This year I'll be turning forty. Maybe it's that number, so halfish, that's got me thinking about what's truly important, about what I need to priortize for the final stretch. Because, let's face it, forty is half of eighty and if you're a logical thinker, an analyst, you can probably deduce that my healthiest years have already been had. Think again.
It's all about attitude (ninety percent if you believe the experts) and I'll be damned if I'm going to allow another middle-ager to be straight-jacketed by a bottle of Windex. Read on.
I know more now.
I know what I want and, incidentally, what I don't want. What I don't want is to look back upon my life someday and sigh in relief that my house has been kept clean. Whew, what would life have been like without that light-blinding tabletop? I shudder to think...
Don't get me wrong, a sparkling home is delightful. There's something refreshing about walking into a home that screams for a rehearsal in the latest Comet commercial. A sparkling home makes you want to sit on your couch and admire its sheen, just sit and stare. Aahh the neatness of it all, controlled by little ol' me, the cleaner.
The problem with cleaning too much is double-fisted.
If you are blinded by the light of your clean home and it remains stagnant in such perfection, one of two things are happening: You're not actually 'living' in the home and accessing it's 'stuff' without fear of mess or - more hazardous - you're spending your waking, breathing, aging hours cleaning it.
But, alas, I am a fan of the Devil's Advocate. So let's consider the other side of the coin, shall we? There are the basics - laundry, uniforms, dishes, bedding, disenfecting, putting groceries away - no problemo here. But what comes next?
When the basics are attacked, does one choose to devour the daylight's remainder by cleaning closets, dusting, attacking empty tea cups, snapping dvds back into cases, dusting refrigerator tops, hanging up every bloody sweatshirt?
Sound off balance?
We could provide a village of shelter for the homeless in the time it takes to better the already-fine homes we have and I'm not being facetious here, ladies. And men who clean.
When do we enjoy our homes the most? Likely, it's when it's shared with friends and family (note that I accept the variables here). How often do we encourage our guests to make themselves comfortable and relax, turning down offers to help with clean up duty. 'Oh, don't worry about it,' we say graciously, as though, later, we won't turn into Hitler's spies. 'How many times have I told you to pick up the...?'
'Why isn't the ____________ (insert complaint here) done?'
You know the drill. We save our best etiquette, our best selves, for our guests. Then, in the confines of our 'safe haven' we turn rude. Our home is not to be enjoyed and that's final!
Typically, if I overachieve in the cleaning department, the choice is a clever disguise for what I should be doing - that is - to finish my synopsis, research a new market, revise a chapter; in short, to stay focused on my goals, not my floor. A goal is a dream to make happen, a floor is something you walk on.
As I write this, a collection of clean mugs stand in line at my counter, huddled as though awaiting a swine flu clinic. I know I'll get to them. They'll be tucked away in due time. But right now, I'd rather be chatting with you, asking the right questions.
Can you imagine dining out at elegant restaurant only to be interrupted every two minutes by the waitress - dustbusting crumbs at your feet, spot-cleaning an oil stain on the tablecloth, clearing your plate early, changing your napkin. You wouldn't savor the taste of your food any more than the dining experience.
Now view your home in the same manner. If you're constantly shadowing the messes of your family - along with your own - you can't possibly be enjoying what your home has to offer. And how many of you haven't even been in touch with what your home has to offer because you're too busy cleaning it??
Why do we own these homes in the first place? Do our homes truly provide a safe haven from the chaos outside or are they one more hurdle to overcome?
Gratitude means being thankful for every scratch, stain, and peeled ceiling that your home has to offer. My hardwood floor has more 'character' than the drama club(credit to my twelve year old golden retriever) and my bedroom bureau gives new meaning to the word 'ecclectic'.
But, at forty, I know what I don't want, and that's an uptight attitude. Why would I want to drain my own positive energy? I've got mugs to put away.
Change your paint color. Move your curtains. Play with your baby's toes.
And then you, too, will sparkle.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
What Does Love Mean to You?
Love is on my mind today.
And what better cause is there to write about? Throughot history, it seems that every artist is trying to figure love out. The Beatles are singing about how it's all you need, The J. Giles Band, how it stinks, and Streisand, how it's fresh as the morning air.
But my favorite 'love quote' happened in the film, The Wedding Crashers, when Owen Wilson shared his idea of the perfect wedding toast.
"True love is the soul's recognition of its counterpoint in another."
The irony - in light of these words, their shameless depth - was that John Beckwith, played sensitively and humorously by Wilson, began the story as a single, shallow individual who sleeps around, avoiding intimacy, yet ends up smitten by Claire Cleary, the one girl he desires to be with. His soulmate.
If you've had the pleasure of seeing the movie, or plan to watch it again from a new angle (recommended), note how cleverly this quote - and its meaning - embeds itself in John's relationship with the girl he loves.
Unlike Claire's demeaning fiance, Zach, who 'needs a wife not a martyr' the unlikely hero, Beckwith, captures Claire's heart by bringing out the best parts of her - his soul reflecting hers.
In a quiet moment, seated at the front steps, she confesses that her family is 'full of shit'. John counters with a compliment, offers her hope. 'I love your family, the little old grandmother who looks really sweet but she's really mean.'
He makes Claire laugh, lightens her load for the moment. Now, perhaps the skeptics, (and the haters) would say he's telling her what she wants to hear, just to charm her. But I'm inclined to think that John is a character drawn with a softer brush - he's probably not thinking too hard or long about what her family is truly like. And neither is she. He's simply giving the girl he loves a dose of what she needs. That love is recognized, and reflected back to him.
When I think about love, that's what comes to mind. Inspiring someone, drawing out their best qualities, and having them reflected back at you.
Now it's your turn. What does love mean to you?
Amy
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And what better cause is there to write about? Throughot history, it seems that every artist is trying to figure love out. The Beatles are singing about how it's all you need, The J. Giles Band, how it stinks, and Streisand, how it's fresh as the morning air.
But my favorite 'love quote' happened in the film, The Wedding Crashers, when Owen Wilson shared his idea of the perfect wedding toast.
"True love is the soul's recognition of its counterpoint in another."
The irony - in light of these words, their shameless depth - was that John Beckwith, played sensitively and humorously by Wilson, began the story as a single, shallow individual who sleeps around, avoiding intimacy, yet ends up smitten by Claire Cleary, the one girl he desires to be with. His soulmate.
If you've had the pleasure of seeing the movie, or plan to watch it again from a new angle (recommended), note how cleverly this quote - and its meaning - embeds itself in John's relationship with the girl he loves.
Unlike Claire's demeaning fiance, Zach, who 'needs a wife not a martyr' the unlikely hero, Beckwith, captures Claire's heart by bringing out the best parts of her - his soul reflecting hers.
In a quiet moment, seated at the front steps, she confesses that her family is 'full of shit'. John counters with a compliment, offers her hope. 'I love your family, the little old grandmother who looks really sweet but she's really mean.'
He makes Claire laugh, lightens her load for the moment. Now, perhaps the skeptics, (and the haters) would say he's telling her what she wants to hear, just to charm her. But I'm inclined to think that John is a character drawn with a softer brush - he's probably not thinking too hard or long about what her family is truly like. And neither is she. He's simply giving the girl he loves a dose of what she needs. That love is recognized, and reflected back to him.
When I think about love, that's what comes to mind. Inspiring someone, drawing out their best qualities, and having them reflected back at you.
Now it's your turn. What does love mean to you?
Amy
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Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Hours of Change - Chapters Three - Five
Three
The amber alert has been made and the investigation tumbles in. The mountains of Franconia Notch, as though embarrassed by the news, turn red as emergency vehicles illuminate them. Car doors slam. Flashlights beam. Men and women in uniform galvanize a rescue team to do whatever it takes to find the child.
Skiers glide forward slowly. Grief has quieted them.
The designated ski area, roped off, forces bystanders back, their faces cold with worry for the lost boy. Murmurs of gossip coat the area. Clouds of breath linger then fade into crisp air—air coated with winter, night, and the sudden treachery of both.
Doug and Serena sit on a wooden bench that is not meant for this. They sit beside Chief McKenzie, a burly Irishman leading the investigation. His detective, a pert woman in her thirties, chooses to stand while mobilizing a small electronic device which, most likely, will be used for recording. Her hair is fastened into a vicious bun that sits properly at the nape of her neck.
“Let me introduce you to Detective Hearns,” he says, eyeing his partner, “when it comes to abductions, she’s unmatched.”
Abductions. She hears the word but, like a letter placed in the wrong mailbox, it seems to belong to someone else.
Ms. Hearns nods confidently. Her lips are a thin line ending in a pair of commas. “If we put our heads together, we can crack this one, folks. Not a lot of time has passed and that’s a good thing.”
McKenzie uses his hands to deliver more, “We should have this entire area combed and sniffed out within the hour and the force is blocking off highway exits and major intersections as we speak. Right now, I’d like to run through the sequence of events, exactly as they happened, prior to the incident.”
Incident. The loss of her son has become an incident, the shatter of her world a mere protocol in police culture. Chief McKenzie and Detective Hearns should not be blamed for this horror but, at the moment, she resents both of them.
“Excuse me, but instead of documenting the facts,” she says with a halting hand, “I think we should look some more, just search, just search this mountain, he’s gotta’ be here, I mean…” tears finish her ramble.
She wipes her wet face and stares at Doug, in search of an answer to the madness that has found them. He does not offer one. His face is chilling, grey. It is his way. He can give nothing because he has nothing. Along with Josh, Doug is somewhere else. The thought is torturous.
“Serena, I was with him last. I’ll go through the facts,” he says to the ground.
“Mrs. Davis, your husband and I will tackle the sequence. This isn’t easy and I apologize for the cool nature of this exercise. If you need some time to look, or…” McKenzie struggles for the right words, “anything…we’ll be here.”
Cloaked in pain, she whispers, ‘find him’ and walks away.
The detective’s voice cuts through the air from behind. “Mrs. Davis, I can assure you that we will give one hundred ten percent here.”
She reflects on the promise, one offered with respect to the crime and, to a lesser extent, to her grief. But Serena she does not want one hundred ten percent. She wants her son back.
She walks and stumbles ahead, possessed by thoughts that are in control of her now. Her mind is dark and fuzzy - the innocence of her life an hour ago has been raped. She breathes in deeply, sensing a panic attack, until a family of pine trees seem to call her from the mountain's edge.
She moves in. Snow coated branches enshroud her like a shawl. She weaves in and out of the trees, her feet snapping over twigs, her breath reckless. Uphill, she travels, searches, as though hypnotized. The air is still, holding a secret it seems, and she instinctively pats her sweatshirt pocket for her cell phone. Then her mind settles like a fly on the memory of her hand closing the drawer to tuck it safely inside the accent table. Safely inside. She was safe then. And now? Why? Why this?
Tears flood her, define her. It must be around eight-thirty by now. Josh would have closed his book by now, Harry Potter, the third one. She pictures him, cross-legged, concentrating on his page as a waft of Christmas-smelling air attacks the vision, souring it with the cold truth. She cups her nose with cold hands, hoping to suffocate the smell, the scene, and the hours that have passed.
To her left, one hundred feet away, the rescue team swarms the slopes. Through her tears, the scene blurs like a watercolor print. She blinks, brings the image comes back into focus, a moving picture of German Shepherds. Voraciously, they climb, sniff, and move in the snow, in search of…she cannot bring herself to think his name because to think it, to say it, will validate that he is gone and he is not gone. He simply hasn’t been found yet.
She steps back, withdraws from the dog scene, suddenly feeling as though her life depends upon this detachment. The intensity of the situation seems to swallow her while her mind, still needing to know, takes in voices. There is shouting - a name, a direction, an order - and she longs to hear someone yell, cut!—to end the scene.
She reaches to the ground, uproots a boulder, and smashes it against a tree trunk. But the sound, compared to the one in her mind, is but a whisper. She faces the sky. The trees form a tent to her view and her eyes search for an open space. She finds a small opening through the trees.
'God, why are you putting me through this? Why? I'll be a better mom, I promise you, I will.' She closed her eyes, chants, 'I will, I will, I will be better. I'll be so much better. Please don't take him from me.' Warm tears push through her face. She snaps out of prayer.
Change the subject, keep going. Don’t quit. Don’t’ stop. Think. To think, just think, Serena. Stay focused, stay alert, it’s what makes the difference. What was notable about Roth? Fucking bastard of a being. What was he wearing? What did he talk about? The questions jam her mind, push against her throbbing skull. She struggles to concentrate, on everything and on one thing only. But it is his face…the brown eyes, the long-eyelashes, and the modest smile that will not leave her, will not leave her, will not leave her. Her mind beats forward with her heart, with her steps.
The snowy air, once invigorating, is now stifling. She clears her throat until a single cough turns spastic and she cannot stop hacking. She coughs and cries until it seems that a creature is worming through her throat. She is suddenly nauseous, can barely breathe. She stumbles ahead and falls. The creature must come out and it does - vomit - a demon spilling out of her, staining the white ground as it dribbles over her chin. On her knees, she shouts his name.
“Joshua!”—and again, “Joshua!” She stands, struggles to balance as she repeats the name, “Joshua…Mom, I’m here…I’m sorry!” She cries out his name and she is dizzy and wet and the snow is an icy pillow that she collapses into.
It is dark. For a moment, she is free.
* * *
It is after nine o’clock when she shudders to the warm sensation, a wet rub on her face. A tongue? A dog’s? Her eyes snap open and her heart trembles as she shuffles back on her elbows, remembering what should have been a bad dream.
“Mrs. Davis,” a policeman says, wasting no time to wrap her in a blanket, “we have a lead. Your son’s snowboard was found in one of the tents. The good news is that we haven’t found any signs of violence or force. The surrounding footprints indicate no resistance. The bad news is…though we can’t be one hundred percent sure at this time…we believe that your son was coerced to leave.”
“Coerced?” With her thumb, she wipes dried vomit from her chin and stands.
Together, they walk, her blanket skimming the ground, the dog leading the way. “You mean my son was bullied to leave?” His face, the wide eyes, mesmerized by Roth’s height in the lodge…
“Well, he may not have been intimidated to leave. But we think that this man came up with a strong enough reason for Josh to leave with him.”
“That’s impossible. He knows better.” Her breath tastes sour, of rotten eggs, “We’ve educated him, both of us, and the school, on strangers, on what to do when—”
“You wouldn’t believe how cunning the abductor can be in these situations, Mrs. Davis. We see it all the time, even with bright kids.”
Strong enough reason. What would be a strong enough reason for Josh to defy everything he knows, everything he’s been taught about—
She gasps, momentarily paralyzed by a revelation, prompted by the sight of…
It is Doug, walking toward her, his wrist taped up.
“For his dad! For the care of this father! That’s it!” she cries. “I think Roth made my son believe that, somehow, they were going to help Doug with his injury!”
The policeman’s eyes widen as he hastens his strut. “Now that's what I call a lead, young lady. Let’s go fill Detective Hearns in.”
Four
8:37 p.m
The escape was easier than he thought. Unwatched, his Subaru Outback glided onto route 142 with ease, heading straight for the charming town of Bethlehem. Who would suspect the pathetic bible belt? Certainly not one of the Hasidic Jews roaming the streets of the hideous town. And besides, the disguise would work out perfectly, especially the absurd beard. He'd fit right in with the freaks. Hell, maybe he'd even be inclined to convert. Not likely, he chuckles to himself, chewing on a toothpick.
The windshield wipers are frosted with ice. The snow flecks the glass with speed, as though blown in by a machine. He presses the gas pedal harder, despite the road's ice. He has no choice. The police, he knows, have already begun to invade the major highways in search of the boy.
“Can you just tell me where we’re going?” the boy asks through tears, his voice strained as he wiggles beneath a tight wrap of gauze bandage.
“I told you we’ll be there in about twenty five minutes. Should have been fifteen but this weather’s miserable.” He lets up on the gas, flicks the heat on higher. “Have I mentioned that I had a son once? Looked just like you, you know.”
The boy presses his eyes shut for a moment. He does not respond.
“Don’t ever get married.”
“Where’s your son?” he asks, his voice cracking.
“Across the country with my lovely ex-wife.” He squeezes the steering wheel and leans forward in concentration.
“You got divorced?”
He flicks him a glance. “You know about divorce, eh?”
“A kid in my class lives only with his dad…because his dad got to keep him. Your son stays with his mom?”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” An ice patch sends the vehicle into a fish-tail skid. Assertively, he rolls the steering wheel in the opposite direction, gaining balance on the road again. “Sorry about that.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
He rubs the stubble of hair beneath his nose. “Steven, named after his old man.”
“Is my dad's arm going to be alright?”
By now, chunks of ice encrust his wipers, making the view impossible. He shoots a look behind him and yanks the wheel to the right for a quick pull-over. “Don’t even think about moving,” he warns, cranking up the defrosters before pushing himself out of the driver’s side. A waft of cold air attacks the car’s interior as he turns to say, “Oops, I forgot…you’re taped up and belted in. And…to answer your question…it's just a wrist injury. He'll be fine.”
Gently, he pushes the door so that it remains open a crack and scurries to the vehicle’s side. There, he bends over the hood, reaches for the driver-side wiper, and unfolds it so that the arm protrudes upward. With a gloved hand, he swipes the first layer of snow from the blade, noting the entrapped chunks of ice within.
He bends the wiper’s arm back and begins plucking it against the glass in attempt to dislodge the ice. For the most part, he is successful. But a stubborn piece clings and, being the kind of man to perfect things, he bangs the blade one last time then uses his arm to rub away the slushy mess. Now, through the glass, he can see the boy better, though his image appears blurred, as though he is underwater.
A thought jabs him then. The boy’s perception of him is also skewed. He is supposed to be Steven Roth, the cool snow board instructor offering a night lesson. But this? He vows to help Josh understand how adult decisions, like choosing which trails are the most fun to ski down, can be a matter of perception. He will remind him of the road less traveled, of how the best path to take is, sometimes, not the most popular.
Strong adults like him are supposed to know what to do when it comes to unfamiliar territory. And so, it made perfect sense to grab the first aid kit together, two sets of hands always better than one. He had anticipated the struggle to the car but the gag had changed things. No use screaming when nobody can hear you, right?
Sure, Gloria’s ‘gag’ was of a different nature, a more manipulative approach to controlling his boy—the lies, the courtroom drama, the final move across the country—but her abduction was far more sinister than this! She lied, betrayed him. Nothing can top off her sins, he thinks, shooting a glance to Josh.
For a moment, in seeing the boy's beautiful eyes, he is overcome by the notion that two wrongs don’t make a right. But then the face of his ex invades his mind, a smoking devil. She is leaning back, cackling, and her poison floats from her nostrils in wispy tendrils. The image burns his spot of empathy. Two wrongs may not make a right, he decides, but the second one sure does ease the pain of the first.
It is his final thought before terror faces him; the careening vehicle, closer, black, metal. The devil wins. Pain. Lights out.
* * *
Five - 10:13 p.m
It is decided that it’s best for the parents to stay rooted at the ‘point of abduction’ in the event that Josh is able to contact his parents. With the roads being treacherous, an unnecessary accident would only complicate matters and such disasters are actually more common than one thinks. McKenzie’s argument had needed some persuasion, with Doug nearly pushing him out of the way in a combative protest. He would bring his son back on his own terms. Serena had managed to convince him otherwise.
“Doug, he’s right. There’s no use in both of us getting hurt in the process of saving Josh.”
Hearing his son’s name, it seemed then, had quelled Doug’s anxiety and, frozen to the word, he had released his grip on McKenzie. “Guess you’re right.”
Now, his eyes focus strangely on the scatter rug below the quilted bed. The stare appears sedated, almost possessed, unlike gestures that are rash—the biting of a thumbnail, the compulsive study of a police report that he tears through with a solitary right hand. The left one—wounded, guilty—curls inward at his lap, a shamed dog.
“Why didn’t you take him in with you?” The blame, with a mind of its own, unfurls like fire on paper.
His head follows her words, her heat, in a motion so slow, it is nearly haunted. “My fucking wrist snapped, Serena.”
She flicks a glance at the doorway, speaks to its back, “Your wrist snapped. And you couldn’t possibly take care of yourself and someone else.” She closes her eyes, feels the wrong of her words.
“We were together when it happened for Christ’s sake,” he says sharply.
She angles herself to face him, to make sense of what has already been said before. “So you were at the bottom of the mountain at this point?”
“Yes. We had just reached the bottom of the mountain when I slid the wrong way. I would have fallen backwards but I overcompensated…” he rubs the back of his head as though shaking wet hair dry, “and that’s when I fell forward on the heel of my hand.”
“What did Josh do after you fell?” she asks in a hoarse whisper.
“He was concerned, he…” his thoughts trail off as he squeezes his face shut. Serena watches him remember.
“Dad! Are you alright?” Josh slides to his father’s side, his snowboard angled perfectly for a quick stop.
Instinctively, Doug clutches his wrist and attempts, unsuccessfully, to hide the pain.
“You hurt your hand, Daddy?”
He winces, kneeling in the snow, levering himself up with the right hand, “I think I just fell the wrong way…” and glances back at a speedy Roth who flies in from behind.
“Oh geez. I think it’s broken pal. You fell on your hands didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he says back, removing a glove, “I shouldn’t have leaned over so much.”
“If I were you, Doug, I would have it wrapped. It takes no more than three minutes, right near the front desk. Chloe’s used to dealing with these injuries.”
Josh studies Roth’s words, believes in them. “Dad, you have to get it wrapped up.”
He scratches his head, “Alright, I guess you’ve got a point. I’ll…I’ll be…” he shoots a look to the lodge, “be back in a few minutes.”
“Tell you what,” Roth instructs, “we’ll shoot down for one last ride and be here when you get back.”
“Point Sara again?”
Josh senses the ambivalence, a slight tone change, in his dad’s voice. “Do you want me to come in with you, Dad?”
“Naw, I’ll be fine. Go enjoy one last run. Me and my bum hand will meet you at the bottom.”
Roth chuckles, “Seriously, man, it happens all the time. We’ll see you in, say….ten minutes?”
“Sounds good.”
He fumbles singlehandedly with his bindings before stepping out of his snowboard and carrying it away like a notebook. On his way to the lodge, he looks back at his son, gliding away with Roth and chatting, their bodies parallel to each other. With a gloved hand, Josh appears to be demonstrating a swooping motion. The small jump at the end of Point Sara.
The pain in his wrist shouts at him, reminding him of two things: Number one, it could have been a lot worse, could have been a hip, leg, or even ribs! And, number two, it could have been Josh. He walks away, relieved to be the one feeling pain.
She sees him awaken from the memory in an outburst that sounds primitive, a howling animal.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” she approaches him and sits down, cradling his head in her chest. “I shouldn’t have resorted to blame.” Her tears drizzle his hair. “We’re gonna’ do this, Doug. Our baby is going to come back to us.”
Rebecca wheeling him away at the hospital. She wishes that she had said no. A scene from his birth floats into her mind. “He will be rescued, Doug, he has to be. He’ll bring us back to us. Now let’s go get him.”
10: 19 p.m
They shake off emotion, stand up and say in unison, “Outside.”
“Grab your coat,” Doug adds. “Let’s just be present out there. Be visible. And search in the woods some more. You hear it all the time, Ser, kids being found when they’re close by. Remember that kid from Quincy, parents thought he was gone, but he had hopped in with a hitchhiker to go to a convenience store.”
“Good, that’s good, Doug. We can’t out-rule that he could be closer than we think, closer than anyone would expect. Let’s bundle up, though.”
“Where are my shoes, I mean boots, I’ll need boots, right?” He finger-combs the top of his head.
“Definitely. Here, they’re right by the door.” Unnecessarily, she points them out and watches Doug bend over them. He stuffs his socked feet into them with remarkable swiftness, despite the limp companion. Then he pauses at the doorway and offers Serena a final thought.
“We’re going to find him,” he says.
“We have to find him,” she says in a voice that has been resurrected by Doug’s confidence. Her husband is back, prepared for the fight. It is not his fault that this has happened to their child. A wave of adrenaline shoots through her, a fluttery sensation that reminds her of the first time she fell in love with Doug.
She scoops her keys off of the end table and follows her husband out.
10:22 p.m.
The door’s security lock slams shut while, immediately, another couple, leaving their own neighboring room, makes eye contact. The burden of Serena and Doug’s problem is too great to ignore. It is also too great to articulate—to find the right words to empathize with the unimaginable. For a moment, the couple remains tangled in the conflict. Finally, unwilling to bear the silence any longer, the man speaks up.
“I’m…I’m sorry about what’s happened. We heard….I mean it’s on the news and everything…is, is there anything we can do?—I’m a parent as well, I can just imagine what this must be like and—”
Serena saves him. “Thank you for asking. Right now we need to make things happen and be present for our child. Thank you for thinking of us, though,” she stammers, feeling as though she should give them more, but deciding against it. Time is not on their side.
Doug shadows her thoughts. “Yes, we must be on our way. But thank you.”
“Oh, of course! We’re sorry!” the woman chimes in, embarrassed.
“Oh no, don’t be,” Doug says. “Have you seen the news clip, the picture of our son?”
“Y-yes,” the couple says in unison.
In motion, Serena calls back, “Please stay posted on the news. And call the emergency line if you can help us in any way. Any piece of information is a huge help.”
10:23 p.m.
Chloe is tapping away at her keyboard, wearing her holiday attire and Serena is struck by the memory of their first confrontation, hours ago, over Doug’s wrist. If only she had known what was to come.
To the bustling sound of Serena and Doug, she looks up from her work, offers a stern string of information.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Davis. I’ve notified Chief McKenzie to contact me via e-mail, cell phone, whatever’s easiest, if anything comes up. In addition to that, I’ve organized a team, basically our Ski Patrol,” she says with her hands, “to comb the slopes through the night. They’ll be working 24-7. We’re going to do everything in our power to find your little boy.”
Chloe cares. To this revelation, Serena’s eyes water. “My son will be rescued, Chloe. Thank you for all you’re doing.”
Chloe smiles weakly, her face the blotchy pink of uncertainty. Serena cannot bear the face. She tugs at Doug’s arm. “Let’s hurry.”
10:27 p.m
Being inside of the hot chocolate tent is excruciating. There is a row of wooden picnic tables, the middle of which holds ripped open empty packages of hot chocolate and Styrofoam cups that lie stained on their sides. She and Doug study the cups for a moment before they lock eyes, holding a mutual thought: One of these could have been Joshua’s.
Robotically, they move toward the cups and it is she who picks one up, holds it to her nose, and, tentatively, smells it.
“Oh God.” Doug says, sitting down, cupping his mouth.
She closes her eyes, sits beside him, palms his knee. “I can picture him in here, tearing open the packet, feeling so— ” She begins to sob and shake before composing herself again, “so independent, you know. That’s what we all loved about this sport, the—”
“The freedom,” Doug answers. “Let’s get on the lift and check out the expert trails again. This is a waste of time.”
“Alright,” she wipes her face clean with her glove.
They walk out together, heads down, trying to be focused again.
A shuffling sound, boots on snow, awakens the trance and Serena looks up to a bulk of man in the short distance. Before she can say it, Doug says, “McKenzie.”
They walk faster to meet him but The Chief’s stride remains constant; a steady walk, a steady gaze. Within moments, the three of them stand angled atop the snow.
“Serena, Doug,” he says with a quick nod to both, “I have some news that I wanted to share with you in person.”
Her world is a vacuum. There is no one left but McKenzie.
“There was an accident on Route 302. Roth was the driver...”
Existence spins away.
“Your son, Joshua, was in the passenger seat.”
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t…
“And he’s going to be just fine. He’s at Lincoln Medical Center right now, but it appears he’s just been banged up a bit.”
An embrace. A collapse. And sobbing.
There are no words.
Joshua has been rescued.
The amber alert has been made and the investigation tumbles in. The mountains of Franconia Notch, as though embarrassed by the news, turn red as emergency vehicles illuminate them. Car doors slam. Flashlights beam. Men and women in uniform galvanize a rescue team to do whatever it takes to find the child.
Skiers glide forward slowly. Grief has quieted them.
The designated ski area, roped off, forces bystanders back, their faces cold with worry for the lost boy. Murmurs of gossip coat the area. Clouds of breath linger then fade into crisp air—air coated with winter, night, and the sudden treachery of both.
Doug and Serena sit on a wooden bench that is not meant for this. They sit beside Chief McKenzie, a burly Irishman leading the investigation. His detective, a pert woman in her thirties, chooses to stand while mobilizing a small electronic device which, most likely, will be used for recording. Her hair is fastened into a vicious bun that sits properly at the nape of her neck.
“Let me introduce you to Detective Hearns,” he says, eyeing his partner, “when it comes to abductions, she’s unmatched.”
Abductions. She hears the word but, like a letter placed in the wrong mailbox, it seems to belong to someone else.
Ms. Hearns nods confidently. Her lips are a thin line ending in a pair of commas. “If we put our heads together, we can crack this one, folks. Not a lot of time has passed and that’s a good thing.”
McKenzie uses his hands to deliver more, “We should have this entire area combed and sniffed out within the hour and the force is blocking off highway exits and major intersections as we speak. Right now, I’d like to run through the sequence of events, exactly as they happened, prior to the incident.”
Incident. The loss of her son has become an incident, the shatter of her world a mere protocol in police culture. Chief McKenzie and Detective Hearns should not be blamed for this horror but, at the moment, she resents both of them.
“Excuse me, but instead of documenting the facts,” she says with a halting hand, “I think we should look some more, just search, just search this mountain, he’s gotta’ be here, I mean…” tears finish her ramble.
She wipes her wet face and stares at Doug, in search of an answer to the madness that has found them. He does not offer one. His face is chilling, grey. It is his way. He can give nothing because he has nothing. Along with Josh, Doug is somewhere else. The thought is torturous.
“Serena, I was with him last. I’ll go through the facts,” he says to the ground.
“Mrs. Davis, your husband and I will tackle the sequence. This isn’t easy and I apologize for the cool nature of this exercise. If you need some time to look, or…” McKenzie struggles for the right words, “anything…we’ll be here.”
Cloaked in pain, she whispers, ‘find him’ and walks away.
The detective’s voice cuts through the air from behind. “Mrs. Davis, I can assure you that we will give one hundred ten percent here.”
She reflects on the promise, one offered with respect to the crime and, to a lesser extent, to her grief. But Serena she does not want one hundred ten percent. She wants her son back.
She walks and stumbles ahead, possessed by thoughts that are in control of her now. Her mind is dark and fuzzy - the innocence of her life an hour ago has been raped. She breathes in deeply, sensing a panic attack, until a family of pine trees seem to call her from the mountain's edge.
She moves in. Snow coated branches enshroud her like a shawl. She weaves in and out of the trees, her feet snapping over twigs, her breath reckless. Uphill, she travels, searches, as though hypnotized. The air is still, holding a secret it seems, and she instinctively pats her sweatshirt pocket for her cell phone. Then her mind settles like a fly on the memory of her hand closing the drawer to tuck it safely inside the accent table. Safely inside. She was safe then. And now? Why? Why this?
Tears flood her, define her. It must be around eight-thirty by now. Josh would have closed his book by now, Harry Potter, the third one. She pictures him, cross-legged, concentrating on his page as a waft of Christmas-smelling air attacks the vision, souring it with the cold truth. She cups her nose with cold hands, hoping to suffocate the smell, the scene, and the hours that have passed.
To her left, one hundred feet away, the rescue team swarms the slopes. Through her tears, the scene blurs like a watercolor print. She blinks, brings the image comes back into focus, a moving picture of German Shepherds. Voraciously, they climb, sniff, and move in the snow, in search of…she cannot bring herself to think his name because to think it, to say it, will validate that he is gone and he is not gone. He simply hasn’t been found yet.
She steps back, withdraws from the dog scene, suddenly feeling as though her life depends upon this detachment. The intensity of the situation seems to swallow her while her mind, still needing to know, takes in voices. There is shouting - a name, a direction, an order - and she longs to hear someone yell, cut!—to end the scene.
She reaches to the ground, uproots a boulder, and smashes it against a tree trunk. But the sound, compared to the one in her mind, is but a whisper. She faces the sky. The trees form a tent to her view and her eyes search for an open space. She finds a small opening through the trees.
'God, why are you putting me through this? Why? I'll be a better mom, I promise you, I will.' She closed her eyes, chants, 'I will, I will, I will be better. I'll be so much better. Please don't take him from me.' Warm tears push through her face. She snaps out of prayer.
Change the subject, keep going. Don’t quit. Don’t’ stop. Think. To think, just think, Serena. Stay focused, stay alert, it’s what makes the difference. What was notable about Roth? Fucking bastard of a being. What was he wearing? What did he talk about? The questions jam her mind, push against her throbbing skull. She struggles to concentrate, on everything and on one thing only. But it is his face…the brown eyes, the long-eyelashes, and the modest smile that will not leave her, will not leave her, will not leave her. Her mind beats forward with her heart, with her steps.
The snowy air, once invigorating, is now stifling. She clears her throat until a single cough turns spastic and she cannot stop hacking. She coughs and cries until it seems that a creature is worming through her throat. She is suddenly nauseous, can barely breathe. She stumbles ahead and falls. The creature must come out and it does - vomit - a demon spilling out of her, staining the white ground as it dribbles over her chin. On her knees, she shouts his name.
“Joshua!”—and again, “Joshua!” She stands, struggles to balance as she repeats the name, “Joshua…Mom, I’m here…I’m sorry!” She cries out his name and she is dizzy and wet and the snow is an icy pillow that she collapses into.
It is dark. For a moment, she is free.
* * *
It is after nine o’clock when she shudders to the warm sensation, a wet rub on her face. A tongue? A dog’s? Her eyes snap open and her heart trembles as she shuffles back on her elbows, remembering what should have been a bad dream.
“Mrs. Davis,” a policeman says, wasting no time to wrap her in a blanket, “we have a lead. Your son’s snowboard was found in one of the tents. The good news is that we haven’t found any signs of violence or force. The surrounding footprints indicate no resistance. The bad news is…though we can’t be one hundred percent sure at this time…we believe that your son was coerced to leave.”
“Coerced?” With her thumb, she wipes dried vomit from her chin and stands.
Together, they walk, her blanket skimming the ground, the dog leading the way. “You mean my son was bullied to leave?” His face, the wide eyes, mesmerized by Roth’s height in the lodge…
“Well, he may not have been intimidated to leave. But we think that this man came up with a strong enough reason for Josh to leave with him.”
“That’s impossible. He knows better.” Her breath tastes sour, of rotten eggs, “We’ve educated him, both of us, and the school, on strangers, on what to do when—”
“You wouldn’t believe how cunning the abductor can be in these situations, Mrs. Davis. We see it all the time, even with bright kids.”
Strong enough reason. What would be a strong enough reason for Josh to defy everything he knows, everything he’s been taught about—
She gasps, momentarily paralyzed by a revelation, prompted by the sight of…
It is Doug, walking toward her, his wrist taped up.
“For his dad! For the care of this father! That’s it!” she cries. “I think Roth made my son believe that, somehow, they were going to help Doug with his injury!”
The policeman’s eyes widen as he hastens his strut. “Now that's what I call a lead, young lady. Let’s go fill Detective Hearns in.”
Four
8:37 p.m
The escape was easier than he thought. Unwatched, his Subaru Outback glided onto route 142 with ease, heading straight for the charming town of Bethlehem. Who would suspect the pathetic bible belt? Certainly not one of the Hasidic Jews roaming the streets of the hideous town. And besides, the disguise would work out perfectly, especially the absurd beard. He'd fit right in with the freaks. Hell, maybe he'd even be inclined to convert. Not likely, he chuckles to himself, chewing on a toothpick.
The windshield wipers are frosted with ice. The snow flecks the glass with speed, as though blown in by a machine. He presses the gas pedal harder, despite the road's ice. He has no choice. The police, he knows, have already begun to invade the major highways in search of the boy.
“Can you just tell me where we’re going?” the boy asks through tears, his voice strained as he wiggles beneath a tight wrap of gauze bandage.
“I told you we’ll be there in about twenty five minutes. Should have been fifteen but this weather’s miserable.” He lets up on the gas, flicks the heat on higher. “Have I mentioned that I had a son once? Looked just like you, you know.”
The boy presses his eyes shut for a moment. He does not respond.
“Don’t ever get married.”
“Where’s your son?” he asks, his voice cracking.
“Across the country with my lovely ex-wife.” He squeezes the steering wheel and leans forward in concentration.
“You got divorced?”
He flicks him a glance. “You know about divorce, eh?”
“A kid in my class lives only with his dad…because his dad got to keep him. Your son stays with his mom?”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” An ice patch sends the vehicle into a fish-tail skid. Assertively, he rolls the steering wheel in the opposite direction, gaining balance on the road again. “Sorry about that.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
He rubs the stubble of hair beneath his nose. “Steven, named after his old man.”
“Is my dad's arm going to be alright?”
By now, chunks of ice encrust his wipers, making the view impossible. He shoots a look behind him and yanks the wheel to the right for a quick pull-over. “Don’t even think about moving,” he warns, cranking up the defrosters before pushing himself out of the driver’s side. A waft of cold air attacks the car’s interior as he turns to say, “Oops, I forgot…you’re taped up and belted in. And…to answer your question…it's just a wrist injury. He'll be fine.”
Gently, he pushes the door so that it remains open a crack and scurries to the vehicle’s side. There, he bends over the hood, reaches for the driver-side wiper, and unfolds it so that the arm protrudes upward. With a gloved hand, he swipes the first layer of snow from the blade, noting the entrapped chunks of ice within.
He bends the wiper’s arm back and begins plucking it against the glass in attempt to dislodge the ice. For the most part, he is successful. But a stubborn piece clings and, being the kind of man to perfect things, he bangs the blade one last time then uses his arm to rub away the slushy mess. Now, through the glass, he can see the boy better, though his image appears blurred, as though he is underwater.
A thought jabs him then. The boy’s perception of him is also skewed. He is supposed to be Steven Roth, the cool snow board instructor offering a night lesson. But this? He vows to help Josh understand how adult decisions, like choosing which trails are the most fun to ski down, can be a matter of perception. He will remind him of the road less traveled, of how the best path to take is, sometimes, not the most popular.
Strong adults like him are supposed to know what to do when it comes to unfamiliar territory. And so, it made perfect sense to grab the first aid kit together, two sets of hands always better than one. He had anticipated the struggle to the car but the gag had changed things. No use screaming when nobody can hear you, right?
Sure, Gloria’s ‘gag’ was of a different nature, a more manipulative approach to controlling his boy—the lies, the courtroom drama, the final move across the country—but her abduction was far more sinister than this! She lied, betrayed him. Nothing can top off her sins, he thinks, shooting a glance to Josh.
For a moment, in seeing the boy's beautiful eyes, he is overcome by the notion that two wrongs don’t make a right. But then the face of his ex invades his mind, a smoking devil. She is leaning back, cackling, and her poison floats from her nostrils in wispy tendrils. The image burns his spot of empathy. Two wrongs may not make a right, he decides, but the second one sure does ease the pain of the first.
It is his final thought before terror faces him; the careening vehicle, closer, black, metal. The devil wins. Pain. Lights out.
* * *
Five - 10:13 p.m
It is decided that it’s best for the parents to stay rooted at the ‘point of abduction’ in the event that Josh is able to contact his parents. With the roads being treacherous, an unnecessary accident would only complicate matters and such disasters are actually more common than one thinks. McKenzie’s argument had needed some persuasion, with Doug nearly pushing him out of the way in a combative protest. He would bring his son back on his own terms. Serena had managed to convince him otherwise.
“Doug, he’s right. There’s no use in both of us getting hurt in the process of saving Josh.”
Hearing his son’s name, it seemed then, had quelled Doug’s anxiety and, frozen to the word, he had released his grip on McKenzie. “Guess you’re right.”
Now, his eyes focus strangely on the scatter rug below the quilted bed. The stare appears sedated, almost possessed, unlike gestures that are rash—the biting of a thumbnail, the compulsive study of a police report that he tears through with a solitary right hand. The left one—wounded, guilty—curls inward at his lap, a shamed dog.
“Why didn’t you take him in with you?” The blame, with a mind of its own, unfurls like fire on paper.
His head follows her words, her heat, in a motion so slow, it is nearly haunted. “My fucking wrist snapped, Serena.”
She flicks a glance at the doorway, speaks to its back, “Your wrist snapped. And you couldn’t possibly take care of yourself and someone else.” She closes her eyes, feels the wrong of her words.
“We were together when it happened for Christ’s sake,” he says sharply.
She angles herself to face him, to make sense of what has already been said before. “So you were at the bottom of the mountain at this point?”
“Yes. We had just reached the bottom of the mountain when I slid the wrong way. I would have fallen backwards but I overcompensated…” he rubs the back of his head as though shaking wet hair dry, “and that’s when I fell forward on the heel of my hand.”
“What did Josh do after you fell?” she asks in a hoarse whisper.
“He was concerned, he…” his thoughts trail off as he squeezes his face shut. Serena watches him remember.
“Dad! Are you alright?” Josh slides to his father’s side, his snowboard angled perfectly for a quick stop.
Instinctively, Doug clutches his wrist and attempts, unsuccessfully, to hide the pain.
“You hurt your hand, Daddy?”
He winces, kneeling in the snow, levering himself up with the right hand, “I think I just fell the wrong way…” and glances back at a speedy Roth who flies in from behind.
“Oh geez. I think it’s broken pal. You fell on your hands didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he says back, removing a glove, “I shouldn’t have leaned over so much.”
“If I were you, Doug, I would have it wrapped. It takes no more than three minutes, right near the front desk. Chloe’s used to dealing with these injuries.”
Josh studies Roth’s words, believes in them. “Dad, you have to get it wrapped up.”
He scratches his head, “Alright, I guess you’ve got a point. I’ll…I’ll be…” he shoots a look to the lodge, “be back in a few minutes.”
“Tell you what,” Roth instructs, “we’ll shoot down for one last ride and be here when you get back.”
“Point Sara again?”
Josh senses the ambivalence, a slight tone change, in his dad’s voice. “Do you want me to come in with you, Dad?”
“Naw, I’ll be fine. Go enjoy one last run. Me and my bum hand will meet you at the bottom.”
Roth chuckles, “Seriously, man, it happens all the time. We’ll see you in, say….ten minutes?”
“Sounds good.”
He fumbles singlehandedly with his bindings before stepping out of his snowboard and carrying it away like a notebook. On his way to the lodge, he looks back at his son, gliding away with Roth and chatting, their bodies parallel to each other. With a gloved hand, Josh appears to be demonstrating a swooping motion. The small jump at the end of Point Sara.
The pain in his wrist shouts at him, reminding him of two things: Number one, it could have been a lot worse, could have been a hip, leg, or even ribs! And, number two, it could have been Josh. He walks away, relieved to be the one feeling pain.
She sees him awaken from the memory in an outburst that sounds primitive, a howling animal.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” she approaches him and sits down, cradling his head in her chest. “I shouldn’t have resorted to blame.” Her tears drizzle his hair. “We’re gonna’ do this, Doug. Our baby is going to come back to us.”
Rebecca wheeling him away at the hospital. She wishes that she had said no. A scene from his birth floats into her mind. “He will be rescued, Doug, he has to be. He’ll bring us back to us. Now let’s go get him.”
10: 19 p.m
They shake off emotion, stand up and say in unison, “Outside.”
“Grab your coat,” Doug adds. “Let’s just be present out there. Be visible. And search in the woods some more. You hear it all the time, Ser, kids being found when they’re close by. Remember that kid from Quincy, parents thought he was gone, but he had hopped in with a hitchhiker to go to a convenience store.”
“Good, that’s good, Doug. We can’t out-rule that he could be closer than we think, closer than anyone would expect. Let’s bundle up, though.”
“Where are my shoes, I mean boots, I’ll need boots, right?” He finger-combs the top of his head.
“Definitely. Here, they’re right by the door.” Unnecessarily, she points them out and watches Doug bend over them. He stuffs his socked feet into them with remarkable swiftness, despite the limp companion. Then he pauses at the doorway and offers Serena a final thought.
“We’re going to find him,” he says.
“We have to find him,” she says in a voice that has been resurrected by Doug’s confidence. Her husband is back, prepared for the fight. It is not his fault that this has happened to their child. A wave of adrenaline shoots through her, a fluttery sensation that reminds her of the first time she fell in love with Doug.
She scoops her keys off of the end table and follows her husband out.
10:22 p.m.
The door’s security lock slams shut while, immediately, another couple, leaving their own neighboring room, makes eye contact. The burden of Serena and Doug’s problem is too great to ignore. It is also too great to articulate—to find the right words to empathize with the unimaginable. For a moment, the couple remains tangled in the conflict. Finally, unwilling to bear the silence any longer, the man speaks up.
“I’m…I’m sorry about what’s happened. We heard….I mean it’s on the news and everything…is, is there anything we can do?—I’m a parent as well, I can just imagine what this must be like and—”
Serena saves him. “Thank you for asking. Right now we need to make things happen and be present for our child. Thank you for thinking of us, though,” she stammers, feeling as though she should give them more, but deciding against it. Time is not on their side.
Doug shadows her thoughts. “Yes, we must be on our way. But thank you.”
“Oh, of course! We’re sorry!” the woman chimes in, embarrassed.
“Oh no, don’t be,” Doug says. “Have you seen the news clip, the picture of our son?”
“Y-yes,” the couple says in unison.
In motion, Serena calls back, “Please stay posted on the news. And call the emergency line if you can help us in any way. Any piece of information is a huge help.”
10:23 p.m.
Chloe is tapping away at her keyboard, wearing her holiday attire and Serena is struck by the memory of their first confrontation, hours ago, over Doug’s wrist. If only she had known what was to come.
To the bustling sound of Serena and Doug, she looks up from her work, offers a stern string of information.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Davis. I’ve notified Chief McKenzie to contact me via e-mail, cell phone, whatever’s easiest, if anything comes up. In addition to that, I’ve organized a team, basically our Ski Patrol,” she says with her hands, “to comb the slopes through the night. They’ll be working 24-7. We’re going to do everything in our power to find your little boy.”
Chloe cares. To this revelation, Serena’s eyes water. “My son will be rescued, Chloe. Thank you for all you’re doing.”
Chloe smiles weakly, her face the blotchy pink of uncertainty. Serena cannot bear the face. She tugs at Doug’s arm. “Let’s hurry.”
10:27 p.m
Being inside of the hot chocolate tent is excruciating. There is a row of wooden picnic tables, the middle of which holds ripped open empty packages of hot chocolate and Styrofoam cups that lie stained on their sides. She and Doug study the cups for a moment before they lock eyes, holding a mutual thought: One of these could have been Joshua’s.
Robotically, they move toward the cups and it is she who picks one up, holds it to her nose, and, tentatively, smells it.
“Oh God.” Doug says, sitting down, cupping his mouth.
She closes her eyes, sits beside him, palms his knee. “I can picture him in here, tearing open the packet, feeling so— ” She begins to sob and shake before composing herself again, “so independent, you know. That’s what we all loved about this sport, the—”
“The freedom,” Doug answers. “Let’s get on the lift and check out the expert trails again. This is a waste of time.”
“Alright,” she wipes her face clean with her glove.
They walk out together, heads down, trying to be focused again.
A shuffling sound, boots on snow, awakens the trance and Serena looks up to a bulk of man in the short distance. Before she can say it, Doug says, “McKenzie.”
They walk faster to meet him but The Chief’s stride remains constant; a steady walk, a steady gaze. Within moments, the three of them stand angled atop the snow.
“Serena, Doug,” he says with a quick nod to both, “I have some news that I wanted to share with you in person.”
Her world is a vacuum. There is no one left but McKenzie.
“There was an accident on Route 302. Roth was the driver...”
Existence spins away.
“Your son, Joshua, was in the passenger seat.”
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t…
“And he’s going to be just fine. He’s at Lincoln Medical Center right now, but it appears he’s just been banged up a bit.”
An embrace. A collapse. And sobbing.
There are no words.
Joshua has been rescued.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Be Careful: You May Sink into my Novel
When I think about how many interesting people inhabit our planet, it doesn't surprise me that characters sell, always will. Be it American Idol, The Twilight Series, or Harry Potter; viewers and readers have proven that they want people. And they want them in color, not your standard beige.
As a writer, I am thankful for people, for the abundance of them. They're at the beach, the park, the playing field, and, during a snowy winter in New England, they're on The Chairlift.
My family has been snowboarding for the last few months. Well, to cut to the chase, my son and husband have been, literally,'cutting to the chase' with exquisite agility while I--ever the learner, ever the perfectionist--have been honing my skill on the bunny slope.
I harbor no resentment for my delay in mastering the famous 's' turn, the snowboarding staple. I'm quite proud that I can form the letter J in the snow. It's a great old letter, a lovely letter, a biblical letter, and let's face it (since I'm the kind of girl who tells it like it is) what I truly love about the sport has nothing to do with riding down the mountain. It has everything to do with going up it. On the chairlift. Because people are interesting.
If you haven't had the pleasure of riding uphill on a chairlift, let me enlighten you. First, there is the sheer precision of the whole process, the 'skating' forward to the sign that says 'load here' while a monsoon of people watch you, desperate to be assured that you will hop on properly so that they, next in line, will get a fair turn.
Ashamedly, I must admit, I have not always come through for these people. There was one instance in which I became so entranced by the rhythm of the chairlift - by its sheer robotics to contine moving, to wait for no one, with that metallic arm that pivots at a spectacular right angle - that I missed my cue to hop on.
An empty chair sailed up and onward as a dismayed employee, The Lift Operator, educated me. "As soon as you see the sign for..." Blah, blah, blah, was all I heard, a Charlie Brown phonecall. Yeah, I get it mister, now let me get on the next chair and right my wrongs already.
He was a character alright, that Lift Operator. Along with a snake-line of folk, I half-listened to him before skating forward with impressive speed. Load Here. I read the sign twice, just to be sure I'd get it right this time. Perfect. I judged the transition perfectly and settled back into the chair with a new pair of people.
They were, I learned, a Chemistry Professor and His Daughter. Despite his obvious intelligence, The Chemist offered a show of humility when I joked that he must be 'one of those really smart people'. Sniggering at the compliment; he shared that his wife would say otherwise.
I can picture him clearly now, the prominent square jaw, the lean build. I can picture him as though I'm seated beside him. Let's zoom in closer, to present tense, so that you, too, can see him.
The Chemist has a wife, I learn. This makes me happy. There is a quiet intelligence about him and I want him to be happily married. I make a mental note to be sure that he will be happily married in an upcoming chapter.
As we continue to glide uphill, sharing pieces of who we are, pieces that - in the confines of our short rendevous - can only be defined by what we do, I manage to forge a slick overlap with The Chemist.
"I used to love balancing equations," I say, and then, in a bold attempt to relate further, add, "it was always exciting to wonder whether or not everything will cancel out."
The Chemist has a sense of humor. He chuckles politely then surprises me with praise. "Most people don't like that, or get that," he says. "I think it depends on who you have for a teacher."
We glide on and, inevitably, he asks what I do. Feeling inadequate to the achieve of The Chemist (I also learned that he teaches at Boston College), I share my profession.
"I'm a writer."
"Really?" he asks, intrigued, perhaps perplexed.
Unnecessarily, I feel the need to bolster who I am. "I also have two teaching degrees."
The onset of information is enough to keep The Chemist hooked and we chat like old friends for the remainder of the ride. I forewarn him that I sometimes fall getting off the lift and apologize in advance if I bump into his daughter. He reassures me that 'children bend' and the two of us make a remarkably clean separation at the mountain's top. We choose different paths, The Chemist and I, and this is by default of a simple fact: I lack control over my board and it leads me away from him. Nevertheless, we wish each other luck on the way down.
I concentrate on my heel-side turn, on drawing the letter J in the snow, but a part of me is still drafting The Chemist. He needs a conflict and I rake through options in my mind, finally settling on the rebellious student theme. What would it take to push The Chemist's buttons too far? And how much of this does the reader need to see? Perhaps his calm front is a mask to the troubles boiling inside of him.
In the pages of my mind, I flip through plots. The thought of The Chemist, soft-spoken, genuinely nice, makes me feel for him and I shudder to the thought of the misguided teen whom will disrespect him. The teen, though, is pardoned in my mind by a careful reprieve that I create. The Chemist will be paid well for his aggravations, much more than his author, his puppeteer.
I continue to think and turn and fall, a pattern I'm familiar with, even comfortable with, before heading to the mountain's bottom. In the distance, a mob of skiiers have entered my view. I decide not to practice my toe-side turns because it requires energy that I suddenly don't have - the fall forward, the frustration, the reminder of the massive amount of practice that I still need - all are not worth it.
Instead, I play it safe and plow down on a diagonal. At the flat section, I set one foot free, scan the line, and skate back in - to the 'Singles' section. Beside me, a threesome of teens stand tall and messy. Their 'whatever' attitudes assert themselves in their first-time-ever snowboarding confessions, missing helmets, and raucous laughter. They are stereotypical characters, these teens.
I shimmy on ahead, notice the well-dressed middle aged woman with the pink headband. She knows what she's doing, this lady, and she huffs and sighs to those who don't. I begin to wonder what she is doing at the bunny slope. More than that, I hope to ride up with her.
My mind has already begun to create her story.
She does not greet me on the way up. Bad decision.
As a writer, I am thankful for people, for the abundance of them. They're at the beach, the park, the playing field, and, during a snowy winter in New England, they're on The Chairlift.
My family has been snowboarding for the last few months. Well, to cut to the chase, my son and husband have been, literally,'cutting to the chase' with exquisite agility while I--ever the learner, ever the perfectionist--have been honing my skill on the bunny slope.
I harbor no resentment for my delay in mastering the famous 's' turn, the snowboarding staple. I'm quite proud that I can form the letter J in the snow. It's a great old letter, a lovely letter, a biblical letter, and let's face it (since I'm the kind of girl who tells it like it is) what I truly love about the sport has nothing to do with riding down the mountain. It has everything to do with going up it. On the chairlift. Because people are interesting.
If you haven't had the pleasure of riding uphill on a chairlift, let me enlighten you. First, there is the sheer precision of the whole process, the 'skating' forward to the sign that says 'load here' while a monsoon of people watch you, desperate to be assured that you will hop on properly so that they, next in line, will get a fair turn.
Ashamedly, I must admit, I have not always come through for these people. There was one instance in which I became so entranced by the rhythm of the chairlift - by its sheer robotics to contine moving, to wait for no one, with that metallic arm that pivots at a spectacular right angle - that I missed my cue to hop on.
An empty chair sailed up and onward as a dismayed employee, The Lift Operator, educated me. "As soon as you see the sign for..." Blah, blah, blah, was all I heard, a Charlie Brown phonecall. Yeah, I get it mister, now let me get on the next chair and right my wrongs already.
He was a character alright, that Lift Operator. Along with a snake-line of folk, I half-listened to him before skating forward with impressive speed. Load Here. I read the sign twice, just to be sure I'd get it right this time. Perfect. I judged the transition perfectly and settled back into the chair with a new pair of people.
They were, I learned, a Chemistry Professor and His Daughter. Despite his obvious intelligence, The Chemist offered a show of humility when I joked that he must be 'one of those really smart people'. Sniggering at the compliment; he shared that his wife would say otherwise.
I can picture him clearly now, the prominent square jaw, the lean build. I can picture him as though I'm seated beside him. Let's zoom in closer, to present tense, so that you, too, can see him.
The Chemist has a wife, I learn. This makes me happy. There is a quiet intelligence about him and I want him to be happily married. I make a mental note to be sure that he will be happily married in an upcoming chapter.
As we continue to glide uphill, sharing pieces of who we are, pieces that - in the confines of our short rendevous - can only be defined by what we do, I manage to forge a slick overlap with The Chemist.
"I used to love balancing equations," I say, and then, in a bold attempt to relate further, add, "it was always exciting to wonder whether or not everything will cancel out."
The Chemist has a sense of humor. He chuckles politely then surprises me with praise. "Most people don't like that, or get that," he says. "I think it depends on who you have for a teacher."
We glide on and, inevitably, he asks what I do. Feeling inadequate to the achieve of The Chemist (I also learned that he teaches at Boston College), I share my profession.
"I'm a writer."
"Really?" he asks, intrigued, perhaps perplexed.
Unnecessarily, I feel the need to bolster who I am. "I also have two teaching degrees."
The onset of information is enough to keep The Chemist hooked and we chat like old friends for the remainder of the ride. I forewarn him that I sometimes fall getting off the lift and apologize in advance if I bump into his daughter. He reassures me that 'children bend' and the two of us make a remarkably clean separation at the mountain's top. We choose different paths, The Chemist and I, and this is by default of a simple fact: I lack control over my board and it leads me away from him. Nevertheless, we wish each other luck on the way down.
I concentrate on my heel-side turn, on drawing the letter J in the snow, but a part of me is still drafting The Chemist. He needs a conflict and I rake through options in my mind, finally settling on the rebellious student theme. What would it take to push The Chemist's buttons too far? And how much of this does the reader need to see? Perhaps his calm front is a mask to the troubles boiling inside of him.
In the pages of my mind, I flip through plots. The thought of The Chemist, soft-spoken, genuinely nice, makes me feel for him and I shudder to the thought of the misguided teen whom will disrespect him. The teen, though, is pardoned in my mind by a careful reprieve that I create. The Chemist will be paid well for his aggravations, much more than his author, his puppeteer.
I continue to think and turn and fall, a pattern I'm familiar with, even comfortable with, before heading to the mountain's bottom. In the distance, a mob of skiiers have entered my view. I decide not to practice my toe-side turns because it requires energy that I suddenly don't have - the fall forward, the frustration, the reminder of the massive amount of practice that I still need - all are not worth it.
Instead, I play it safe and plow down on a diagonal. At the flat section, I set one foot free, scan the line, and skate back in - to the 'Singles' section. Beside me, a threesome of teens stand tall and messy. Their 'whatever' attitudes assert themselves in their first-time-ever snowboarding confessions, missing helmets, and raucous laughter. They are stereotypical characters, these teens.
I shimmy on ahead, notice the well-dressed middle aged woman with the pink headband. She knows what she's doing, this lady, and she huffs and sighs to those who don't. I begin to wonder what she is doing at the bunny slope. More than that, I hope to ride up with her.
My mind has already begun to create her story.
She does not greet me on the way up. Bad decision.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
'The Hours of Change' - Inspiration and Chapters
People ask me about where I get my ideas. How do I know what to write about? I'd have to say, honestly, that the topics seem to find me, more than me them. They write themselves in my mind on occasions when I'm trapped in a moment and I feel the same yearning to 'shoot' the scene as would a photographer. I'm capturing a memory and my instrument is language. Along with emotion. Once my heart and mind connect with the scene, a story is born.
Just last night, through the window of a ski lodge, I watched my son soar over a jump and land on his feet. Gliding forward, his eyes found mine, and his smile filled me. I gave him the thumbs up and mouthed the words - Wow, that was really great. Within seconds he was back in line with a friend, but I remained trapped in that moment.
I think I'll always be on the other side of the window; cheering Benjamin on, watching him soar, catching his falls. Sometimes the need to protect him is so invasive - if I could - I'd paste a disclaimer to his jacket that would say: This child is not responsible for pain and anyone who inflicts such on him will be dealt with immediately.
But doing so borders on insanity, no? So, instead, I take those feelings - the fear, the pride, the fierce love - and I give them a voice, a name, and a story to tell. Bravo. The opening of my novel has been born. Check out the first few chapters of The Hours of Change. The concept was actually conceived through a dream but the emotion has been written from the residue of window scenes such as the one described. If you are a parent, you just may be standing beside me, watching my story unfold through the window.
Prologue
The hospital room is dim and smells of her uneaten food, a plate of now cold turkey and peas that lie still with her. The effects of the morphine are wearing thin as she becomes aware of a tender pain at her lower abdomen and, more acutely, that of her restless newborn child. It is a boy.
Though she isn’t exceptionally religious, she has named him Joshua, a Hebrew name meaning God Rescues, a name to convince her that, despite the chaos swirling around this child—in war, in terror, in a failing economy—he is protected. His name says so.
She had alluded to its meaning during an intense labor, one that had warranted an emergency caesarean. Her umbilical cord had threatened to strangle baby Josh—how so? that a mother could endanger her own child?
“Alright God…” she had whispered to the ceiling, “if you’re up there, how about rescuing both of us.”
And He had.
Oh, how he had. At a healthy eight pounds, two ounces, Joshua had announced himself, first, to the nimble nurse who cleaned and weighed him and, next, to Serena.
“His Apgar scores are just fine, and his coloring is perfect, Mom. He’s beautiful,” the nurse said, handing him to Serena. “Look at that little face.”
“Thank you,” Serena had whispered, studying his miniature features; the morsel nose, the pouting lips that trembled, and the bent little fingers that seemed too small to be real.
Thinking back, she cries some more—will she ever stop?—and lifts Joshua’s head to her nipple. A night light casts a pair of white lines over the bed that reminds her of skis. She shifts beneath the covers and they split, reminding her of geometry, of the words parallel and intersect. For a moment, she is struck by a math lesson for the kids; but their faces, like her teaching job, seem light years away now.
With her, instead, is the scent of hand lotion, more sanitary than herbal, and the soft tapping sound of shoes. It is Rebecca, the more compassionate of a trio of nurses who flurry in throughout the night.
“After this feeding, why don’t you take a break, Mum. He’ll be fine in the nursery. We’re fully loaded tonight, no one’s called in sick yet,” she says, her fingers crossed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately…it’s just—”
“Overwhelming?” Rebecca sidles up beside her, touches her arm. She is so put-together and amazingly independent that a new batch of tears spring from her eyes.
“It’s perfectly normal to feel this way after giving birth. And don’t worry, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you have post-partum depression. You’re trying to function on a couple hours of sleep, if that, not to mention that your body is recovering from a major surgery.” She squeezes Serena’s shoulder. “You really need to give yourself a break, honey.”
Rebecca, it seems then, knows what she’s talking about and, despite Serena’s reservations about leaving Josh at the nursery, she will consider the advice.
“When Mom takes care of herself, she’s better at taking care of baby, trust me,” she goes on, offering Serena a tissue. “Try and fall asleep until his next feeding, probably around 3 a.m., and you’ll feel refreshed to see him. You won’t even know he was gone. I’ll be overseeing the nursery tonight. While I’m at it, I’ll work at inventing a way for men to grow breasts. How does that sound?”
Serena lets out a chortle that, despite its subtlety, causes her incision to throb wildly. Nevertheless, it feels good to be understood.
“I guess you’re right. I’ll function better on more sleep. And now that he’s been fed, he’ll probably sleep the whole time anyway," she says, sailing her pinky along the fuzz of Josh’s head.
Rebecca smiles. “Very true. And, first sign of waking, I’ll wheel him right back to you.”
Her eyes sting. They are tired of crying. She is tired of being tired. Her face, she senses, is distorted by the birth of her son. A salty puffiness has claimed her body, from her cheeks to her swollen ankles. She is a bobbling ocean tube for her baby to rest on and this new body makes her feel alone, as though she may float away. Serena is a disaster. She will accept help from the lovely Rebecca.
“Alright, here’s the little guy,” she says, sniffling. Gently, she props baby Joshua into the nurse’s cradled arms. He remains asleep and the transition is smooth.
“Please bring him back to me if he cries, no matter what time it is, okay?”
“Got it. Now get some sleep, you!” Rebecca chides.
Joshua is wheeled away before she has a chance to change her mind.
* * *
Nine Years Later
Franconia Notch State Park - Cannon Mountain, New Hampshire
January, 2009
One
The ski lodge smells of cedar, that and the smoky scent of a crackling fire. There are skis, boots, vests, and gloves scattered around her family, a scene that reminds Serena of her son’s bedroom. He was supposed to organize it before leaving, a chore intended to help the lad earn his keep and mind the family budget—one compromised by his favorite and absurdly expensive habit, snow-boarding. Pressed for time to head out the door while making last minute arrangements for the dog; Josh dodged another bullet.
“Looks sort of like your bedroom around here, you think?” She stretches her long legs out at the sofa, feeling more athletic than usual.
“How much does it cost to stay here, Mom?”
Joshua is a caring child, a trait that often causes her to melt in the face of ‘tough love’. His large brown eyes are concerned, as though he has burdened his parents with the cost. On their combined teaching salaries, it is very possible that he has. But he is worth it, she decides, knowing that Doug shares the thought.
“As soon as you make it big as a pro football player, you’ll have to take me and your mom to Colorado for some serious ski lessons,” he says, mussing his son’s hair.
“Yeah, right…” Josh smiles to the floor, the weight of his forearms pressed against his knees. With his legs forced apart this way, he appears larger, older.
“What kind of soup do you want, honey? I’ll go grab us a few bowls.”
“Do they have clam chowder or vegetable here?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure they have both of those but I’m not sure I’d trust the chowder here,” she says, priming him for the vegetable. “I mean… it won’t be like Maine’s, that’s for sure.”
“What are you having, Daddy?”
The question thwarts all hope of a veggie.
“I think I’ll go with the chowder. And a coffee,” Doug says, quick to confirm the thought.
“Yeah…I guess I’ll have that, too. Do they have root beer here, Mom?”
Flexing a bicep, she answers him. “You need to be strong for the slopes. Milk.”
“Fine,” he says, grinning. “Strawberry milk?”
“Let’s not push it, pal.”
Serena smirks and heads for the lodge’s cafeteria, located adjacent to the main lobby. Her quads feel tighter than usual as she walks, the result of exaggerating the squat pose for stretches of time that are too long for a forty year old.
Snowboarding is an unnatural sport, she thinks to herself, marked by the ultimate challenge of reaching the mountain's bottom while balancing on a sleek board. And forming a letter ‘s’ in the process. It was no wonder that she’d failed miserably.
“You alright!”
Doug's holler rings in her mind - the slide-in for the rescue as he yanked her from the snow with the vitality of a lifeguard. Thinking of her husband, smiling to his attitude, she enters the cafeteria.
Skiers relax in sectional sofas and rustic wooden chairs; some sipping cocoa, others staring into the fireplace. Their attire is modish, waterproof undergarment jerseys and nylon vests etched with name brands and proper linings. Serena wonders whether or not the crisp dress code is a reflection of their performance on the slopes.
Considering her own bargain priced yoga pants and the oversized sweatshirt falling to her knees, she guesses that it is. Nevertheless, the ambience is inviting and, novice or not, Serena enters the scene as though she blends.
She follows the peppery aroma of soup to the far end of the room where a foursome of stainless steel canisters sit steaming. She can barely contain her hunger. Removing the lids, she draws three bountiful bowls with the ladles then sets them down on a tray of napkins and bread. Another skier closes in on her personal space. The scent of his cologne - a troubled mist reeking of too many things -greets her first.
“I saw your son up there on the White Diamond,” he says, helping himself to a cup of minestrone.
“My son?” The scent induces a mild cough. She covers her mouth, notes his looks. Just as she thought, the man is soap opera handsome.
“Little man with the bright yellow vest?" he asks, concentrating on his tray, "he’s a whiz on the slopes. I couldn’t believe how well he does for someone his age. What is he…like nine?”
“Y-yes, he is. And thank you,” she stammers, caught off guard by his accurate impression of Josh. “He’s had solid instruction back home.”
He shakes a sugar packet into his coffee, sending forth a second round of his whiff. “That’ll do it. Where are you from?”
“Mass…Massachusetts,” she says, reaching for silverware.
“O.k.,” he nods, as though impressed by the state, despite the fact that the mountains of New Hampshire are superior. “I actually train boarders. Instruction makes a huge difference, especially when it comes to preventing injury. You wouldn’t believe the accidents we see with kids who decide to wing it around here.”
“You train here?”
“I do. At the front desk you can get my brochure with the schedule. I do individual and group lessons.” He deserts his tray to dig into his pocket. “Here’s my card.”
“Thanks so much…” she places the card on her tray, “but we’ll probably hold off for the remainder of this winter. I’ll see what my husband thinks about next year. Have a great night, now.”
“Take care,” he says with a wink.
She balances her tray and walks away, the white of his teeth fresh in her mind. He seems familiar but with those looks, she decides, she has seen him everywhere. He is attractive in the same way that a Ken doll is thought to be handsome, a stereotype of the perfect man.
She walks away, eager to serve her family soup.
*
Back at the lounge, Doug and Josh face the flat-screen television set like a pair of moths on a warm window. A snowboarding competition is under way.
“Mom, look at this boarder! He just jumped like fifteen feet in the air!”
His enthusiasm is contagious. She places the tray down on the center coffee table and tunes in. “Whoa. They are fantastic. Is that Neil Whitley?”
“Daddy, is that Neil Whitley?”
“I think it is,” Doug answers, though Serena can tell by his altered focus to the soup tray that he has no idea whether or not it is Neil Whitley. She smiles to herself. Admittedly, she has done the same.
“Hey budsie, let’s have some supper. Oh, and by the way, I met one of your fans in the cafeteria.”
Josh tilts his head, a question.
“One of the instructors here saw you on the White Diamond. He said you looked extremely good for someone your age.”
Doug rips open a package of oyster crackers, dumps them into his soup. “Smart instructor.”
“Hmm.” Josh shrugs the comment off. Neil Whitley is back on the jump. “How high do you think he’ll get this time?” A dribble of chowder escapes his lips. With his thumb, he pushes it back.
“Here you go, honey.” A napkin.
“How long do you think they practice for this, Daddy?”
Before Doug has a chance to answer, another voice is suddenly with them, an energetic one. “Those guys?”
It is Mr. Soap Star, back with his scent and more small talk or, more likely, to drum up more business.
Serena wipes the corner of her mouth, adjusts her headband. “Oh, hi…this is my son, Josh, and my husband, Doug. This is the 'fan' I was telling you about, honey,” she says, winking. “I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name in the cafeteria.”
His arm stretches, first, to Josh— "Hey Bud, I’m Steven Roth,”—and next, to Doug, “your son’s a pro.”
“Thank you.” Doug pats his son on the back and smiles proudly. A semi-athletic parent, he will take partial credit for his son’s skill. Serena frets that he will also launch into a snow story that is too long and exaggerated for the average listener.
She cuts the line. “Steven was telling me that he offers lessons at this lodge, honey. Maybe next year we can think about them?”
Doug scratches his head and answers with a thoughtful nod, the rain-check maneuver a favorite tactic. “Yeah, this year wouldn’t work with our schedules, but we’ll definitely look into it for next winter.”
Josh continues to study Steven, mesmerized by his height it seems.
Aware of his positive effect on the boy, Steven bends in closer, places his hands on his knees; accentuating yet a new muscle. “I’ll tell you what, buddy…I’ll offer you a free lesson tomorrow if you want, see if you jive with my style. It’s a little late now but—”
“It’s not too late!” Josh’s head snaps to his mom, to his dad.
“Now? Honey, it’s seven thirty. You’re legs must be tired and we have—”
“No, they’re not even tired at all! And the lights are on outside! I’ve never had a chance to snowboard under the lights!”
Doug rubs his forehead and chuckles, knowing his son, this story.
Roth presses his hands together like a shark’s fin. “Well, technically, we allow instruction until nine p.m. and typically these lessons are private..." he pauses as though the news is sacred, "not as many kids sign up at night. But it’s up to you guys. I’ll be here tomorrow as well."
The man’s biceps, beneath his ‘under armor’ silk athletic shirt are impressive. For a shameful second, Serena yearns to be his student. Her question, maternal, betrays nothing.
“How long will the lesson be, Steven?”
“We’ll be out for about forty five minutes. I can have him back here by eight fifteen if you want.”
Doug stands up, makes the decision. “I’ll go out with him, honey.”
“Yes!!” Josh shakes a fist in mock victory, the extension to his night an impressive win.
“Alright, you two. Be safe,” she says. “I’ll go settle into our room. See you soon, Mr. Whitley.”
He is already snapping his helmet into place and his face appears smaller, younger again. She cups his chin and kisses his nose. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
She listens to fragments of snow board chatter, moguls, lift, precision, heel-side, pivot… all the way to the elevator. And though a part of her is worried about the decision, one made spontaneously, and much too late!—she is quelled by the image of her son’s joy, of the light in his eyes in seizing the opportunity to snowboard at night.
After all, she tells herself, these are the memories to live for.
Two
The second floor bedroom, colonial inspired, is decorated warmly. Two full-sized beds, quilted brightly in star patterns, top a creaky hardwood floor that is nonetheless charming. Heavy checkered curtains hang to the floor from fat wooden dowels that are stained a dark walnut. The lighting is dim, offering a final touch to a cozy effect that is irresistibly winter in New England.
At sunrise, the view at the room’s window (the east side), will be magnificent; a landscape of snow capped mountains splintered with sunlight. In the dark, they are bulks of shadow, frozen giants of the night.
She closes the curtain and re-visits the luggage, realizing that, once again, she has over-packed. There are enough clothes to last for a week, yet her family is staying for two nights only. Foiled again, she places heaps of underwear, sweatshirts, and ski-wear in the top drawer of a stodgy oak armoire, allotting the bottom two for the boys. Her eye catches the red fabric of Josh’s favorite pajamas, the baseball pattern of which is worn and faded. She separates the pair from the pile; caresses, remembers…
It is Christmas morning and he is padding down the stairs much too fast. The pajamas are too long and she worries that he will trip. George, usually indolent, is wide awake this morning, wiggling at the bottom of the staircase, his fear of the climb a constant deterrent. Keen in his sense of excitement, the bulldog’s smile spans his head, as though a child has drawn it on.
The sound of the telephone, old-fashioned and much too loud, shakes the memory away.
“Hello?” Perhaps a problem with her credit card?
“Hello…Mrs. Davis?”
“Y-yes, this is she.” She knees herself up.
“Hi, this is Chloe at the front desk. I’m just calling to let you know that your husband has just come in with a minor accident on the slopes.”
“Ooh…” she manages to say, pressing a finger against her bottom lip.
“It’s nothing serious, Mrs. Davis. Just a slight wrist injury…we see this all the time, no worries at all. He’s being taped up now. We’ve advised him to go easy tomorrow and, certainly, to get it x-rayed when you get back home if it gets worse. Wrist injuries are quite common around here, trust me.”
“Al…alright. You know what…” she says, reading the clock, “I’ll be right down.”
*
Chloe is poised at the counter, clearly unaffected by ski injuries. She is wearing a red turtle neck beneath a vest that is hand-knitted and garish in its holiday sell. Her braids, along with sewn-on glitter ornaments, hang long. The ensemble is overwhelming.
“Hello. You must be Mrs. Davis,” she says, looking up from her keyboard.
“Hi. And yes. Is my husband here?”
“Oh, he’ll be just fine, still in First Aid, first hallway to the left…” she says, pointing out the direction before adding, “he fell on his hands, happens all the time with amateurs.”
The assassination is mild. Serena will pardon Chloe’s ignorance knowing that, if present, Doug would laugh the comment off, his sense of humor heartier than her own. She swallows a come-back.
“Thank you, Chloe. I’m just going to pop outside and take a peek at my son. He’s with one of your instructors, Mr. Roth. Steven Roth.”
To the name, Chloe pauses, her response put on hold.
Serena’s heartbeat flutters, a trapped sparrow in her chest.
“We don’t employ a man by that name.”
The sparrow flaps wildly. “I met him in the cafeteria earlier,” she thumbs back,“ he was...I mean he gave me his card, says I could pick up a brochure here?”
Chloe’s chest inflates as she inhales. “Just a minute, please. It’s possible that he runs private lessons and I just haven’t heard of him.” Her chubby hand picks up the phone but Serena cannot wait. Her legs move her back; to the door, then the handle. And outside.
The air is moist, smells of night and snow. She whispers his name as she walks, can see him in her mind… hunched over his board, the white helmet, the white spray as he comes to a halt at the bottom and, most endearing, the satisfaction in his eyes as he looks up. She will envision him this way and, like so many times before—at the grocery store, in the shopping mall, at the bookstore—her heart will jump to him as, somewhat shamefully, she will question the worry. Later, in re-telling the incident to Doug, she will blame the media for creating such fear in their obnoxious coverage of everything negative. Then, as they have done so many times before, she and Doug will agree to avoid the news.
A brisk walk takes her to the lodge’s backside, to a mountainous landscape that is the inspiration for so many photographs at surrounding New Hampshire gift shops. She has reveled in this scene, has purchased this scene in postcards and calendars, always a spiritual inscription at the bottom. The outdoor picture, now, poses as a threat. The mountains are humbled.
The view is too large and her eyes can barely scan it fast enough: the slopes, the lift, the clusters of skiers, the rope, the hot chocolate tent…she sweeps through them in a gaze. No Josh. Intuitively, aggressively, she moves toward a bright orange ski vest, an employee. He is bent over his snowboard, adjusting the bindings. She drills into his space.
“Excuse me, Sir….you work here right?”
Resting an elbow on one knee, he looks up as though to say ‘yes’, and ‘shoot’.
“Hello. Hi. My name is Serena Davis. My husband, Doug, and my son, Joshua, were just out here about twenty minutes ago for a lesson with Roth…I mean…” she closes her eyes, “Steven Roth’s the name…we met him—”
“If they’re on a lesson ma’am, they probably just haven’t come down yet. What did you say the instructor’s name was?”
By now she is panting. Her heartbeat is irregular. She is irregular. Her panic, she knows, will upstage her soft looks, blonde looks that have reprieved speeding tickets, looks that have coerced men to open doors.
She spit outs, "Roth. Steven Roth’s the name. My husband was ushered into the lodge with a wrist injury, maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. Front…front desk called me down and said they don’t know his name. I’m concerned,” she huffs. “Would you mind helping me locate them? I mean, I don’t mean to be a pain, it’s just that…” she squeezes her thumb, “I’m worried.”
The man with the bright orange vest cannot possibly say no. As though answering her thoughts, he springs up. “Come with me, let’s check out the slopes. I’ll beep the front desk to let them know where we are.” Then he hops on his board and skates forward, one foot doing the work, the other resting at the back as he glides ahead.
“What level is your son at?” he turns to ask.
She jogs to keep up. “He’s mastered all of the basic levels…he’s basically at the top which I think is—”
“Seven? Then he must be on Point Sara, tough trail but a great challenge for the experts.”
“Sir, do you know this instructor,” she says, nearly breathless in her haste to keep up. “I mean he gave me his business card in the cafeteria, nice-looking man, tall, very knowledgeable, dark hair…”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
They are at the ski lift by now, along with a few other groups, a trio of young girls and, further ahead, a pack of young men. The chair-lift stops and moves ahead at mechanical intervals until a teen, fooling purposely, misses her opportunity to hop on. Her friends shout back to her, hilarious.
The man activating the lift has a voice that is as mechanical as the machine’s.
“Get on the next chair, ma’am. Move up to the line, please.”
Serena and the man with the orange vest are next.
“Quick. Let’s hop on,” he says, guiding her by the shoulder. “So, level seven boarder with an instructor named Roth. Here we come.”
They jump on and the chair swings upward as they settle to its back. He pulls the safety arm down and an emphatic clang confirms the lock. She clutches the metal handle. Her hands tremble to vibration. Winter trees pass them like old friends.
“Listen, I’m going to scan the left side and you do the same on your right. Point Sara is for expert skiers so it should be less crowded, especially at night.”
He is taking this seriously, nearly shouting beside her. His command is delivered with such conviction that, for a moment in time, she is relieved. She envisions Josh at the top of the mountain, prepared for descent: the bent knees, the slight lean forward, the stiff hands. Sheer focus. She will not holler to him immediately, will hold her adrenaline back, hide her worry…and sink back to relief.
Then she will thank this man with the gratitude of a baby bird receiving the entire sky for the first time. The freedom will be glorious. The mountains will return to their magnificence.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” she says, still dreaming.
“Jim,” he says, tightening the Velcro of his glove strap, “…and yours?”
“Serena,” she says, unprepared for the tears that pool in her eyes. With cold fingers, she dots the corners. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…he’s such a wonderful boy, you know. I mean, I know every parent thinks that about their kid…but this one,” she goes on, sniffling, “my child is one of a kind. So caring, so—”
“Please…” he interrupts, touching her arm. “I understand.”
But she does not want Jim to understand. Rather, she wants Jim to strip this problem from her in the same manner that he might pull a band-aid off of a cut, quick and painless, masculine-style. It will only sting for a moment because he will reassure her that parents worry like this all the time. She will believe him.
Oh, how she will believe him.
The Jim beside her does not act like the one she imagines. He remains quiet and the fright between them lingers cruelly. She glances back, the lodge appearing smaller in the distance, a snow-capped shack. The chilly air chafes her cheeks, sucking color from her. There are but a few skiers gliding in unison down the mountain, blissfully unaware, in sync with nature, and she envies them now. Snowboarding is about freedom, the experts say, a means to express oneself, the healthiest pill for winter depression. In the confines of her situation—cold on so many levels—she can only shudder to the irony.
“Alright, here we are,” Jim says, a few feet shy of where they’re supposed to hop off.
They judge the transition perfectly, Jim hopping off then gliding on his board; she, jogging behind him. The snow fills her boots immediately. Trampling forward, she attacks the view.
As far as her eyes take her, there is no one.
But then she sees her, gliding upward on the lift, wearing an expression of stone.
It is Chloe, back with news that cannot be good.
Just last night, through the window of a ski lodge, I watched my son soar over a jump and land on his feet. Gliding forward, his eyes found mine, and his smile filled me. I gave him the thumbs up and mouthed the words - Wow, that was really great. Within seconds he was back in line with a friend, but I remained trapped in that moment.
I think I'll always be on the other side of the window; cheering Benjamin on, watching him soar, catching his falls. Sometimes the need to protect him is so invasive - if I could - I'd paste a disclaimer to his jacket that would say: This child is not responsible for pain and anyone who inflicts such on him will be dealt with immediately.
But doing so borders on insanity, no? So, instead, I take those feelings - the fear, the pride, the fierce love - and I give them a voice, a name, and a story to tell. Bravo. The opening of my novel has been born. Check out the first few chapters of The Hours of Change. The concept was actually conceived through a dream but the emotion has been written from the residue of window scenes such as the one described. If you are a parent, you just may be standing beside me, watching my story unfold through the window.
Prologue
The hospital room is dim and smells of her uneaten food, a plate of now cold turkey and peas that lie still with her. The effects of the morphine are wearing thin as she becomes aware of a tender pain at her lower abdomen and, more acutely, that of her restless newborn child. It is a boy.
Though she isn’t exceptionally religious, she has named him Joshua, a Hebrew name meaning God Rescues, a name to convince her that, despite the chaos swirling around this child—in war, in terror, in a failing economy—he is protected. His name says so.
She had alluded to its meaning during an intense labor, one that had warranted an emergency caesarean. Her umbilical cord had threatened to strangle baby Josh—how so? that a mother could endanger her own child?
“Alright God…” she had whispered to the ceiling, “if you’re up there, how about rescuing both of us.”
And He had.
Oh, how he had. At a healthy eight pounds, two ounces, Joshua had announced himself, first, to the nimble nurse who cleaned and weighed him and, next, to Serena.
“His Apgar scores are just fine, and his coloring is perfect, Mom. He’s beautiful,” the nurse said, handing him to Serena. “Look at that little face.”
“Thank you,” Serena had whispered, studying his miniature features; the morsel nose, the pouting lips that trembled, and the bent little fingers that seemed too small to be real.
Thinking back, she cries some more—will she ever stop?—and lifts Joshua’s head to her nipple. A night light casts a pair of white lines over the bed that reminds her of skis. She shifts beneath the covers and they split, reminding her of geometry, of the words parallel and intersect. For a moment, she is struck by a math lesson for the kids; but their faces, like her teaching job, seem light years away now.
With her, instead, is the scent of hand lotion, more sanitary than herbal, and the soft tapping sound of shoes. It is Rebecca, the more compassionate of a trio of nurses who flurry in throughout the night.
“After this feeding, why don’t you take a break, Mum. He’ll be fine in the nursery. We’re fully loaded tonight, no one’s called in sick yet,” she says, her fingers crossed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately…it’s just—”
“Overwhelming?” Rebecca sidles up beside her, touches her arm. She is so put-together and amazingly independent that a new batch of tears spring from her eyes.
“It’s perfectly normal to feel this way after giving birth. And don’t worry, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you have post-partum depression. You’re trying to function on a couple hours of sleep, if that, not to mention that your body is recovering from a major surgery.” She squeezes Serena’s shoulder. “You really need to give yourself a break, honey.”
Rebecca, it seems then, knows what she’s talking about and, despite Serena’s reservations about leaving Josh at the nursery, she will consider the advice.
“When Mom takes care of herself, she’s better at taking care of baby, trust me,” she goes on, offering Serena a tissue. “Try and fall asleep until his next feeding, probably around 3 a.m., and you’ll feel refreshed to see him. You won’t even know he was gone. I’ll be overseeing the nursery tonight. While I’m at it, I’ll work at inventing a way for men to grow breasts. How does that sound?”
Serena lets out a chortle that, despite its subtlety, causes her incision to throb wildly. Nevertheless, it feels good to be understood.
“I guess you’re right. I’ll function better on more sleep. And now that he’s been fed, he’ll probably sleep the whole time anyway," she says, sailing her pinky along the fuzz of Josh’s head.
Rebecca smiles. “Very true. And, first sign of waking, I’ll wheel him right back to you.”
Her eyes sting. They are tired of crying. She is tired of being tired. Her face, she senses, is distorted by the birth of her son. A salty puffiness has claimed her body, from her cheeks to her swollen ankles. She is a bobbling ocean tube for her baby to rest on and this new body makes her feel alone, as though she may float away. Serena is a disaster. She will accept help from the lovely Rebecca.
“Alright, here’s the little guy,” she says, sniffling. Gently, she props baby Joshua into the nurse’s cradled arms. He remains asleep and the transition is smooth.
“Please bring him back to me if he cries, no matter what time it is, okay?”
“Got it. Now get some sleep, you!” Rebecca chides.
Joshua is wheeled away before she has a chance to change her mind.
* * *
Nine Years Later
Franconia Notch State Park - Cannon Mountain, New Hampshire
January, 2009
One
The ski lodge smells of cedar, that and the smoky scent of a crackling fire. There are skis, boots, vests, and gloves scattered around her family, a scene that reminds Serena of her son’s bedroom. He was supposed to organize it before leaving, a chore intended to help the lad earn his keep and mind the family budget—one compromised by his favorite and absurdly expensive habit, snow-boarding. Pressed for time to head out the door while making last minute arrangements for the dog; Josh dodged another bullet.
“Looks sort of like your bedroom around here, you think?” She stretches her long legs out at the sofa, feeling more athletic than usual.
“How much does it cost to stay here, Mom?”
Joshua is a caring child, a trait that often causes her to melt in the face of ‘tough love’. His large brown eyes are concerned, as though he has burdened his parents with the cost. On their combined teaching salaries, it is very possible that he has. But he is worth it, she decides, knowing that Doug shares the thought.
“As soon as you make it big as a pro football player, you’ll have to take me and your mom to Colorado for some serious ski lessons,” he says, mussing his son’s hair.
“Yeah, right…” Josh smiles to the floor, the weight of his forearms pressed against his knees. With his legs forced apart this way, he appears larger, older.
“What kind of soup do you want, honey? I’ll go grab us a few bowls.”
“Do they have clam chowder or vegetable here?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure they have both of those but I’m not sure I’d trust the chowder here,” she says, priming him for the vegetable. “I mean… it won’t be like Maine’s, that’s for sure.”
“What are you having, Daddy?”
The question thwarts all hope of a veggie.
“I think I’ll go with the chowder. And a coffee,” Doug says, quick to confirm the thought.
“Yeah…I guess I’ll have that, too. Do they have root beer here, Mom?”
Flexing a bicep, she answers him. “You need to be strong for the slopes. Milk.”
“Fine,” he says, grinning. “Strawberry milk?”
“Let’s not push it, pal.”
Serena smirks and heads for the lodge’s cafeteria, located adjacent to the main lobby. Her quads feel tighter than usual as she walks, the result of exaggerating the squat pose for stretches of time that are too long for a forty year old.
Snowboarding is an unnatural sport, she thinks to herself, marked by the ultimate challenge of reaching the mountain's bottom while balancing on a sleek board. And forming a letter ‘s’ in the process. It was no wonder that she’d failed miserably.
“You alright!”
Doug's holler rings in her mind - the slide-in for the rescue as he yanked her from the snow with the vitality of a lifeguard. Thinking of her husband, smiling to his attitude, she enters the cafeteria.
Skiers relax in sectional sofas and rustic wooden chairs; some sipping cocoa, others staring into the fireplace. Their attire is modish, waterproof undergarment jerseys and nylon vests etched with name brands and proper linings. Serena wonders whether or not the crisp dress code is a reflection of their performance on the slopes.
Considering her own bargain priced yoga pants and the oversized sweatshirt falling to her knees, she guesses that it is. Nevertheless, the ambience is inviting and, novice or not, Serena enters the scene as though she blends.
She follows the peppery aroma of soup to the far end of the room where a foursome of stainless steel canisters sit steaming. She can barely contain her hunger. Removing the lids, she draws three bountiful bowls with the ladles then sets them down on a tray of napkins and bread. Another skier closes in on her personal space. The scent of his cologne - a troubled mist reeking of too many things -greets her first.
“I saw your son up there on the White Diamond,” he says, helping himself to a cup of minestrone.
“My son?” The scent induces a mild cough. She covers her mouth, notes his looks. Just as she thought, the man is soap opera handsome.
“Little man with the bright yellow vest?" he asks, concentrating on his tray, "he’s a whiz on the slopes. I couldn’t believe how well he does for someone his age. What is he…like nine?”
“Y-yes, he is. And thank you,” she stammers, caught off guard by his accurate impression of Josh. “He’s had solid instruction back home.”
He shakes a sugar packet into his coffee, sending forth a second round of his whiff. “That’ll do it. Where are you from?”
“Mass…Massachusetts,” she says, reaching for silverware.
“O.k.,” he nods, as though impressed by the state, despite the fact that the mountains of New Hampshire are superior. “I actually train boarders. Instruction makes a huge difference, especially when it comes to preventing injury. You wouldn’t believe the accidents we see with kids who decide to wing it around here.”
“You train here?”
“I do. At the front desk you can get my brochure with the schedule. I do individual and group lessons.” He deserts his tray to dig into his pocket. “Here’s my card.”
“Thanks so much…” she places the card on her tray, “but we’ll probably hold off for the remainder of this winter. I’ll see what my husband thinks about next year. Have a great night, now.”
“Take care,” he says with a wink.
She balances her tray and walks away, the white of his teeth fresh in her mind. He seems familiar but with those looks, she decides, she has seen him everywhere. He is attractive in the same way that a Ken doll is thought to be handsome, a stereotype of the perfect man.
She walks away, eager to serve her family soup.
*
Back at the lounge, Doug and Josh face the flat-screen television set like a pair of moths on a warm window. A snowboarding competition is under way.
“Mom, look at this boarder! He just jumped like fifteen feet in the air!”
His enthusiasm is contagious. She places the tray down on the center coffee table and tunes in. “Whoa. They are fantastic. Is that Neil Whitley?”
“Daddy, is that Neil Whitley?”
“I think it is,” Doug answers, though Serena can tell by his altered focus to the soup tray that he has no idea whether or not it is Neil Whitley. She smiles to herself. Admittedly, she has done the same.
“Hey budsie, let’s have some supper. Oh, and by the way, I met one of your fans in the cafeteria.”
Josh tilts his head, a question.
“One of the instructors here saw you on the White Diamond. He said you looked extremely good for someone your age.”
Doug rips open a package of oyster crackers, dumps them into his soup. “Smart instructor.”
“Hmm.” Josh shrugs the comment off. Neil Whitley is back on the jump. “How high do you think he’ll get this time?” A dribble of chowder escapes his lips. With his thumb, he pushes it back.
“Here you go, honey.” A napkin.
“How long do you think they practice for this, Daddy?”
Before Doug has a chance to answer, another voice is suddenly with them, an energetic one. “Those guys?”
It is Mr. Soap Star, back with his scent and more small talk or, more likely, to drum up more business.
Serena wipes the corner of her mouth, adjusts her headband. “Oh, hi…this is my son, Josh, and my husband, Doug. This is the 'fan' I was telling you about, honey,” she says, winking. “I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name in the cafeteria.”
His arm stretches, first, to Josh— "Hey Bud, I’m Steven Roth,”—and next, to Doug, “your son’s a pro.”
“Thank you.” Doug pats his son on the back and smiles proudly. A semi-athletic parent, he will take partial credit for his son’s skill. Serena frets that he will also launch into a snow story that is too long and exaggerated for the average listener.
She cuts the line. “Steven was telling me that he offers lessons at this lodge, honey. Maybe next year we can think about them?”
Doug scratches his head and answers with a thoughtful nod, the rain-check maneuver a favorite tactic. “Yeah, this year wouldn’t work with our schedules, but we’ll definitely look into it for next winter.”
Josh continues to study Steven, mesmerized by his height it seems.
Aware of his positive effect on the boy, Steven bends in closer, places his hands on his knees; accentuating yet a new muscle. “I’ll tell you what, buddy…I’ll offer you a free lesson tomorrow if you want, see if you jive with my style. It’s a little late now but—”
“It’s not too late!” Josh’s head snaps to his mom, to his dad.
“Now? Honey, it’s seven thirty. You’re legs must be tired and we have—”
“No, they’re not even tired at all! And the lights are on outside! I’ve never had a chance to snowboard under the lights!”
Doug rubs his forehead and chuckles, knowing his son, this story.
Roth presses his hands together like a shark’s fin. “Well, technically, we allow instruction until nine p.m. and typically these lessons are private..." he pauses as though the news is sacred, "not as many kids sign up at night. But it’s up to you guys. I’ll be here tomorrow as well."
The man’s biceps, beneath his ‘under armor’ silk athletic shirt are impressive. For a shameful second, Serena yearns to be his student. Her question, maternal, betrays nothing.
“How long will the lesson be, Steven?”
“We’ll be out for about forty five minutes. I can have him back here by eight fifteen if you want.”
Doug stands up, makes the decision. “I’ll go out with him, honey.”
“Yes!!” Josh shakes a fist in mock victory, the extension to his night an impressive win.
“Alright, you two. Be safe,” she says. “I’ll go settle into our room. See you soon, Mr. Whitley.”
He is already snapping his helmet into place and his face appears smaller, younger again. She cups his chin and kisses his nose. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
She listens to fragments of snow board chatter, moguls, lift, precision, heel-side, pivot… all the way to the elevator. And though a part of her is worried about the decision, one made spontaneously, and much too late!—she is quelled by the image of her son’s joy, of the light in his eyes in seizing the opportunity to snowboard at night.
After all, she tells herself, these are the memories to live for.
Two
The second floor bedroom, colonial inspired, is decorated warmly. Two full-sized beds, quilted brightly in star patterns, top a creaky hardwood floor that is nonetheless charming. Heavy checkered curtains hang to the floor from fat wooden dowels that are stained a dark walnut. The lighting is dim, offering a final touch to a cozy effect that is irresistibly winter in New England.
At sunrise, the view at the room’s window (the east side), will be magnificent; a landscape of snow capped mountains splintered with sunlight. In the dark, they are bulks of shadow, frozen giants of the night.
She closes the curtain and re-visits the luggage, realizing that, once again, she has over-packed. There are enough clothes to last for a week, yet her family is staying for two nights only. Foiled again, she places heaps of underwear, sweatshirts, and ski-wear in the top drawer of a stodgy oak armoire, allotting the bottom two for the boys. Her eye catches the red fabric of Josh’s favorite pajamas, the baseball pattern of which is worn and faded. She separates the pair from the pile; caresses, remembers…
It is Christmas morning and he is padding down the stairs much too fast. The pajamas are too long and she worries that he will trip. George, usually indolent, is wide awake this morning, wiggling at the bottom of the staircase, his fear of the climb a constant deterrent. Keen in his sense of excitement, the bulldog’s smile spans his head, as though a child has drawn it on.
The sound of the telephone, old-fashioned and much too loud, shakes the memory away.
“Hello?” Perhaps a problem with her credit card?
“Hello…Mrs. Davis?”
“Y-yes, this is she.” She knees herself up.
“Hi, this is Chloe at the front desk. I’m just calling to let you know that your husband has just come in with a minor accident on the slopes.”
“Ooh…” she manages to say, pressing a finger against her bottom lip.
“It’s nothing serious, Mrs. Davis. Just a slight wrist injury…we see this all the time, no worries at all. He’s being taped up now. We’ve advised him to go easy tomorrow and, certainly, to get it x-rayed when you get back home if it gets worse. Wrist injuries are quite common around here, trust me.”
“Al…alright. You know what…” she says, reading the clock, “I’ll be right down.”
*
Chloe is poised at the counter, clearly unaffected by ski injuries. She is wearing a red turtle neck beneath a vest that is hand-knitted and garish in its holiday sell. Her braids, along with sewn-on glitter ornaments, hang long. The ensemble is overwhelming.
“Hello. You must be Mrs. Davis,” she says, looking up from her keyboard.
“Hi. And yes. Is my husband here?”
“Oh, he’ll be just fine, still in First Aid, first hallway to the left…” she says, pointing out the direction before adding, “he fell on his hands, happens all the time with amateurs.”
The assassination is mild. Serena will pardon Chloe’s ignorance knowing that, if present, Doug would laugh the comment off, his sense of humor heartier than her own. She swallows a come-back.
“Thank you, Chloe. I’m just going to pop outside and take a peek at my son. He’s with one of your instructors, Mr. Roth. Steven Roth.”
To the name, Chloe pauses, her response put on hold.
Serena’s heartbeat flutters, a trapped sparrow in her chest.
“We don’t employ a man by that name.”
The sparrow flaps wildly. “I met him in the cafeteria earlier,” she thumbs back,“ he was...I mean he gave me his card, says I could pick up a brochure here?”
Chloe’s chest inflates as she inhales. “Just a minute, please. It’s possible that he runs private lessons and I just haven’t heard of him.” Her chubby hand picks up the phone but Serena cannot wait. Her legs move her back; to the door, then the handle. And outside.
The air is moist, smells of night and snow. She whispers his name as she walks, can see him in her mind… hunched over his board, the white helmet, the white spray as he comes to a halt at the bottom and, most endearing, the satisfaction in his eyes as he looks up. She will envision him this way and, like so many times before—at the grocery store, in the shopping mall, at the bookstore—her heart will jump to him as, somewhat shamefully, she will question the worry. Later, in re-telling the incident to Doug, she will blame the media for creating such fear in their obnoxious coverage of everything negative. Then, as they have done so many times before, she and Doug will agree to avoid the news.
A brisk walk takes her to the lodge’s backside, to a mountainous landscape that is the inspiration for so many photographs at surrounding New Hampshire gift shops. She has reveled in this scene, has purchased this scene in postcards and calendars, always a spiritual inscription at the bottom. The outdoor picture, now, poses as a threat. The mountains are humbled.
The view is too large and her eyes can barely scan it fast enough: the slopes, the lift, the clusters of skiers, the rope, the hot chocolate tent…she sweeps through them in a gaze. No Josh. Intuitively, aggressively, she moves toward a bright orange ski vest, an employee. He is bent over his snowboard, adjusting the bindings. She drills into his space.
“Excuse me, Sir….you work here right?”
Resting an elbow on one knee, he looks up as though to say ‘yes’, and ‘shoot’.
“Hello. Hi. My name is Serena Davis. My husband, Doug, and my son, Joshua, were just out here about twenty minutes ago for a lesson with Roth…I mean…” she closes her eyes, “Steven Roth’s the name…we met him—”
“If they’re on a lesson ma’am, they probably just haven’t come down yet. What did you say the instructor’s name was?”
By now she is panting. Her heartbeat is irregular. She is irregular. Her panic, she knows, will upstage her soft looks, blonde looks that have reprieved speeding tickets, looks that have coerced men to open doors.
She spit outs, "Roth. Steven Roth’s the name. My husband was ushered into the lodge with a wrist injury, maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. Front…front desk called me down and said they don’t know his name. I’m concerned,” she huffs. “Would you mind helping me locate them? I mean, I don’t mean to be a pain, it’s just that…” she squeezes her thumb, “I’m worried.”
The man with the bright orange vest cannot possibly say no. As though answering her thoughts, he springs up. “Come with me, let’s check out the slopes. I’ll beep the front desk to let them know where we are.” Then he hops on his board and skates forward, one foot doing the work, the other resting at the back as he glides ahead.
“What level is your son at?” he turns to ask.
She jogs to keep up. “He’s mastered all of the basic levels…he’s basically at the top which I think is—”
“Seven? Then he must be on Point Sara, tough trail but a great challenge for the experts.”
“Sir, do you know this instructor,” she says, nearly breathless in her haste to keep up. “I mean he gave me his business card in the cafeteria, nice-looking man, tall, very knowledgeable, dark hair…”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
They are at the ski lift by now, along with a few other groups, a trio of young girls and, further ahead, a pack of young men. The chair-lift stops and moves ahead at mechanical intervals until a teen, fooling purposely, misses her opportunity to hop on. Her friends shout back to her, hilarious.
The man activating the lift has a voice that is as mechanical as the machine’s.
“Get on the next chair, ma’am. Move up to the line, please.”
Serena and the man with the orange vest are next.
“Quick. Let’s hop on,” he says, guiding her by the shoulder. “So, level seven boarder with an instructor named Roth. Here we come.”
They jump on and the chair swings upward as they settle to its back. He pulls the safety arm down and an emphatic clang confirms the lock. She clutches the metal handle. Her hands tremble to vibration. Winter trees pass them like old friends.
“Listen, I’m going to scan the left side and you do the same on your right. Point Sara is for expert skiers so it should be less crowded, especially at night.”
He is taking this seriously, nearly shouting beside her. His command is delivered with such conviction that, for a moment in time, she is relieved. She envisions Josh at the top of the mountain, prepared for descent: the bent knees, the slight lean forward, the stiff hands. Sheer focus. She will not holler to him immediately, will hold her adrenaline back, hide her worry…and sink back to relief.
Then she will thank this man with the gratitude of a baby bird receiving the entire sky for the first time. The freedom will be glorious. The mountains will return to their magnificence.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” she says, still dreaming.
“Jim,” he says, tightening the Velcro of his glove strap, “…and yours?”
“Serena,” she says, unprepared for the tears that pool in her eyes. With cold fingers, she dots the corners. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…he’s such a wonderful boy, you know. I mean, I know every parent thinks that about their kid…but this one,” she goes on, sniffling, “my child is one of a kind. So caring, so—”
“Please…” he interrupts, touching her arm. “I understand.”
But she does not want Jim to understand. Rather, she wants Jim to strip this problem from her in the same manner that he might pull a band-aid off of a cut, quick and painless, masculine-style. It will only sting for a moment because he will reassure her that parents worry like this all the time. She will believe him.
Oh, how she will believe him.
The Jim beside her does not act like the one she imagines. He remains quiet and the fright between them lingers cruelly. She glances back, the lodge appearing smaller in the distance, a snow-capped shack. The chilly air chafes her cheeks, sucking color from her. There are but a few skiers gliding in unison down the mountain, blissfully unaware, in sync with nature, and she envies them now. Snowboarding is about freedom, the experts say, a means to express oneself, the healthiest pill for winter depression. In the confines of her situation—cold on so many levels—she can only shudder to the irony.
“Alright, here we are,” Jim says, a few feet shy of where they’re supposed to hop off.
They judge the transition perfectly, Jim hopping off then gliding on his board; she, jogging behind him. The snow fills her boots immediately. Trampling forward, she attacks the view.
As far as her eyes take her, there is no one.
But then she sees her, gliding upward on the lift, wearing an expression of stone.
It is Chloe, back with news that cannot be good.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Hunted - Prologue, Chapter One
Prologue
August 18, 2007 – Boston Harbor Cruise
A misty breeze from Boston Harbor swept through the ship’s restaurant, flavoring the air with the sundry aroma of salt water, seafood, and warm buttered bread. The tables were round, set for eight in an elegant display of ivory linen, gold trimmed china, and crystal glass. Dim lighting and centerpiece candles cast a warm glow on the room, creating an ambience well suited to Mortimer Archer’s spirit.
He had just been promoted to Medical Director of BioLife’s Fertility Lab, a title sought out by his fellow doctors for years; one that, nevertheless, he had assumed with humility. Through careful research and development, for half of his life, he had found ways to nurture life, never imagining that his own would be taken so ruthlessly.
His speech, prompted by an appreciative toast to his dedication to the field, unfolded with gratitude. “When I accepted this position, I did so cognizant of all of you who have stood by me.” He scanned the crowd, settled on a familiar face. “Doug, we dreamed of a comfortable job like this back in med school, didn’t we?”
His old friend nodded pensively, his face wrinkled with smile.
Mortimer took a deep breath, as though inhaling the past. “You always said I’d be better at the top of the food chain because I’d be too afraid of being chewed up by anyone at the bottom.”
Laughter purred through the room.
“In science, we’re told to keep on asking why. In fertility, we’ve also learned to ask why not. In honor of BioLife and its vital contribution to our community,” he closed his eyes, savored the moment, “let us keep on doing that.”
The night wore on as napkins unraveled, olives sunk to the pits of martini glasses, and Mortimer Archer took a final sip of scotch. The ice at the bottom of his glass, the rocks, jiggled then fell silent as his head lolled back and his eyes closed to a world that he would have said was kind. Drool wet the corner of his lips, just barely, as a quartet of strings played on.
The dead weight of his head pushed the rest of him into an awkward slouch—a pose that had provoked speculation. Too much to drink? Or had the alcohol wreaked havoc with his heart medication? When others had failed to wake or breathe life back into him, they assumed heart failure.
Outside, against a black sky, a pregnant moon cast an iridescent glow on the water surrounding the ship. Restless, it tugged at the ocean as Mortimer Archer’s heart stopped.
Meanwhile, Dr. Brian Dante lifted the corner of his napkin to his lips, and rubbed away a dot of crumb.
Chapter One
The fog was a veil over Simone Dante’s car. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angel arms that did nothing to help her see, only provoked the question. Should she drive home alone?—and then its counterpoint—what’s the worst that can happen? Twenty years had passed since high school and, still, she couldn't shake the party ritual of being the first to arrive and the first to leave.
The parking lot was muted, raw. She pulled out and adjusted her rearview mirror, the cars misty and enmeshed in color, watery grays. The drive back to Southborough could feel either long or short, all a matter of perspective, Anne would say. Her best friend preached often about attitude and positive thinking, how it determines our paths, our destinies even. Simone, a part time believer, was skeptical tonight. In the fog of an unfamiliar New England town, something sinister seemed to coat the air. She turned up the heat.
At the stout oak tree she took a left; recalling the right she had taken there earlier. The tree sat squarely in its small yard, claiming the plot with elephant trunk branches that were swollen and twisted in age. From there, she remembered the road stretching on for a mile or so before reaching a stop sign. She drove on, past the shabby old shed in the yard to the left and, after that, the cluster of hung sunflowers to the right.
A few more small ranches, another stretch of barren road, more trees, and finally, the stop sign appeared. Had she gone straight through or taken a right there? Uncertain, she banked on intuition and went straight through, her forehead suddenly moist, hinting at panic and the more obvious: She would need the written directions.
Leaning into the passenger side, she single-handedly popped open the glove compartment door and rifled through the eclectic stash inside: stale lollipops, broken sunglasses, and charcoal pencils. They had to be there, she had used them on the way up. Had they slipped out of the car earlier? She continued to search and drive until her car, off kilter, bumbled and swerved over the curb.
She spun the wheel back to center as the glove compartment coughed its junk onto the passenger seat and Brian’s face, disappointed, entered her mind.
Dr. Brian Dante, fierce in his logic, married Simone Donnelly, his opposite, of all people.
Brandishing the half-moon necklaces, Anne had toasted to them on their wedding day seven years ago. "He completes you and you him," she had said with a wink, her faith contagious.
“Please raise your glasses to my best friend and the only man meant for her.”
Simone had believed her.
And now, imagining the moment, she adjusted her attitude and shifted back into drive. She'd be home with her family in no time, she told herself, tilting the rearview mirror, the road a fat moving snake behind her.
Where were the nocturnal animals? She could picture them in Joey’s wildlife books, the skunk raising his tail to the coyote, the raccoon visiting the brook at the same time each night, at the same exact spot. The raccoon was, literally, a creature of habit. Each time she faced him on page six, Joe would speculate of his nature. What time did he get to the brook? and why?
Perhaps, she thought, she ought to head back to the class reunion where she could confirm the routes that Chet Michaels (1993’s class valedictorian) had skillfully described at the bar, straws and coasters his visual aids. Had he not been so darn creative, she would have concentrated on his words. Instead, she sat nodding in phony comprehension, marveling at his counter display and sipping wine.
No, she decided in haste. Revisiting the class reunion was a terrible idea, one that would place her in the tired role of damsel in distress, a character she had dismissed in her twenties along with an empty modeling career. A sign would appear and she would find her way home without asking for directions.
She pecked at the radio channels, listened to snippets of song and talk before finally settling on a familiar tune, one that had just been played at the reunion. Her mind danced back.
“Still modeling, Simone?”
Katrina Davis’s cocktail, tipsy in a loose clutch, joggled to the question. “You look hot as usual.”
“I’m a bit old now,” Simone confessed, “but my photography has taken off and I’d much rather be on the other side of the camera anyhow.”
“God, you’re modest. Look at you!”
“My priorities have changed, that’s all.”
"Priorities?" Marly Richardson, spiky and vocal, appeared from nowhere, the wide space in her front teeth as mysterious as the tattoos she flaunted on the hump of her belly. “Wait until those models have kids. They won’t look like sticks anymore, trust me. Look at my dolphin," she yelped, "it’s stretched out to a freakin’ whale!”
Simone smiled at the memory of Marly, at the permanence of her. Along with the rest of her high school friends, Marly had illuminated shades of her past. They were the girls she had shared lockers with and the boys she had cried over. Twenty years gone and, still, they were the same people: the high school sweethearts, married and divorced; the year book editor, still writing for the newspaper; the addicts, from pot to cocaine. She sorted through their problems in her mind and thought of her own, marginal in comparison.
Chet’s voice rang in her head—the careful enunciation, the distinct Syracuse accent—“It’ll be a laht’ easier to hahp’ on Route 44 West here.”
In search of the route, she flicked her high beams on then off, creating tunnels of fog that narrowed and widened to the jumping light. She sped up, fear fueling her. The steering wheel vibrated beneath her fingers. The engine roared in protest. Then, like an answered prayer, a fuzzy-lettered sign appeared, a caterpillar of word in the fog, a word that made her slow down and squint. Route 3.
“Damn wrong route,” she cursed, wrist-ramming the wheel’s face, provoking the horn’s ridiculous hoot back. Her svelte evening gown stretching with her, she tore her pocketbook from the backseat, groped for her cell phone, and squeezed the power button. Still uncharged. She tossed it aside.
It wasn’t reasonable to expect people to drive out this far, she hissed under her breath. Why would the class secretary have booked the class reunion so far from their home town? As though answering her plea, another sign popped into view. She slowed down, noting the sign’s arrow above the street’s name: Cranberry Road. Turn right, she mumbled to herself before the name actually sunk in. Turn right! This was the road that led to her highway home, the shortcut.
She leaned back and flicked her blinker on. Signaling no one.
August 18, 2007 – Boston Harbor Cruise
A misty breeze from Boston Harbor swept through the ship’s restaurant, flavoring the air with the sundry aroma of salt water, seafood, and warm buttered bread. The tables were round, set for eight in an elegant display of ivory linen, gold trimmed china, and crystal glass. Dim lighting and centerpiece candles cast a warm glow on the room, creating an ambience well suited to Mortimer Archer’s spirit.
He had just been promoted to Medical Director of BioLife’s Fertility Lab, a title sought out by his fellow doctors for years; one that, nevertheless, he had assumed with humility. Through careful research and development, for half of his life, he had found ways to nurture life, never imagining that his own would be taken so ruthlessly.
His speech, prompted by an appreciative toast to his dedication to the field, unfolded with gratitude. “When I accepted this position, I did so cognizant of all of you who have stood by me.” He scanned the crowd, settled on a familiar face. “Doug, we dreamed of a comfortable job like this back in med school, didn’t we?”
His old friend nodded pensively, his face wrinkled with smile.
Mortimer took a deep breath, as though inhaling the past. “You always said I’d be better at the top of the food chain because I’d be too afraid of being chewed up by anyone at the bottom.”
Laughter purred through the room.
“In science, we’re told to keep on asking why. In fertility, we’ve also learned to ask why not. In honor of BioLife and its vital contribution to our community,” he closed his eyes, savored the moment, “let us keep on doing that.”
The night wore on as napkins unraveled, olives sunk to the pits of martini glasses, and Mortimer Archer took a final sip of scotch. The ice at the bottom of his glass, the rocks, jiggled then fell silent as his head lolled back and his eyes closed to a world that he would have said was kind. Drool wet the corner of his lips, just barely, as a quartet of strings played on.
The dead weight of his head pushed the rest of him into an awkward slouch—a pose that had provoked speculation. Too much to drink? Or had the alcohol wreaked havoc with his heart medication? When others had failed to wake or breathe life back into him, they assumed heart failure.
Outside, against a black sky, a pregnant moon cast an iridescent glow on the water surrounding the ship. Restless, it tugged at the ocean as Mortimer Archer’s heart stopped.
Meanwhile, Dr. Brian Dante lifted the corner of his napkin to his lips, and rubbed away a dot of crumb.
Chapter One
The fog was a veil over Simone Dante’s car. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angel arms that did nothing to help her see, only provoked the question. Should she drive home alone?—and then its counterpoint—what’s the worst that can happen? Twenty years had passed since high school and, still, she couldn't shake the party ritual of being the first to arrive and the first to leave.
The parking lot was muted, raw. She pulled out and adjusted her rearview mirror, the cars misty and enmeshed in color, watery grays. The drive back to Southborough could feel either long or short, all a matter of perspective, Anne would say. Her best friend preached often about attitude and positive thinking, how it determines our paths, our destinies even. Simone, a part time believer, was skeptical tonight. In the fog of an unfamiliar New England town, something sinister seemed to coat the air. She turned up the heat.
At the stout oak tree she took a left; recalling the right she had taken there earlier. The tree sat squarely in its small yard, claiming the plot with elephant trunk branches that were swollen and twisted in age. From there, she remembered the road stretching on for a mile or so before reaching a stop sign. She drove on, past the shabby old shed in the yard to the left and, after that, the cluster of hung sunflowers to the right.
A few more small ranches, another stretch of barren road, more trees, and finally, the stop sign appeared. Had she gone straight through or taken a right there? Uncertain, she banked on intuition and went straight through, her forehead suddenly moist, hinting at panic and the more obvious: She would need the written directions.
Leaning into the passenger side, she single-handedly popped open the glove compartment door and rifled through the eclectic stash inside: stale lollipops, broken sunglasses, and charcoal pencils. They had to be there, she had used them on the way up. Had they slipped out of the car earlier? She continued to search and drive until her car, off kilter, bumbled and swerved over the curb.
She spun the wheel back to center as the glove compartment coughed its junk onto the passenger seat and Brian’s face, disappointed, entered her mind.
Dr. Brian Dante, fierce in his logic, married Simone Donnelly, his opposite, of all people.
Brandishing the half-moon necklaces, Anne had toasted to them on their wedding day seven years ago. "He completes you and you him," she had said with a wink, her faith contagious.
“Please raise your glasses to my best friend and the only man meant for her.”
Simone had believed her.
And now, imagining the moment, she adjusted her attitude and shifted back into drive. She'd be home with her family in no time, she told herself, tilting the rearview mirror, the road a fat moving snake behind her.
Where were the nocturnal animals? She could picture them in Joey’s wildlife books, the skunk raising his tail to the coyote, the raccoon visiting the brook at the same time each night, at the same exact spot. The raccoon was, literally, a creature of habit. Each time she faced him on page six, Joe would speculate of his nature. What time did he get to the brook? and why?
Perhaps, she thought, she ought to head back to the class reunion where she could confirm the routes that Chet Michaels (1993’s class valedictorian) had skillfully described at the bar, straws and coasters his visual aids. Had he not been so darn creative, she would have concentrated on his words. Instead, she sat nodding in phony comprehension, marveling at his counter display and sipping wine.
No, she decided in haste. Revisiting the class reunion was a terrible idea, one that would place her in the tired role of damsel in distress, a character she had dismissed in her twenties along with an empty modeling career. A sign would appear and she would find her way home without asking for directions.
She pecked at the radio channels, listened to snippets of song and talk before finally settling on a familiar tune, one that had just been played at the reunion. Her mind danced back.
“Still modeling, Simone?”
Katrina Davis’s cocktail, tipsy in a loose clutch, joggled to the question. “You look hot as usual.”
“I’m a bit old now,” Simone confessed, “but my photography has taken off and I’d much rather be on the other side of the camera anyhow.”
“God, you’re modest. Look at you!”
“My priorities have changed, that’s all.”
"Priorities?" Marly Richardson, spiky and vocal, appeared from nowhere, the wide space in her front teeth as mysterious as the tattoos she flaunted on the hump of her belly. “Wait until those models have kids. They won’t look like sticks anymore, trust me. Look at my dolphin," she yelped, "it’s stretched out to a freakin’ whale!”
Simone smiled at the memory of Marly, at the permanence of her. Along with the rest of her high school friends, Marly had illuminated shades of her past. They were the girls she had shared lockers with and the boys she had cried over. Twenty years gone and, still, they were the same people: the high school sweethearts, married and divorced; the year book editor, still writing for the newspaper; the addicts, from pot to cocaine. She sorted through their problems in her mind and thought of her own, marginal in comparison.
Chet’s voice rang in her head—the careful enunciation, the distinct Syracuse accent—“It’ll be a laht’ easier to hahp’ on Route 44 West here.”
In search of the route, she flicked her high beams on then off, creating tunnels of fog that narrowed and widened to the jumping light. She sped up, fear fueling her. The steering wheel vibrated beneath her fingers. The engine roared in protest. Then, like an answered prayer, a fuzzy-lettered sign appeared, a caterpillar of word in the fog, a word that made her slow down and squint. Route 3.
“Damn wrong route,” she cursed, wrist-ramming the wheel’s face, provoking the horn’s ridiculous hoot back. Her svelte evening gown stretching with her, she tore her pocketbook from the backseat, groped for her cell phone, and squeezed the power button. Still uncharged. She tossed it aside.
It wasn’t reasonable to expect people to drive out this far, she hissed under her breath. Why would the class secretary have booked the class reunion so far from their home town? As though answering her plea, another sign popped into view. She slowed down, noting the sign’s arrow above the street’s name: Cranberry Road. Turn right, she mumbled to herself before the name actually sunk in. Turn right! This was the road that led to her highway home, the shortcut.
She leaned back and flicked her blinker on. Signaling no one.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Hooking the Reader - A Fiction Writer's Struggle
Today at Barnes & Noble, I flicked open the first page of a favorite author, T.C. Boyle. "The morning was a fish in a net, glistening and wriggling at the dead black border of her consciousness but she'd never caught a fish in a net or on a hook either, so she couldn't really say if or how or why," he writes.
Silently, I cheer for this author. His style (unlike his wallet and fame) mirrors my own. Boyle is not afraid of crossing the line, of using a metaphor in his hook, and then - incredulously - topping off the sentence with more language. Despite the current trend of digesting pages faster than a McDonald's hamburger; Boyle pushes the envelope. He is a satirical writer that not only makes us laugh, he makes us think. Now there's a concept.
When it comes to poetic writing, the plot seeking reader stomps in protest. Too flowery. Indulgent. And though it's true that a verbose sentence is a roadblock to the reader-- 'I get it! You like language! But I'm trying to read here!'--it is the writer's challenge, her mission, to make words sing. To create a melody. (Even Bon Jovi is writing and singing about it.)
Like most writers, I struggle with this. I labor over paragraphs for years. Take the opening paragraph of my novel. Note how it has morphed over the last few years:
2008 - Night's fog clung to Simone Dante's car, suffocating it in a blanket of November. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angel arms that offered comfort in lieu of visibility.
2009 - Night's fog clung to Simone Dante's car, veiling the black of her Mercedes in a film of white. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angel arms that offered comfort in lieu of visibility.
2010 - The fog was a veil over Simone Dante's car. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angels arms that did nothing to help her see, only provoked the question--should she drive home alone?--and then its counterpoint--what's the worst that can happen?
Not sure whether or not I've got the melody I'm seeking, but I'm comfortable with the balance of the words, with the sense of doom conveyed, and the overall rhythm of the paragraph.
Now it's your turn. Did I hook you? Want to read more?
Silently, I cheer for this author. His style (unlike his wallet and fame) mirrors my own. Boyle is not afraid of crossing the line, of using a metaphor in his hook, and then - incredulously - topping off the sentence with more language. Despite the current trend of digesting pages faster than a McDonald's hamburger; Boyle pushes the envelope. He is a satirical writer that not only makes us laugh, he makes us think. Now there's a concept.
When it comes to poetic writing, the plot seeking reader stomps in protest. Too flowery. Indulgent. And though it's true that a verbose sentence is a roadblock to the reader-- 'I get it! You like language! But I'm trying to read here!'--it is the writer's challenge, her mission, to make words sing. To create a melody. (Even Bon Jovi is writing and singing about it.)
Like most writers, I struggle with this. I labor over paragraphs for years. Take the opening paragraph of my novel. Note how it has morphed over the last few years:
2008 - Night's fog clung to Simone Dante's car, suffocating it in a blanket of November. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angel arms that offered comfort in lieu of visibility.
2009 - Night's fog clung to Simone Dante's car, veiling the black of her Mercedes in a film of white. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angel arms that offered comfort in lieu of visibility.
2010 - The fog was a veil over Simone Dante's car. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angels arms that did nothing to help her see, only provoked the question--should she drive home alone?--and then its counterpoint--what's the worst that can happen?
Not sure whether or not I've got the melody I'm seeking, but I'm comfortable with the balance of the words, with the sense of doom conveyed, and the overall rhythm of the paragraph.
Now it's your turn. Did I hook you? Want to read more?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A Match Made in Heaven: When the Two Sides of Your Brain are in Sync
When I think about 2010, about all that I want to accomplish, my head begins to spin: Design a web-page, send out two more queries, edit the hook of my first chapter, read killer fiction, navigate the web...the list goes on and on. Then my organized self, the disappointed principal, steps in to chide my creative self. Make a schedule, Amy. Tackle one facet of writing per day. Be consistent. Start the new year with diligence. And then there's her favorite: Be informed.
"There are those who wait for things to happen and those that make them happen," she shamelessly adds, never a fan of Michael Jordan's before.
My sensitive self gets up and walks away. One more cup of coffee to ward off the demons. Or at least buzz them. I grab my coffee, gulp down a couple swigs, and head to the laundry room.
Someone's gotta' do the dirty work around here.
I begin rifling through the pile when the phone rings. I nearly trip over the sash of my velour robe to grab the receiver. (I'm old fashioned that way, still use the home phone). It's the voice of a politican and in my sternest of voices, I lie to him that he's caught me at a bad time, that I'm in the middle of something very important. He doesn't answer right away and then I realize that his voice is only a recording. I put down the receiver and laugh. I can't help it. I'm alone and laughing and my dog eyes me suspiciously, his chin resting on his front paws.
My routine has ended with a twist. Who would have guessed that the caller I craved would be a damn recording? It's a creative conclusion to the doldrum of my morning and the mere thought of it sends me back to my stool, to my trustworthy companion, the laptop. To write. One quick refill of coffee, and I perch.
The opening paragraph of The Hunted needs a new hook, and though it's taken me eighteen months (along with a fair share of arguments) to let go of my 'darlings', I start to rearrange words like I'm in a Scrabble match. The first sentence comes quickly; a dramatic hook, less words are better. It's me and the reader and I throw the first punch. The next few lines are less inviting, need more tightening than a Joan Rivers facelift. So I prune and change and cut and paste until my first paragraph sings to me. I'm proud of that first paragraph now. I read it aloud one more time. One small change, just one. That word is ugly, doesn't belong. I snip it and sigh. One more read, just to hear the final melody, a paragraph in harmony, a paragraph that has sat on the bench for eighteen months before scoring big.
That paragraph has me so inspired that I switch windows to my latest query letter. This agent has asked for five pages. Certain that my first paragraph will sell a library, I copy and paste that sucker into the document as though it's a yellow smiley sticker.
My energy follows me throughout the day. It is with me at parent-pick up, at the overcrowded ski lodge, and, later that evening, on my comfy purple writing chair in the finished basement. My friend Pete returns my call to offer technical support and, together, we're creating google accounts that are smoother than butter. I have enough windows open to stump Bill Gates but I'm making progress.
By the end of the day, to my credit, I have a knock-out hook for The Hunted, a polished query letter, and a place to blog. My two selves shake hands, make peace. We're a match made in heaven.
"There are those who wait for things to happen and those that make them happen," she shamelessly adds, never a fan of Michael Jordan's before.
My sensitive self gets up and walks away. One more cup of coffee to ward off the demons. Or at least buzz them. I grab my coffee, gulp down a couple swigs, and head to the laundry room.
Someone's gotta' do the dirty work around here.
I begin rifling through the pile when the phone rings. I nearly trip over the sash of my velour robe to grab the receiver. (I'm old fashioned that way, still use the home phone). It's the voice of a politican and in my sternest of voices, I lie to him that he's caught me at a bad time, that I'm in the middle of something very important. He doesn't answer right away and then I realize that his voice is only a recording. I put down the receiver and laugh. I can't help it. I'm alone and laughing and my dog eyes me suspiciously, his chin resting on his front paws.
My routine has ended with a twist. Who would have guessed that the caller I craved would be a damn recording? It's a creative conclusion to the doldrum of my morning and the mere thought of it sends me back to my stool, to my trustworthy companion, the laptop. To write. One quick refill of coffee, and I perch.
The opening paragraph of The Hunted needs a new hook, and though it's taken me eighteen months (along with a fair share of arguments) to let go of my 'darlings', I start to rearrange words like I'm in a Scrabble match. The first sentence comes quickly; a dramatic hook, less words are better. It's me and the reader and I throw the first punch. The next few lines are less inviting, need more tightening than a Joan Rivers facelift. So I prune and change and cut and paste until my first paragraph sings to me. I'm proud of that first paragraph now. I read it aloud one more time. One small change, just one. That word is ugly, doesn't belong. I snip it and sigh. One more read, just to hear the final melody, a paragraph in harmony, a paragraph that has sat on the bench for eighteen months before scoring big.
That paragraph has me so inspired that I switch windows to my latest query letter. This agent has asked for five pages. Certain that my first paragraph will sell a library, I copy and paste that sucker into the document as though it's a yellow smiley sticker.
My energy follows me throughout the day. It is with me at parent-pick up, at the overcrowded ski lodge, and, later that evening, on my comfy purple writing chair in the finished basement. My friend Pete returns my call to offer technical support and, together, we're creating google accounts that are smoother than butter. I have enough windows open to stump Bill Gates but I'm making progress.
By the end of the day, to my credit, I have a knock-out hook for The Hunted, a polished query letter, and a place to blog. My two selves shake hands, make peace. We're a match made in heaven.
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