'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.