of a coordinated crawl stroke, I floundered about, flinging my arms in a wild show of effort that barely kept me afloat.

As my arms grew ever more tired, I began to sink. Even as I felt myself going under, I continued to fight. I thrashed about, waving arms and kicking legs, all the while holding my breath. Unfortunately the fatigue that overwhelmed my body combined with my lack of skill added up to drowning.

You might have thought that panic would set in and give me the strength to rise to the surface. That was not to be. Despite all my efforts I slowly sank to the bottom of the pool. Sound became muted and my vision blurred. As I held my breath, suddenly all fear left. I was filled with an unexpected peace, so I quit moving my arms and legs and simply sat on the bottom of the pool. I looked around.

I wasn’t scared, even though I should have been. Time had no meaning, nor did drowning. Happiness grabbed hold of my heart and caressed me with a comforting gentleness. I was resigned to my fate, expecting nothing, receiving nothing in exchange.

It was then that I became aware of a presence: an “Other” who floated beside me, offering a gentleness that I had never known in real life. I was not afraid, for this was not a ghost but a mystical sense of well-being. I felt safe; that everything was going to be fine, and that there was no need to be afraid. This “Other” told me that she would take care of me as she wrapped her arms about me. I smiled, believing that all would be well.

I was not aware of being rescued, but I must have been, because when I awoke, I was on the deck of the pool surrounded by a group of concerned-looking faces.

“Why didn’t you swim? I told you to swim,” my instructor screamed as she shook my shoulders. Spittle sprayed my cheeks.

I watched helplessly as the other faces slowly moved away, leaving me alone with my torturer. I tried to speak, but water bubbled out of my mouth as coughs racked my body.

“It’s your fault,” my instructor screamed as she shook my shoulders. “You are an embarrassment.”

“I told you I couldn’t swim,” I coughed out.

“You have failed the course,” the teacher said as she slammed my shoulders onto the pool deck. “You are a danger to yourself. You can never come back for lessons again. Now go find your mother and tell her that you are finished.” She walked away, leaving me lying on the wet concrete.

That’s when I really began to panic. My mother had spent hard-earned dollars on my lessons and I had wasted them all. I knew that she would yell at me, probably even spank me, and her words and her hands could really hurt. Fearing that I might throw up in front of the crowd, I pushed off the deck and ran into the dressing room. Thanks goodness I made it to the toilet in time. I did not need further humiliation that day.

After my spectacular show of incompetence, and the temper tantrum that I had expected, my mother announced that swim lessons were a waste of money for me. From then on, for the next several years, I spent summers watching my older brother master the fine art of diving off the board and competently performing a variety of strokes as he flew across the pool. Eventually he mastered the program and earned a certificate with a gold star.

Even my sister learned to swim. You would have thought I would be embarrassed as my little sister, seven years younger, accomplished the smallest of tasks that I had been unable to do, all with a smile on her face. I was, but I didn’t let it show. Instead I thought of other things while she dived, swam, and floated on command.

As my siblings participated in this rite of summer year after year, I looked for unusual shapes in the clouds passing overhead. I read a lot of books and wrote my first stories with a pad of paper balanced on my knees. I wondered why birds had different cries and questioned the ability of fish to breathe underwater. Time passed without my learning how to swim, but anyone looking at my enraptured face would have thought I didn’t care.

They would have been wrong, for deep down inside, I really did want to learn. I just didn’t have the confidence to give it another try.

The Journey

Jack Swanson was tired of living in a Podunk town south of Dayton, Ohio where the most exciting thing to do on a Saturday afternoon was to watch cows chewing grass. Sure there were other things to do, like playing pickup games of baseball in the early morning before it got too hot and humid, or go hiking through the woods behind his family’s home, but those depended upon weather and other like-minded boys.

Sometimes a kindly parent would drive a few of the guys into town to go bowling or to see a movie, but that was only when they had earned money selling fruits and vegetables out of the family garden. Most days Jack spent lazing about in his room or playing board games with his younger sister, or if he was lucky, watching his allotted thirty minutes of television.

He dreamed of big things. Jack wanted to be an engineer and design machinery that would change the world. He loved to take apart broken appliances, find the problem, and then restore them to working order. It gave him a sense of pride. But living in Beavercreek there were few opportunities for that wanted an escape. Completion of high school meant the end of education for there was no money to spare for what his dad considered frivolity. At eighteen he would be treated as a man and therefor expected to pull a man’s weight. Find a job. Get married. Have kids. Jack wanted none of that. He wanted to go to college.

When his mom developed asthma that was triggered by the humidity, his father decided to sell everything and move to California. One day Jack’s father called together the family and said, “Kids, we’re moving next week, so decide what you want to take with you. And it must be small enough to fit in the car.”

So Jack thought and thought. His mother told him he must pack all his clothes that still fit, so that left room for little else. He finally settled on a couple of models he had yet to build, glue and paint.

When the day came to leave, the back of the family station wagon was stuffed with bags of clothes and other precious junk. Jack had no regrets as he took one last look at the home he had lived in for the last five years. Instead his mind was filled with hopes of adventures he would have in the land of sunshine and community colleges.

Boredom ruled Jack’s days as they drove through endless cornfields and land as flat as the back of his hand. There wasn’t much to do. He read. He counted telephone poles. He kept track of license plates, hoping to see one from each state. He annoyed his sister until told to stop. He stared out the window with a vacant look.

All that changed when they hit Colorado. Off in the distance loomed a blue-gray mountain that grew increasingly clear as they neared Colorado City. Their hotel’s front lawn had a great view of the craggy-looking mountain, especially when the sun began to set and the peaks were outlined by a golden glow. Jack figured there must be a road to the top, but his dad insisted there was no time. Instead they hopped on the highway and headed south, stopping at a river gorge for a much-needed break. Standing at the edge of the cliff, Jack saw miniature train tracks winding along. Over his head, spanning the width of the gorge was a pedestrian bridge. Jack wanted to walk across, but there was no money.

Traveling through the mountains brought a monotony of its own. This time there were endless trees, twisting roads that hung on the side of cliffs and billowing clouds high overhead. Sometime after a roadside bathroom break, the clouds took on an ominous dark blue cast. Huge clouds billowed overhead and the air felt moist, although no raindrops fell. A fierce wind rattled the tops of the trees causing them to bend at rakish angles. Fearing being caught in the storm, the family piled back into the car and hit the road.

Rain fell almost immediately. It began with a roar as sheets of dense rain beat against the windshield, nearly blinding his father, who gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. Up and around turn after turn they went, as roads slickened. Jack noticed waterfalls gushing off the hillsides, burbling with frothy mud that puddled in the ditches bordering the road.

As they climbed higher into the mountains, the sky grew dark as night. The rain fell harder. The waterfalls increased in size. Small creeks ran across the road, flooding sections that, thankfully, were still passable. Until they reached a bend in the road where traffic had come to a complete standstill. As they sat in the car, unmoving, the rain pounded on the roof with such intensity that conversation was impossible. Visibility was nearly zero. All Jack could make out was the vague outline of trees bordering the roadside.

Jack’s dad grew impatient with the delay. He pounded the steering wheel, honked the horn and screamed, “What’s the holdup?” He sat for a few more minutes. His lips became narrow lines, which Jack knew meant trouble. “I’m going out there,” his dad said.

Despite the soaking that would come, Jack’s dad got out of the car and strode over to a cluster of men gathered on the opposite side of the road. There was much gesturing and head shaking and shrugging of shoulders. When his dad returned, he slammed shut the door and pounded the steering wheel. “The road is blocked with a mudslide,” he mumbled between gritted teeth. “I don’t know when the road will be cleared, so we’re stuck until someone fixes it.”

We sat silently. When he was in this kind of mood, Jack’s dad could be dangerously explosive. He was quick to slap and even quicker with hurtful words. Jack held his breath, not wanting to attract unwanted attention.
Minutes passed. The rain poured and mud gushed across the road. The muscles in his dad’s arms flexed into knots.

“Maybe we should turn around,” Jack’s mom said. “We can go back to the last town we passed and spend the night there.”

“We don’t have the money,” Jack’s dad screamed, spittle slapping against his mother’s face. “We have to get through.”

Just then a large truck approached from the other direction, the first vehicle to pass through. Mud covered its sides and tires, but it had made it.

“If that truck can get through there, so can we.” Jack’s dad started the car and pulled out of line into the opposite side of the road. As they went around the bend, the wall of mud became visible. It stretched clear across the road and was easily three feet deep and still growing. Jack’s dad revved the engine and stared forward with eyes blazing. The car jerked forward with a sudden burst of energy. The front end climbed the wall of mud, quickly nearing the crest. All was going well until they crested the top. That’s when disaster hit. Just like that the car bottomed out and sank into the mud. Slowly. Until the car was precariously balanced, front end looking up at the sky while the back faced the group of men still clustered behind.

Jack’s dad floored the engine, but nothing happened. The wheels spun, digging ever deeper into mire. When he realized that no amount of gas would free the car, Jack’s dad turned off the engine and sat, staring glumly out at the line of vehicles on both sides of the mud. Jack’s dad pounded the wheel and his mouth reflected his anger and frustration.

No one approached the car and none of us attempted to get out. And so we sat, deep in the mud.

Eventually a bulldozer came lumbering up from the western side of the road. The driver got out, shook his head, and then climbed the wall of mud to attach a winch to the front of the car. The driver returned to his truck, and as the winch tightened, the car slowly moved down the wall of mud. When the tires hit pavement, there was a jolt, soon followed by a second as the back wheels found purchase. The driver walked up to the car and removed the winch. He approached Jack’s father’s window and knocked.

“What were you thinking?” he asked.

Jack’s dad glared at the man. “I thought we could make it.”

“You’re too low to the ground, carrying too heavy of a load. You didn’t stand a chance.”

“Thanks for the information.”

The man put his hands on the top of the glass. “If there’s a next time think about waiting for the road to be cleared or maybe we’ll just leave you there until the mud hardens.” With that he returned to his truck.

Jack’s dad shook his clenched fist at the man, started the engine, and drove away. Silence reigned in the car. Jack crossed his fingers wishing for good luck, that they’d make it to the next hotel without an explosion from his dad. All would have gone well if his mom had kept her mouth shut.

“What an idiot,” she muttered

“Who’s an idiot?” Jack’s dad shouted. “Are you calling me an idiot?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I said nothing.”

“Good, because I could fix your attitude.” His fist punched the air in front of Jack’s mother’s face, missing by a narrow margin. “Keep your mouth shut, okay?”

The rain continued to pound the roof of the silent car.