THE RAINBOW CHILD by Lauren Keilani Kane a Capstone Project

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THE RAINBOW CHILD

Lauren Keilani Kane

A capstone project submitted for Graduation with University Honors

May 06, 2021

University Honors University of California, Riverside

APPROVED

Goldberry Long Department of Creative Writing

Dr. Richard Cardullo, Howard H Hays Jr. Chair University Honors

ABSTRACT

I am writing a fiction novella following a girl throughout her life. Each chapter of the book is on a treasured object of hers and the significance it has to her major life events. There's a red stone, an orange carnival ticket, a yellow pen, a green brooch, a blue bracelet, an indigo pendant, and a violet cabinet. These items correspond to; her first day at school, the first time she looked forward to something but missed out due to fear, her birthday and entering a writing competition, her graduation and moving out, her wedding, her marriage, and the culmination of these events and the retelling of them to her granddaughter.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to sincerely thank my mentor, Goldberry Long, for guiding me through this process and being a great Creative Writing professor. Taking her class motivated me to do this project and gave me the confidence I needed to explore writing creatively. I would also like to thank my sister, Erin, and my fiancé, Justin, for supporting and encouraging me through this process. I dedicate this book to my grandma Ruth, who inspired these stories.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Red Stone…page 5

The Orange Carnival Ticket…page 19

The Yellow Pen…page 31

The Green Brooch…page 39

The Blue Bracelet…page 61

The Indigo Pendant…page 67

The Violet Cabinet…page 76

THE RED STONE

I wiped away the tomato juice running down my chin, but it already dripped onto my chest. I took another bite. More cool juice splashed on me, but I didn’t mind. Tomato juice stained weakly, not enough for Mom to scold me about. My black curls glued to my forehead with sweat. The California sun – one we were grateful for during the winter and weary of during the current summer – beat down on me as I strolled the path behind our farm. The dirt trail I followed parted a sea of ripened corn stalks. I was five at the time, so Mom allowed me to go by myself, but she didn’t let me leave without food. Usually, she sent me along with the vegetables we grew on our farm, but if she had the spare time and ingredients, she’d throw together a sandwich that kept me full until I came home.

“You need to wait an hour before you get in,” Mom would instruct me as she would hand me food, “You hear me, Rose? You’ll drown if you don’t.”

“I will, I promise.” I’d say to her as I walked out of the house, overflowing with snacks.

But I never did.

As I took the last bite of my tomato, I thought about running along the path to get to my stop. If I kept walking, I would bake in the sun. If I started to run, I wouldn’t be baking, but I would kick up more dirt that would stick to my sweaty legs. Either way, I cooked in the heat until I reached my hideout: the stream. The stream meandered only a mile away from our property. We swam there every summer. I’d spend all day, like I did most days, savoring the coolness and weightlessness gifted to me by the water. The nights after I swam, I fell asleep faster and stayed cooler longer. Although bugs flew around and mud caked your clothes, we preferred the stream over all else to combat the heat.

My older sister, Marie, usually came with me on trips to the stream, but fall semester began at her college last week. Mom and Dad were mad at her for enrolling, but she saved up the money by herself, so they couldn’t stop her. They wanted her at home to help with the farm. She wanted to be away from here and my parents. I loved Marie, but we didn’t agree about home. I actually enjoyed helping Dad with the farm. I didn’t get any hard chores yet like Marie, but my chores made me feel useful. My favorite chore was taking out water to Dad and his workers out in the field.

In the afternoons, when the sun pulsed at its peak, Mom helped me make lemonade. I then would carry it out, tiny arms wobbling, to each of the men. They all thanked me and accepted my unsteady lemonade with hands so rough and dirty the tips of their nails were forever black. I’d smile at each worker as he thanked me, grateful to be one cup lighter. When I reached my father, he would take the last glass and only nod, his hands the roughest and dirtiest of them all.

This chore was my biggest responsibility prior to school. While walking along the path, I tried swallowing the realization that I wouldn’t be able to come here once school began. The stream’s current became audible, but my rising anxieties were louder. I had to accept tomorrow was the first day of school. The entire summer, I avoided the topic when Marie brought it up and tried not to think about it. Not only was school starting, but my responsibilities were growing, too. Mom announced at dinner last night that I was old enough to help her more at the vegetable stand. She smiled at me after, as if she just told me I earned a prize, and I tried to mirror it. I secretly hated working at the vegetable stand.

I tried my best to be a good salesperson, but anyone who pulled over wouldn’t listen to me. No one wants to listen to a kid, especially a girl. I pushed them to buy the misshapen

6 produce – the many-legged carrots or the sunken-in bell peppers – because they were the most flavorful. They were horrified by the corn with the most earworms eating off it, but I told them to choose that ear because it’s the tastiest. They ignored my recommendations and instead picked the perfect-looking vegetables. Although perfect in looks, they weren’t nearly as flavorful as the misshapen or the eaten. After not listening and paying for what they thought good produce, they would get back into their cars and leave, returning to their two-story houses and flawless lawns.

If they were lucky, they had a pool in the backyard with no mud and not so many bugs. And we were left to pick the earworms off the corn and savor the ugly produce. We didn’t have much over them, but at least we had better vegetables. And the stream. In many ways, it was better than a pool in a backyard. There were rocks to be skipped and the melody of the bubbling stream was a summertime lullaby, a better song than whatever played through their crackling radios.

I walked through a cluster of trees that marked the entrance to the stream. The perfume of wet grass and earth wafted up when the wind blew. The birds chirped from the safety of their branches as I stepped in. My dress lifted and floated like a cotton jellyfish with each movement. I took it off and threw it on a nearby rock. Since the bottom half was soaked, it landed with a wet splat. I slowly fell back, allowing my body to float to the water’s surface. Now fully submerged, my hair swirled along with the current, no longer curly. I let the stream carry me lazily, so I could marvel at the trees above. The intricacy of the branches and leaves, how they never quite touched another, fascinated me. I looked for birds nestled within them. Although it sounded like there were hundreds, I could only spot a few, brown and chubby. I set my feet down and the water rose to my hips. The mud soothed the soles of my feet while in the water, but I knew when it dried, I would hate the feeling. I scanned the clear water, looking for a flat stone to skip. Any

7 section without a good skipping rock I stepped over, feeling the crunch of the rejected rocks beneath me.

I ran across a section of mud. There weren’t any more rocks, I traveled too far downstream. I turned around and kept searching. I was on a mission to find the perfect rock. I spread my feet and bent down, so much so that my nose touched the water. All I could see were dull gray pebbles – nothing flat enough to get more than one pathetic skip. I kept looking.

Trudging through the water, I almost stepped on something that caught my attention. A dot of red nestled in a sea of gray and black. I reached for it. When I grasped it, it felt smooth and icy from being in the shade. I stood up and opened my palm to examine my finding. It revealed itself to be a red stone, no bigger than a half dollar coin. It dazzled me with its color – a brilliant shade of maroon (A shade of red I was only familiar with at that young age because

Marie wore a lipstick by the same name out on dates). I took it out of the shade, and it shimmered in the sunlight. The shape was pure oval, with a slight divot in the middle. I ran my thumb across it, and nothing in my short life felt more soothing. Maybe the stone wasn’t that special, it just struck me so, being that it was the only one of its kind.

I examined my prize more, turning it over and over, running my thumb along it while doing so. I decided it was too perfect to skip. There would be other stones for that. I gripped my new treasure and climbed out of the stream. I found my dress and put it on. It had time to dry in the sun, so it warmed my cool skin. The sun still blazed overhead, but the water droplets that clung to me offered some protection from it. I usually didn’t leave the stream until the sky got dusty and the mosquitos started to bite with malice, but the stream blessed me with a parting gift, and it felt wrong to expect more.

*******

I stormed into the house, startling Marie, who stood sweeping the kitchen. “Take your shoes off, please, I’m trying to keep these floors clean!” she scolded me.

“Sorry!” I smiled. I took off my shoes and threw them out on the porch. She flinched with both landings.

“Look at what I’ve found!” I beamed and held up my stone for her. She glanced at it but didn’t stop sweeping.

“It’s pretty. Are you going to help me with the dishes?” I lowered my hand slowly. I frowned at her reaction, but knowing Marie’s focus, it wouldn’t matter if I held up a bucket of cash while there were still chores to be done.

“Okay. Let me put this away first.” I told her. I ran into the room we shared. Encased in mint flowered wallpaper, there sat two twin beds with a wooden dresser at the foot of each. It was a plain room, with the best part being the huge window to the left of my bed. From it, you could see the fields and farther away, a cluster of hills. At night, when I struggled to fall asleep, I would start to count the explosion of stars across the sky until I dozed off. Marie and I fought over the bed closest to the window, but she said the starlight kept her awake and so we switched.

I scanned the room, searching for the best place for my red stone. I chose the dresser. I opened my first drawer, filled with socks and underpants, and carefully placed it in the left corner. I shut it and went back to the kitchen.

“You wash and I dry. Last time whatever Dad left sitting on his plate almost made me puke.” I told her, grabbing a dish towel. She fought a smile and replied, “Deal.”

*******

Night came, and although everyone in the house had been asleep for hours, I couldn’t sleep. My usual system of counting the stars didn’t soothe me one bit. My sheets twisted around me as I thrashed about, searching for the perfect sleeping position that I never found. It didn’t help my situation that Marie snored in the bed next to mine. I sighed and tried praying for sleep.

When that didn’t work, I laid there, sweating from the battle with my sheets. In the heat of frustration and sleeplessness, I longed for the stream. Suddenly, I remembered the events of the day and the soothing feeling of the stone in my hand. I tiptoed out of my bed – for someone who snored so loudly, Marie was quite the light sleeper – and gently opened my dresser drawer to reveal heaps of cotton and what I was looking for – the stone. I picked it up and snuck it into bed with me. For every star I counted, I stroked the center of the stone once. Combining these two methods worked better than sleeping pills. After a few dozen stars, my blinks became longer and longer until they stopped altogether.

*******

“Time to get up, sleepyhead!” Marie hollered from the kitchen. Her footsteps edged closer to our room. I moaned and rolled over. “Rose!” my Mom barked. That voice was the alarm I needed. I jumped out of bed, knocking the red stone to the floor. I knew by Mom’s tone that I didn’t have time to pick it up. I rushed to my dresser, flinging open the drawers in search of my favorite outfit; a white dress with a daisy embroidered on the front with socks to match.

Marie made it for me when she was learning how to sew, so the hem was uneven, but the daisy was so bright no one seemed to notice. I found everything and threw it all on.

Marie walked in and leaned on the doorway. “Mom’s too busy to take you, so I’m going to,” Her voice oozed with annoyance, letting me know how much of a burden this was to her.

“Are you ready?” She asked me while scrutinizing my morning hair.

“Yes, just let me find my shoes!” I scrambled into the closet. I couldn’t see her, but I heard her huff.

“Okay, fine. Meet me in the car.” Her high heels click, click, clicked across the wooden floors, into the hall, and out the front door. I finally found my shoes – black ballet flats – and slipped them on. I sprinted into the bathroom and attempted to braid my tangled hair. Even if I had enough time, doing my hair would still be a battle, one I almost always lost. I finished off my pathetic braid but couldn’t find my hair ribbons. I remembered I left them on top of my dresser. I ran into my room and grabbed a yellow one and tied it into a bow. As I turned to go, I spotted the red stone on the floor. Without thinking, I picked it up, dropped it into my pocket, and headed out the door.

*******

We pulled up to the front of the school. It stood with cheery yellow paint, but the feelings it stirred up in me were anything but. Sensing my dread, Marie reached over and placed her hand on mine. “It’ll be okay. I was nervous for my first day of school too.”

“You were?” I asked, surprised. The shock of what she said showed on my face, making my eyes widen and eyebrows raise. I couldn’t ever imagine a situation Marie was nervous in.

She smiled. “Yes, I was. But I realized everyone else was just as nervous as me, and it wasn’t so bad. It turned out to be a pretty fun day, actually.” I let what she said sink in for a moment.

Then, I asked, voice cracking, “Do you think I’ll be okay?” I took my red stone out of my pocket and made myself busy by stroking it. I didn’t want Marie to catch the tears looming in my eyes.

She squeezed my hand. “I promise,” She said softly. “Now, go on in. I’m not supposed to be parked out here this long.”

I took a deep breath, got out of the car, and smoothed my dress. I started walking up the steps and fought the urge to look back. I gave in, but when I turned around, Marie had gone.

*******

I found my class easy enough. Mom said my teacher’s name was Ms. Williams. Although

I couldn’t read, I knew Williams started with a big ‘W’ and that was one of the easiest letters. I found a ‘W’ labeled on the first door to the left. I stopped in the doorway and peered in. Other children were already sitting down inside. A woman, gesturing wildly, dressed in a long green dress and funky glasses stood at the front of the room. She leaned against her desk talking with some parents, but she noticed me and waved me over. I staggered over to her cautiously. When I stopped in front of her, I could smell her perfume, lavender I think. She grinned a huge, goofy grin. It was so contagious, I instantly returned it. “Hi there, what’s your name?” she asked. Her soft voice did not at all align with her wardrobe. Her breath blew over me along with her words, and it smelled of mint attempting to mask coffee.

“I’m Rose Campbell.” I glanced at the room. Everyone gawked back at me. I swiveled my gaze back to the woman and planted it on her.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Rose! I’m your teacher, Ms. Williams. We were just about to start for the day. You can have a seat here,” she pointed, her many bracelets jingling as she did

12 so, to an empty seat in the first of what seemed like thousands of rows, “between Gemma and

Henry.”

I blinked at her. Her smile reemerged to comfort me. I shakily made my way to my seat and sat down. Ms. Williams was about to start, but one of the parents stopped to talk to her. I looked to my right and studied the girl sitting next to me with blonde hair and a burst of freckles.

To my left, was a boy with straight black hair and a wide mouth that seemed friendly. He seemed like he’d be easier to talk to than the girl, whose blue eyes punctured me. “Hi!” I said to him. He glanced at me quickly, blushed, and looked away. I didn’t know what to make of him after that. I shifted in my seat, unsure of what to do. I took my stone out of my dress pocket and began to fiddle with it under the desk. Anything to keep busy.

“Don’t feel bad, he doesn’t talk to any girls.” The girl to my right said. “I’m Gemma.”

“I’m Rose. Why doesn’t he talk to any girls?” I asked. She shrugged.

“I don’t think he really talks to anybody. Except his mom.” We both looked over at him.

His head was turned away from us, so we couldn’t read his expression. “What’s that you're holding?” Gemma gestured to my lap, where I massaged my stone. I held it up for her to see.

“It’s something I found yesterday in the stream behind my farm!” I beamed at her, and she beamed back.

“Wow! Can I hold it?” She asked.

“Okay, but only for a little.” I handed it to her gingerly, and she snatched it. She did as I instructed, only holding it for a few seconds and then giving it back to me. She opened her mouth to say something, but the parent who pestered Ms. Williams left and she began her lesson. I

13 dropped the stone back into my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Henry studying it the same way Gemma did.

*******

“How was school?” Mom asked when I walked out. She stood at the foot of the front steps. I ran to her and gave her a tight hug. She laughed.

“Oh Mom, it was great!” I took a big breath in so I could tell her everything about my day, but she held up her hand.

“Hold on, cowgirl. You have the whole walk home and then some to tell me about it.”

She turned around and held out her hand. I took it and illustrated my entire day for her. I described Ms. Williams and told her even though she was a little odd, she was extremely kind and smart. I talked about my new friend Gemma. I told her all about what we were learning and how Ms. Williams promised we’ll all be able to read by the end of the school year.

“That’s great, Rose, it sounds like you had the perfect day,” She stroked my head, frowning at the French braid I attempted. “I can’t believe you left the house like this, though!

Next time, you have to wake up earlier so Marie can do your hair for you.”

I frowned and squirmed away from her hand, choosing to ignore the comments about my hair. “Well, it was almost perfect. This boy who sits next to me, Henry, won’t speak to me.” We turned onto our road, and our house became visible at the far end.

She shrugged. “Maybe he’s shy. We’ve got to go put a few hours in at the stand. Go hurry and put your things away.”

*******

The next two weeks at school were magical. Henry still didn’t talk to me, even though I tried, but the new friends I made interested me more. At lunch, we played pretend and we concentrated our imaginations on the red stone, the core of all our fantasies. One lunch, we were pirates and the red stone our prized plunder; the next, we were princesses and whoever happened to be granted the honor of holding the red stone, queen. When I ascended the throne, I forced all the princesses to follow me in a line, weaving in and out of the playground equipment. I didn’t stop until we were all dizzy. Other kids witnessed our fun and wanted to join in. We let them.

The only person we never played with was Henry. He sat at the tables and used the entire lunchtime to finish his food, while the rest of us blazed through ours so we could play. One time,

Gemma told me he does that so no one knows he doesn’t have any friends. I thought that tactic silly because it was pretty obvious to everyone that he didn’t have friends. Before too long, the bell would ring, and we would return to our desks sweaty and smiling. There, I would massage my stone while Ms. Williams taught her lessons. Marie was right, school wasn’t so bad after all. Not that I would ever tell her that – Marie didn’t need to know she was right all the time.

*******

One lunch, after a passionate performance of cops and robbers with the stolen ruby, I reached for my stone while Ms. Williams lectured, but it wasn’t there. I checked both my pockets and it wasn’t in either. I scooted my chair back and went to look under my desk when

Ms. Williams caught me.

“Rose, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, sorry Ms. Williams, but I couldn’t find my stone and I know I had it at lunch, but I don’t remember if I brought it in with me so I wa-“

“That’s enough, Rose. When I’m teaching, I need you quietly in your seat. You can look for it after school.” She began to lecture again, but I couldn’t focus. When she turned to write on the chalkboard, I leaned over to Gemma and whispered, “Have you seen it?”

“No,” She whispered, her eyes glued to Ms. William’s back. “But you had it last when you arrested the thieves. Maybe the other girls saw it?” Ms. Williams turned around to address the class, but thanks to Gemma’s lookout we seemed as though we’d been listening the whole time. I focused on the clock at the front of the class. When the bell finally rang, I rushed up to the other girls to ask if they’d seen it. They repeated Gemma; that I was the last to have it. I sprinted outside and started scouring the grass near the playground. Only one girl followed me to help me look. The only red spots in the grass were ladybugs. After a while, that girl’s mom picked her up, making me the lone searcher. I kept on. I didn’t stop until I heard stomps coming towards me. I looked up from where I crouched and Mom, nostrils flared and lips thin, thundered towards me.

“What, in the name of God, are you doing out here? Do you have any idea how long I was waiting in the front for you?” She shrieked. I glanced down at the grass, hoping, praying, for a speck of red before I answered.

“I’m sorry Mom, really I am, but I lost my stone and I was just checking to see if I dropped it out here!”

“I don’t care! I need to get back as soon as I can to help your Dad. You know this! I can’t be waiting around for you!” She yanked me up by my arm and marched me towards our house. I knew better than to protest further. As she led the way, I desperately ran my eyes over the grass.

Pure green glared back at me. Thankfully, everyone had left, so no one watched me cry and dragged off by my mother, or so I thought. The entire walk home, she lamented that Marie

16 should have been the one picking me up, that if she wasn’t so selfish, she would realize she was needed at home. I kept quiet. My only contribution to her sermon were my sniffles and sobs.

That weekend, I cried while alone and couldn’t fall asleep without my stone. I didn’t realize how much comfort it brought me until it disappeared.

*******

I dreaded the first day back to school without it. I felt like I was showing up unarmed.

When Marie dropped me off, she squeezed my hand. “Maybe it’ll turn up, you never know.” Her brown eyes, only a few shades darker than mine, glittered with sympathy. I couldn’t look at her.

The night Mom dragged me home, while I tried to sleep, I heard Marie and our parents reignite the same fight they’d been enacting for two years now. Mom screamed at her for being so selfish and Marie screamed back that she was the selfish one. Dad, as uninterested as ever, mumbled to them both to calm down. Mom screamed. Then Marie. Then Mom. They continued like that until the screen door slammed, indicating Marie left, ending the argument. This fight reoccurred every few months or so, but I knew my actions brought this round early. Marie must have sensed my guilt and said, “It’ll be okay. You’ll find it, I just know it! And I’m always right, remember?”

“Sometimes,” I mumbled. I slipped out of the car without looking at her and trudged up the steps. I stared at my feet the whole walk to my desk. I hoped Gemma would be early, but she wasn’t. Of course, Henry was though. Oh great, I thought, just who I wanted to see. I didn’t want to say hello to him, but Marie taught me to be polite and to always say hello, even when you didn’t like the person. Especially then. “Hello, Henry.” I said flatly in his direction, pouring all my annoyances into those two words.

“Hi, Rose.” He stammered, without looking at me. Too stunned to speak, I could only stare at him. “I found this after you left Friday. It was under the slide.” He rummaged in his backpack, and then, produced: my red stone. I gasped and grabbed it from him, turning it over in my hands. It seemed more beautiful than I remembered. I turned to him, still not looking at me, and quickly hugged him.

“Oh Henry, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I cried. Before I could stop myself, I kissed his cheek. He blushed so violently, I worried he might forever be that color. He did give me a weak smile after that, and his wide smile blossomed even friendlier than I imagined.

“Hey,” I said, “Do you want to play with us at lunch? You could be the que-uh, the king, because you found my stone.” He nodded, this time flicking his gaze up at me for half a second.

Gemma came in and I held up the stone for her. “Oh wow!” She laughed. She took it from me and cupped it in both hands, as if it were a holy relic. “Where’d you find it?” She asked.

I pointed to Henry and said proudly, “It was all him! He’s my hero!” I didn’t think he could blush anymore, but his face deepened to a shade of maroon. Gemma sat down and we talked about our weekend and the stone. Henry, to both our surprises, quipped in occasionally.

Other students trickled into the class. Then, Ms. Williams swept into the room, dressed in a turquoise dress with matching earrings, and began our lesson for the day. Only then did me,

Gemma, and Henry stop talking. Under my desk, I turned the stone over and over, not fully believing it found its way back to me. As usual, Marie was right.

THE ORANGE CARNIVAL TICKET

Someone banged on the front door. From the loud knock, I sensed it was Gemma. Even after her mom forced her to go to etiquette classes last summer, she still did things recklessly. I ran over to open it. Sure enough, there stood Gemma holding a basket of tangerines. Her freckles multiplied over the past seven years, but other than that she hadn’t changed much.

“Hi!” I said, opening the door so she could come in. She barreled past me, heading for the kitchen. I plucked a tangerine from the basket and started to peel it.

“Did you hear? The carnival’s coming to town!” breathed Gemma.

“Who’s coming to town?” Marie asked, poking her head out of the bathroom.

I loved her to death, but she happened to be as nosy as the sky is blue.

“The carnival!” Gemma squealed.

“What carnival?” asked Marie.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gemma rolled her eyes, “I think it’s called Powell’s or something?

You have to come with me, Rose!” I looked up at her. Gemma, for all her wonderful qualities, still didn’t understand we came from two different worlds. Her mother kept fruit as a hobby while my parents toiled every day because it was a necessity.

“We’ll see.” I told Gemma and shrugged, trying to sound casual, but by the look Marie gave me I knew I didn’t succeed.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun! There’ll be rides and cotton candy! Clowns too!” Gemma persuaded.

“Clowns?” Marie asked, panicked.

“Yeah, I’m sure there will be.” Gemma replied.

Marie didn’t say anything more. Instead, she made herself busy wiping down the already clean table. Marie wouldn’t admit it, but ever since a clown popped a balloon in her face as a child, she harbored a great fear of them.

“Anyways, I was going to the candy shop. You in?” Gemma asked me.

“Okay.” I agreed. Gemma threw the basket on the table and went out the front door. I went to follow her, but Marie grabbed me by my arm.

“Here,” she said, handing me change, “bring me back a root beer barrel.” I counted the money. It was enough for the entire jar of root beer barrels. I opened my mouth to tell her so, but she winked and pushed me out the door.

Walking down the street, Gemma and I talked about the upcoming carnival. I barely quipped in with one-word responses while she prattled on. I wanted to join in on her excitement, to imagine all the wonderful, magical things that would come with the carnival, but I couldn’t. I knew that I didn’t have money to go, and there really wasn’t a way I could get any. I knew not to ask my parents for money; doing that never ended well.

I considered this until we reached the store. Every candy imaginable graced the inside, organized by color, making it a rainbow of sugar. Jellybeans of every color lined the walls in glass cylinders. Chocolate, of every shape, size, and consistency, bathed in the light of the display case between us and the licorice. In the far corner, the more adventurous candy stood out and dared people to try them. Chocolate-covered grasshoppers and scorpions fossilized in tinted

20 lollipops grossed me out every time. Gemma, with her hefty allowance, grabbed a plastic bag and dumped in every candy she wanted, without hesitation. Although I had enough money to join in for once, I resisted. I bought only two root beer barrels for Marie and pocketed the rest of the change. Even though my mouth watered for some pineapple taffy, I knew it would be worth it to save my money.

The carnival was two weeks away, and this forced me to get creative about my income.

My parents only ever gave me money for school lunches. After Gemma told me about the carnival, I decided to take the lunch money I got and pretend to use it. I skipped lunches. After I realized it was much more difficult to not eat while everyone else ate in front of you, I started hiding in the library. I made up excuses to Gemma about needing to do homework. In there, I read. Sometimes, I wrote short stories to distract myself from the hunger. This is where I fell in love with writing. Just like reading, it was an escape from the reality of having to go hungry for just a few carnival tickets. Luckily, I only braved a few skipped lunches before the librarian,

Mrs. Whalen, noticed me. She never explicitly asked me if I didn’t have a lunch, but instead said to me she must’ve forgotten she already packed a sandwich and had two, silly her. So, we spent our lunches together. After a few of these, she recommended me books, books I never would have read. Besides Marie, no one in my family fostered my love of reading. She even read some of my terrible stories and gave me – very gentle – critiques. I still think about her sometimes.

I knew not to ask my parents directly for money. They would never give it to me. Instead,

I offered them extra chores in exchange for some cash. I asked my mom what she needed help with, and she put me to work cleaning and cooking. The cleaning I did just fine, but the cooking

I failed at spectacularly. I burnt or undercooked every dish. I think she suspected I did it on

21 purpose, but I simply was cursed in the kitchen. The only thing cooking ever earned me was a scolding from my mom.

I asked my dad if I could help him more after mom kicked me out of the kitchen for good

(I burnt her casserole). He looked surprised but agreed. I fed the pigs and helped him mend the fences, just like Marie used to do when she was 16, not 12. I did sweat a great deal more and I breathed in the farm fumes (pigs and dung), but I would rather do that than cooking any day.

Doing these chores earned me only a little, not even enough for three tickets to the carnival. I kept all my earnings on top of my dresser. The red stone, which I still had, I used as a paper weight for the few bills to my name. I looked through the house for any loose change. I found some in the couch cushion, more behind boxes in the closet, and a few coins in any forgotten, dusty corner of the house.

There seemed to be more and more since Marie moved out. She did most of the cleaning before moving out and still came back on the weekends to help with chores. Later, when we were both adults, she told me she didn’t understand why she felt the need to do that. Our parents ingrained in us a sense of loyalty without a true reason, I guess. She worked so hard to leave only to come back and do what she used to part time. She did love her job though. After graduating college, she started work as a typist in Los Angeles at the Hall of Records. She liked it there and

I loved to visit her. The city breathed and emoted right along with all the eclectic people within.

There was nothing quite like it. I think I knew then that I wanted to live in Los Angeles, that even as a girl I knew that was where the world was happening. Anywhere else was obsolete; you didn’t exist. I didn’t exist living at my parent’s house, on their farm, in that small town. Nobody existed there.

The weekend before the carnival, Marie came home with her new boyfriend, Miles. Miles was handsome – he had hazel eyes and thick hair he swept back into a pompadour. His shoes were permanently shiny, and his clothes always ironed. I found out from Marie years later that he never once ironed his own clothes – that his mother did it for him up until he started dating

Marie, which he made her do. You couldn’t tell by the way he acted, though. He was the kind of man who gave the impression he did everything for himself, which couldn’t have been farther from the truth. I’m ashamed to admit it, but mom and I were dazzled by him. The way he talked made you feel heard and his laugh was so infectious. Dad saw through him first. He only said a few words to him and left. He never had much interest in what we did, but he left sooner than usual when Marie introduced past boyfriends. That told us all we needed to know about how he felt about him.

Before they left back to LA, Marie pulled me aside and offered to pay for my carnival tickets. I wanted so badly to tell her yes, but my eyes were drawn to the same blouse she had worn so many times before. The pattern faded and the colors appeared more muted than they should be. I found tears that she had not-so-neatly sewn back up with invisible thread. Although everything in me screamed to take it, I refused. I couldn’t take her money knowing she wasn’t much richer than our parents.

On the way out, while Miles warmed up the car, my dad came home. Marie and dad started to argue about him. They didn’t argue as much after she moved out, but they went at each other harder than ever on the front lawn. A few shameless neighbors turned their porch lights on and came out. My dad warned Marie about Miles, but she wouldn’t listen to any of it. She snapped back about how rude he was, leaving early. “You don’t know him like I do!” she shouted. She got in the car while my dad was still yelling, and they backed out of the dirt

23 driveway. Their headlights illuminated us. A family broken. We went inside with the neighbors gaze’s trailing behind us, red hot. I went straight into my room. I didn’t want to hear my dad talk about Marie the way he did after they fought. On my dresser, under my red stone, perched an envelope. I opened it. Within, a note read:

I knew you would say no, so I left this here before I asked. Miles and I will go with you next

weekend. – M

I reached back into the envelope and found a smooth five-dollar bill.

*******

The next fruit delivery – peaches this time – came with an excited Gemma.

“They’ve started setting up the carnival!” She shrieked.

“Wow! Can we go check it out, Mom, please?” I turned to my mother, who sat in her armchair, knitting a blanket. She pursed her lips without looking up. Me and Gemma froze waiting for her answer, as if any movement from us would cause her to say no.

“Fine, but only for a little bit.” She finally declared. We breathed again.

“Thank you, Mrs. Campbell, we won’t be long!” Gemma said as she pulled me out the door. We raced through the streets until we arrived at the field that was going to be the carnival grounds. It was an empty lot. It used to be a blueberry farm before the soil dried up. The neighboring farms were too smart to invest in it, so it sat there, year after year, sprouting weeds and collecting beer bottles. But now, it had a purpose again.

We ran right up to the edge of the field, watching to the workers setting up. Men unloaded cargo from trailers. Piece by piece, they unpacked the carnival, unfolding colorful

24 wooden and metal pieces that only a few short hours ago squeezed against each other, hurtling down the freeway. They ignored us and kept working. Their cigarette smoke and yells of instruction peppered the air. We had never been more excited in our lives. Thanks to Marie and

Mrs. Whalen, I allowed the excitement I held back to finally wash over me. Seeing the vividness of the objects they pulled out, I knew that my hard work had been worth it. This carnival would be unforgettable, I thought. If only I would have known that it would be unforgettable for all the wrong reasons.

*******

The stars glowed upon me, Marie, and her boyfriend waiting in line to buy tickets. Marie was a little more quiet than usual, but Miles acted as charming as ever. Running up – and annoying the people behind us – came Gemma, and her little sister, Olive. Unlike her tall and lanky sister, Olive was short and pudgy. She had full, rosy cheeks that reminded me of a cherub painting. They matched in the shirts they made at camp the summer before that I couldn’t afford to go to. How my own cheap clothes compared to their matching set nibbled at me that whole night. I tried to ignore that feeling. We chatted excitedly with each other while Miles and Marie had their own, more subdued, conversation.

When we were next to buy tickets, I piled my money on the counter. It was a menagerie of dimes, quarters, and pennies. I am embarrassed to admit it consisted mostly of pennies. The ticket counter gave me a look of annoyance infused with some pity. It took her a long time to count the money, but when she finished, it equaled to 10 tickets. I had more tickets than Gemma, and I felt like the queen of the carnival. We walked through the gated entrance and were met with the most life and color we had ever seen.

Clowns were laughing and doing tricks, much to the displeasure of Marie. She didn’t say anything but drew closer to Miles. Ahead jugglers, yielding bowling pins and knives, competed for our attention with bursts of flame exploding out of a fire breather’s mouth. Olive and Gemma screamed in delight when the bearded lady’s snake slithered closer to them, while Marie stayed quiet and pursed her lips. The light bulbs above each tent and booth glittered and twinkled, rivaling the stars. They were the only source of light at the carnival, but that didn’t detract from the warm feeling that engulfed us. Everything felt brighter than it was. A merry-go-round bobbed smiling heads. A path flanked by booths led to the Ferris wheel. In those booths, locals were selling their goods, but most of them offered food. This drew Olive’s attention more than the fire breather, who now used her breath to ignite a tiki torch her assistant held.

Cotton candy whirled around its contraption and then handed to the nearest child and their paying parent; funnel cake sizzled and then plopped onto a paper plate that soon would be soaked with grease; kettle corn popped exponentially, and even though they had the longest line the glass display never emptied, corn dogs and anything else slightly edible you could pierce a stick through underwent the process of being bathed in batter and then dumped into bubbling oil.

A petting zoo sat to the left of us but being farm kids that didn’t wow us in the same way the

Ferris wheel did. The sweet, oily funnel cake fumes overpowered even the smell of the petting zoo and clung to our lungs. The Ferris wheel glittered most of all, the orbs of light circling to create an uroboros. I took everything in.

We walked along the booths and oddities until we spotted Mrs. Williams at a game booth trying to knock a stack of bottles down with a softball. Her signature bracelets clanged with each throw, but nothing else did. She had terrible aim. Every time she threw – and missed – she reached into her purse to take a sip of a bottle she kept in there.

“Hi, Mrs. Williams!” I said to her. Gemma waved and said hello with me.

She smiled at us. “Why hello, girls! Beautiful night isn’t it? How’s 5th grade been? Is

Mrs. Briggs treating you alright?” She swayed a little as she spoke.

“She isn’t as fun as you, Mrs. Williams.” I grinned at her, but I meant it.

Mrs. Williams tutted at me but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Oh, now, now. We must be nice! Go and try that Ferris wheel for me girls! I would love to get on, but I have a terrible fear of heights.” We left her to lose and began to snake our way over to the Ferris wheel.

Strolling through the booths, I spotted Henry with his mom. We locked eyes. I smiled and waved at him, and he smiled and waved back. Then, Gemma grabbed me by the hand and pulled me away before I could talk to him.

“C’mon, the line’s super long!” she whined and pulled me to the end of the line. She was right, it was long. It wrapped around booths and contained so many people Olive worried we wouldn’t get a chance to ride it. Marie and I reassured her we would, but Gemma just rolled her eyes.

We waited and talked to pass the time. The slower we inched along, the longer I had to think about what I agreed to do. I thought about how I was putting control in someone else’s hands, a stranger, and it made my stomach lurch. I started to sweat, and I couldn’t remove that thought. My surroundings became sharper and people’s laughter got too loud; the lights grew too bright and the weight I felt on my chest, too heavy. Everything became too much. I turned to my people to see if they were experiencing the same dread, but they were adding to the laughter.

They were oblivious to how I was feeling, and I thought soon I would have a heart attack. Over and over in my mind, I kept envisioning a horrible accident happening to me on that ride.

Throughout this, I realized my hands were clenched. My tickets were now stuck to my sweaty palm. When I pried them away, the ink bled and blurred the intricate designs of my topmost ticket, the one I was to hand to the worker when we got on the ride. The elephants were deformed, the clown’s smiles were no longer human, and the calligraphy that once read

“Powell’s Amazing Carnival” was streaked beyond recognition. I resonated with that carnival ticket – dissolving, disintegrating, melting into something subhuman while all around me were untouched carnival tickets, unaware of my decay. I learned, years later, that what I was experiencing wasn’t my death or decay, but an anxiety attack.

Consumed with these thoughts, I didn’t notice the line moving forward, with me in it, and

I snapped back into reality when our group was at the front of the line. The ride operator asked us, “How many?” and someone answered – I don’t remember who. Everything around me was too loud and it became impossible to focus in on one sound. I turned to the man operating the ride, hoping to find some comfort in his authority, but instead found him flirting with two girls who appeared to be way younger than him. This is the guy that’s controlling the ride I’m about to go on? This is who I’m trusting with my life? I thought. Just then, he spit chewing tobacco into a filthy paper cup. I almost fainted.

I looked up at the Ferris wheel once more. What was once the bright, cheery center of the carnival transformed into a towering monolith. Was it that tall this whole time? I thought. Panic bubbled inside me, rising to match the height of the ride. I strategically let everyone in before me to climb into their seats. Our booth bore a painted purple octopus on it, each tentacle holding a different food the carnival offered. When it was my turn to climb in, I froze. They continued to be oblivious to me. Drowning in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice Gemma behind me. I thought she was already inside the booth. She pushed me forward, hard, a little too hard, and I stumbled.

My shin scraped the edge of the booth. The pain and shock both propelled me to run away. She chased after me, yelling, but I only stopped to shove all my tickets on her and kept going. That stopped her from following me. I ran and I didn’t stop running.

I forced past the crowds of smiling people holding treats and the hands of their loved ones. They didn’t notice my pain. I ran and pushed until I ended up in the one secluded spot in the carnival. There was a gap between two closed booths, and I squeezed in and sank to the ground. I began to cry, huddled up with my knees to my chest. I couldn’t believe how much of a coward I had been. From my seat, I could see the top of the Ferris wheel. It looked like so much fun from far away. My stomach, which moments earlier seized up with panic, now panged with regret. I heard distant laughter. I knew my group was too far away, but I could’ve sworn it was them, laughing at me, at how cowardly I had been.

From where I was squeezed in, I could watch people walking by without them knowing that I was there. I liked that. I didn’t want to be seen. A pretty girl came into my view. I’d never met her, but she looked to be around Marie’s age. She was pulling along someone just out of my view. When he became visible, I couldn’t believe it. It was Miles, being led along, smiling. She pulled him in for a kiss and then kept walking. He laughed and followed her. Just like before, I became paralyzed. I wasn’t sure if I should jump up and smack him or run over to the Ferris wheel and tell Marie, if they were still there. I couldn’t tell, but a lot of time must have passed if

Miles was off the ride and with another girl. It all felt so quick to me. I looked in the direction of the Ferris wheel and just that act made my stomach drop. I didn’t think I could handle getting close to that thing again.

New tears dropped and fell onto my knees. I looked down and noticed one carnival ticket stuck to my palm. I peeled it off. It was the one I distorted earlier with my sweat. I thought that I

29 thrusted all my tickets on Gemma, but I ended up keeping one. It didn’t matter. I don’t think the carnival workers would have let us use it anyway. It had lost its value, just like me.

My mind ping-ponged between my two dreads; Miles and the Ferris wheel. There were too many decisions, too many options, so I chose to stay there crying until my group found me.

Olive, God only knows how, spotted me in-between the empty booths. Everybody stayed quiet.

Marie scooped me up and told me she was taking me home.

“What about Miles?” I asked before I could stop myself.

She shook her head. “He left right after the Ferris wheel. His mom needed his help with something.”

My chest felt hollow, but I didn’t have enough energy in me to correct her. She held my hand while she led us to the exit. I would’ve protested, but it soothed me. We left Gemma and

Olive behind to enjoy themselves. I found out at school the following week that Gemma used all my tickets riding the Ferris wheel. I didn’t mind. At least someone got some use out of them.

The last thing I remember about that night is the haunting, sickening swirl of the lights on the

Ferris wheel. On the ride home, I watched the lights grow smaller out of Marie’s car window.

For weeks after that, every time I closed my eyes to sleep, I saw those lights.

THE YELLOW PEN

Sunbeams poured through my open window onto my face, kissing me awake. Normally, I turned over to steal a few more minutes of sleep, but that day I rushed to the bathroom to get ready. I looked at myself in the mirror as I pinned wisps of hair back. I lopped off my long hair the summer before – now, it didn’t have the length to curl. This was my intention. I drew inspiration from Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday; though with my thick and unruly hair, I didn’t quite look like her. Already, gray hairs sprinkled throughout my crown – a family curse.

At that time, Marie was 33 and already mostly gray. After I finished working on my hair, I painted my lips red and brushed on some mascara. Marie taught me how a few years back. I never wore makeup to school, but that day was special – my 18th birthday.

I noticed my parents weren’t in the kitchen when I walked in. That didn’t bother me.

They were usually gone in the mornings, tending to the fields, or milking the few lucky cows we didn’t sell. Did you know that’s what you call the cows you keep? I didn’t consider any cows that lived on our farm to be lucky. Bleak and plain, our fields held no hope. The local slaughterhouse we sold our unlucky cows to happened to be more cheerful. I thought about the nice family who ran it, a man with his two sons, as I cooked my eggs. They were always kind to the animals, up until the end. I remember wishing as I cooked that I lived at the slaughterhouse instead. I ate quick and left for school.

The long walk to school never bored me. This walk gave me time to think – what I needed to do that day, assignments I had left, and anything else. I spent my present moments meticulously planning out my future. When I arrived at school, I spotted Henry sitting on the front steps. This was unusual of him because he typically spent time away from everybody else.

He sprang up with one hand behind his back when he saw me approaching.

“Hi Henry!” I greeted him. I went to tuck my long hair behind my ear, forgetting it was no longer there. An old habit.

“Hi Rose. This,” he brought his arm around to surprise me with a yellow rose, “is for you.” He handed it to me. “Happy birthday!” he smiled. “I clipped this from my mom’s garden.

Don’t tell her.” He laughed. “I know yellow is your favorite color.” At this he blushed a little bit.

“Thank you! This is really sweet of you, Henry…How did you know it was my favorite?” before he could answer, Gemma and our friends interrupted us by walking up and loudly singing

“Happy Birthday”. Our conversation on pause, I blushed as my whole friend group came up to us, attracting attention I did not ask for. Henry backed off and disappeared in the crowd of our staring classmates. I wanted to die. After they finished their (terrible) rendition, they all hugged me, and Gemma handed me a present. I put the rose – Henry must have shaved the thorns off– in the crook of my arm to open it. I ripped the wrapping paper to reveal an anthology of classic works by female authors.

“We all chipped in. Do you like it?” Olive asked, searching my face for approval.

“I love it – thank you guys!” I told her and she looked relieved. Admiring the gift, I noticed the gold-painted pages and flowered border of the cover. It was gorgeous, but hardcover.

I complained to my friends before, numerous times, about how much I hated hard cover. It was too difficult to bend the books while you read. The book itself was a perfect gift, but this little slip from their memory stung, as much as I tried not to let it. The bell rang, and we filed inside,

Henry and I’s conversation left unfinished for years to come.

The class that interested me most happened to be my last class of the day; Ms. Ayala’s

English class. That day, she lectured on Icarus and asked the class what the story meant. I raised my hand and she chose me.

“It’s about balance,” I spoke loud enough for the whole class, but looked directly at her,

“not flying too high or too low. Both can be dangerous.”

She nodded and smiled. Whenever someone made a good point in class or analyzed a symbol in a way she appreciated, she exhaled a slow “yeah” that was equally soothing and praising. My commentary on Icarus earned me a “yeah”. That was her way of speaking; she drew her words out and spoke so calmly, she had the ability to lecture on pieces of great violence without upsetting anybody. This is how she got away with straying from the high school curriculum without any trouble from the school board. After the bell rang, she pulled me aside before I left class.

“Do you know Vogler publishing?” She asked. I nodded. “They’re having a writing competition. I’ve been asked to nominate a few students, and I thought this would be perfect for you.” I beamed at this. My heart, which first beat nervously to be held after class, now soared at being praised by my favorite teacher.

“Really? What should I write about?” I asked her. I tried mirroring her composure, but as

I spoke, I jumped around.

She shrugged. “It’s up to you. As long as you have something for me by next week.” She nodded and I read that as my cue to leave, so I thanked her and started to walk out the door.

“Oh, and Rose?”

“Yes?” I spun around, thinking she’d forgotten to tell me something about the competition.

“Happy birthday.”

*******

I carried my heavy present on the walk home. Paperback would have been so much lighter, I thought, annoyed. I tucked my rose behind my ear so it wouldn’t get smashed in my bag.

Marie’s car was parked out front. She never came over anymore, except for special occasions like that day. She stopped helping on the weekends after she married Miles. This had more to do with our father than her marital responsibilities. Miles and him never liked each other. Inside, everyone sat gathered around the table which held in the middle a lemon Bundt cake (my favorite!). On the kitchen counter, there were two presents, neatly wrapped. Marie got up to hug me but struggled. She was 7 months pregnant at the time.

“Happy birthday, kiddo.” She said and kissed me on the cheek. I thanked her. “Where did you get that?” she asked, poking my rose. I forgot I had it in my hair.

“Oh, this? I picked it on the way home.” I lied. Marie said nothing but waggled her eyebrows at me. She always had a special radar for boys.

“You know who has a wonderful rose garden? Mrs. Martin.” She smiled slyly.

“Oh, isn’t that Henry’s mother? Yes, she does.” My mother said. Marie started to giggle.

Mom never caught on; she was too busy setting the table. I glared at Marie behind Mom’s back.

“Let’s eat!” I declared, sitting down at the table. Although I was hungry, I was more desperate to change the subject. Lunch was pleasant enough; we didn’t talk about anything more interesting than the weather or school, but by doing so we avoided the topics that usually set us off. We had an unofficial family rule of playing nice on birthdays and holidays, and we couldn’t even follow that sometimes. My last birthday ended with Marie leaving in tears and my mom shouting after her, so they were really on their best behavior this year. We feasted on Chinese takeout as we chatted. Most of the lunch is fuzzy to me, it happened so long ago, but what I remember most is opening my presents.

The first present was from my parents. A yellow pen and ink set, and an expensive one too. The pen was fashioned out of a heavy metal, I don’t know exactly what. Engraved in it were my initials, R. M. C., – the M standing for Margot – in swoopy, cursive letters. An image popped into my head of all the initialed authors I adored and how they probably owned and wrote books with pens like mine. The ink well was a rounded glass jar, tinted yellow to match. I’d never gotten such a personal gift from them, and it earned them both a huge hug that they didn’t really reciprocate. I was too happy to care. It touched me so thinking that they supported my writing, but it was surprising too. I used to read them my stories when I was younger, but quickly caught on to their disinterest and instead read them only to Marie. Later, I discovered Marie picked out the gift. I’m glad I didn’t know that then, it was nice believing I had some support from them.

The next present was from Miles and Marie; a stack of heavy writing paper, dyed gold to complete my set of yellow. Henry was right, it was my favorite color. I thanked Marie and would have thanked Miles too if he was there. He never showed up to family events, which was fine by me. I tried telling Marie what I saw at the carnival soon after it happened, but she wouldn’t hear

35 of it. She married him a few months later and now, they were going to have a baby, so I kept my opinions to myself. I still didn’t like him though.

Mom put candles in my cake, and they all sang to me. My dad made a comment about

Mile’s absence and Marie snapped back. They bickered over me blowing out my candles. I blew them out: I wish for a normal family.

*******

Later that night when Marie left, the cake gone, and I pressed the rose Henry gave me, I sat at my desk. With Marie’s bed gone, I moved a hand-me-down desk into my room. The top bore all sorts of scratches. I told my parents I needed it for schoolwork, but what I truly wanted it for was writing. I held my pen and positioned the paper in front of me, ready to be filled with text, but the words didn’t appear. In fact, the only words that did pop in occasionally were absolute trash. I let those thoughts well up in my head, hoping they would rush out and make room for better ones, but I didn’t dare put them to paper. I could not waste precious paper or ink on the litter that occupied my mind. I convinced myself that I would write tomorrow, after resting. The lie all writers tell themselves. Then, one night of no writing snowballed into the entire weekend. More time passed. Without my approval, Thursday arrived, and I had not written a single word. Ms. Ayala pulled me aside to ask me how the story was coming along, and I told her just fine. I lied to her. That guilt swam around in my stomach and propelled me to come home and write what I wrote.

After school, I sat myself down and forced myself to think of a story; a fairytale, a poem, anything. Nothing I came up with was good enough. I drummed my fingers on my desk, hard enough to crack one of my nails. The longer I sat there producing nothing, the dryer my mouth

36 became. I took a pen, not my new one, from the holder in the corner and scratched more upon the beaten-up desk. From another room, my mom yelled for me to do some chore, I don’t remember what exactly, but I do remember how she asked. Her tone was so bitter and condescending, it broke my concentration and ignited something in me. I grabbed my good pen and scribbled over the pages, telling the story of my family; describing my father and his distance, his affairs he thought we didn’t know about and how that destroyed my mom, and when I finished detailing him I moved on to her, this complacent, cold woman that never bothered to help Marie or me. I told of Marie and I’s huge age gap; how Marie was an accident that happened while they were dating, forcing a marriage neither of them wanted or planned for. I wrote about how dad wished we were boys and treated us differently because of something we couldn’t control. I let it all, the words that Marie and I edged on but never addressed to our parents, tumble out of me and onto the page. The yellow pen glinted in the light of my lamp – the more I moved, the more it shone.

It seemed to glow with my anger. At the end of my written rant, I held a completed story. Not a happy one, but one that could win the competition. I left it on my desk, some of the ink still wet, to do whatever chore my ungrateful mother asked of me.

When I came back to my room, I found my father, sitting at my desk, reading my story. I froze. He glanced up at me, with no discernable emotion in his eyes, and stood, calm as can be.

For a hopeful, stupid moment, I thought he wasn’t angry and that I would make it out of this unscathed, but then with one swift movement, he picked up the open ink bottle that moments before I used to cut him down, and poured it over the pages of my story. I cried out as he strode past me, still carrying the well, dripping ink. I ran to my pages, but only a few words remained untouched. The ink bled through the entire story before I could try to salvage it. He said something to my mother I couldn’t hear, then glass shattered (I learned later, when I was forced

37 to clean it up, he smashed my ink well on the kitchen wall) and the screen door slammed shut, followed by a swollen silence. Then, my mother’s shrieks. Whatever his silence was meant to tell me about his disappointment, her torrent of screeches made it clear.

The next day, I told Ms. Ayala, tearfully, that I couldn’t come up with anything to write about. I lied again to her. How could I possibly tell her I wrote about my family and they destroyed it before I could give it to her? The truth was more embarrassing, and I had already suffered enough. She said she understood, but I could tell I let her down. A kid from another school won. I don’t remember what he wrote about, but I do remember it was pretty good.

After my father left in the aftermath of reading my story that I never meant for him to read, he was gone for two weeks. When he finally came back, he told my mom he got an oil change. She acted as if she believed him. Gemma told me she saw him walking with another woman, hand in hand, the next town over. We never spoke about it again, and I didn’t write for many years after that.

THE GREEN BROOCH

I never liked thrift shops, not until I got older. They were a shameful reminder of my budget, while my friends enjoyed department stores. I always did love the smell of them, though.

It reminds me of the smell of old books, the smell of age.

Marie and I stepped over the grass to get to the thrift shop. We went thrift shopping that day to find me a graduation outfit. I had just finished a B. A. in English, and that weekend I was set to walk.

“You go over there,” Marie pointed towards the dress section, “and I’ll look through the shoes.” Though we were there for me that day, she still managed to be in charge. I was annoyed until I saw the incredibly cute black pumps she discovered for me. It perfectly matched the polka-dotted dress I found.

We went up to the counter and gave the cashier my clothes. He was an older, balding man, with a walrus moustache. When he smiled, his eyes were lost in wrinkles. While he rang me up, I scanned the jewelry case below. I’d never been one for jewelry – it weighed me down and I constantly worried about losing it. But one thing caught my eye – a green brooch in the shape of beetle. It had faux pearl accents and funky bulky shape – but I loved it.

“Excuse me,” I pointed to the brooch, “how much is that?”

“Seven bucks.” he said.

“Oh.” I replied, softly. I only had enough to cover the outfit.

“That’s too bad, it would’ve looked nice with your gown.” Marie said, behind me. The cashier looked up.

“You graduating?” he asked.

“Yes.” I beamed as he bagged my clothes up. He hesitated, and then pulled the brooch out and threw it in. I started to protest but he put a baseball mitt of a hand up.

“Lady, just take it. It’s been sitting here for months anyhow. It ain’t the prettiest.” He told me. I thanked him about a million times. When we walked out, I pinned it onto my shirt.

*******

“Can you believe this is it? We’re finally graduating!” Gemma squealed to Olive and me.

We stood in line at the ceremony, three dots of maroon indistinguishable from the red sea surrounding us. Our graduation gowns billowed out, hiding the dresses underneath. I realized there that the outfit I wore didn’t matter, but it didn’t feel like a waste. It was an excuse to dress up, and I got that cute brooch out of it.

“It feels like we’ve been here forever.” Olive agreed.

Gemma rolled her eyes. “We have been here forever,” wagging her finger between her and me, “you’ve only been here for three years.”

Olive stayed quiet. It was true, she’d finished her degree in three years, but she took on extra work and summer classes to achieve that. Olive discovered her passion to be helping others, so she was determined to be a social worker. During summer, Gemma stayed with her fiancé and his family at their lake house. Her fiancé, James, was in medical school and on his way to being a doctor, a point she never failed to remind Olive or me of.

“You know who has been here forever? Poor James! He still has a few more years to go too. Medical school isn’t easy either.” Gemma laughed, but no one else did.

The line started moving, and we grew quiet. With every movement, my gown slid across my chest and snagged on my green brooch. I insisted on wearing it, even though Gemma said it didn’t go.

Marie was sitting in the front row with her two children, Sean and Tom. She’d gotten there early that day. Miles and my parents didn’t bother coming. Miles only cared about Miles, but my parents didn’t understand the importance of education. This accomplishment didn’t mean much to them in their world. I thought I’d be more hurt by them not showing, but Marie gave me no choice but to focus on her enthusiasm. She helped me get ready, take photos, and gushed about how proud of me she was. She played the role of the embarrassing parent better than anyone.

When it was finally my turn, I handed my name card to the attendant and waited to be called. Once my name blared out on the loudspeakers, I strode forward, ready to step into my future.

*******

A few days later, I found myself sitting in a plain office, fanning myself discreetly. There were more plants in that room than air and I struggled to not break a sweat. How unprofessional I must of looked – a nervous, sweaty, bouncing lunatic. I looked down to avoid the gaze of the receptionist, who looked up at me from time to time. When I cast my eyes downward, I noticed my heels bore scuffs at the toe. I prayed they wouldn’t notice. The receptionist finished a phone call and called me over. She told me they were ready to see me. I smiled and thanked her.

I walked through the door to a narrow hallway. There were a few closed doors, but only one open, so I cautiously made my way over there.

“Ms. Campbell?” a short woman standing in front of the desk asked. I nodded and smiled. “I’m Camila. I’ll be interviewing you today.” She stuck her hand out for me to take. It was surprisingly strong. She sat down behind her desk and gestured for me to take the chair in front. She scanned me over, stopping at my brooch.

“That’s lovely. Where’d you get that?” she asked.

I looked down at it and blushed.

“Oh, thank you. I found it at a thrift shop near Pershing Square.”

Her eyes lit up.

“The one next to the pharmacy?”

“That very one!” I smiled candidly, and so did she.

After a brief pause, she reverted to her professional demeanor.

“So,” Camila said, “Tell me a little about yourself.”

I don’t remember my answer to this question or to most of the others. If I did, I might faint with embarrassment. I don’t know if my self esteem would recover. All I do remember is that my rambling, bumbling answers seemed to charm Camila. It certainly wasn’t due to my resume at the time, which contained one steady job at my college library and my good grades. I remember only one question from this interview. She asked me why I wanted to work for her, for

Einstein publishing. My answer was earnest and simple.

“I love books. All I do is read, whenever I can. They’re the healthiest and best form of escapism, you can’t underestimate the power of a good book!” I cried.

She nodded, pleased.

“Well then, I think I’ve got everything I need. You’ll be hearing from us.” She stood up as she spoke, and I copied her. She stuck her hand out again and I took it, this time with more confidence.

I took the bus back home, which at that time was Marie’s house. I moved in with her and

Miles after I graduated high school, back when they lived near downtown Los Angeles. I experienced city life only for a couple of months. After Sean was born, they moved to Torrance.

My plan after I got a job was to move back, although it hurt my heart to leave Marie and the boys. I was eager to leave Miles, though. Even though I paid Marie rent and helped with the groceries, he would complain about my being there. He dropped hints about how much of a financial burden I was to him, always when Marie wasn’t around. Looking out the window of the bus, watching the palm trees and people whiz by, I was hopeful about the job. Camila seemed to like me enough, and the pay was fine. I’d be her assistant, which came with the usual coffee runs and appointment making, but hopefully the occasional perk of reading for her. That’s what drew me to the job most of all. Hopefully with this, I thought, I could work my way up to being an editor. One could dream.

*******

While helping Marie make dinner that night, she told me about her friend from work,

Sophie, who needed a roommate.

“She’s a little rough,” Marie offered weakly, “but she’ll look out for you. Trust me, she’s nice enough . . . once you get to know her.”

I narrowed my eyes at her while chopping potatoes. “I don’t know, Marie. She doesn’t sound like someone I’d get along with.”

“Rose, she really is okay. She’s just a little grumpy. That’s exactly who you want to live with in downtown.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s her apartment at?” I asked. I carried the cutting board over to the pot and threw in the potatoes.

“6th and Main. You’d love it there. You could walk to work!” Marie put so much effort into trying to sell me, she hadn’t noticed her pot overboiling. I snatched the wooden spoon out of her hand and stirred.

“Why do you want me out of here so bad? I thought you liked the extra help with the boys.” I kept my eyes on the simmering pot. I didn’t want Marie to see I was tearing up. She put her hand on my shoulder.

“It isn’t that I want you out of here, Rose, you know that! The boys and I love that you’re here.”

“But not Miles?” I snapped. She stayed silent. It was her turn to grab the spoon from my hands. The stew boiled again, matching my anger.

“He just wants more space. It really is nothing personal. He thinks your room would make a good office.” Her voice didn’t sound like hers. It was weaker, more pleading.

“Okay,” I sighed, “I’ll meet with Sophie.”

Marie’s spoon clattered to the floor as she rushed to hug me.

“Oh, thank you! I promise you’ll like her. I had a roommate when I was in college! It’s a good experience to have. It’ll prepare you for married life!” She laughed, but I rolled my eyes. I had no plans to get married anytime soon.

*******

Marie and I drove to Sophie’s apartment the very next day. The lobby had an air of decrepit grandeur, with zigzag tiled floors yellowed with age and a slightly rusty iron banister.

We climbed it. Finally, on the seventh floor, we arrived at Sophie’s apartment. Marie knocked.

A gruff, muffled voice yelled from the other side of the door: “Who is it?”

Marie cleared her throat. “Sophie? It’s Marie and my sister, Rose. I brought us some pizza!” This seemed to ease Sophie, who opened the door to snatch the greasy box from Marie.

She left the door open and turned around without inviting us in. We walked inside and I took in the cramped surroundings.

A bay window overlooked the busy streets below. White drapes hung over it, with two shaded lamps flanking either side. The couch was beige and worn in, but not uncomfortable or dirty looking. Political and philosophical books were strewn over the coffee table, artfully done to hide the rings of coffee. There were books and trinkets all over, but it melded together to make for a cozy place.

“Thanks for the food. So, this the bookworm?” Sophie pointed her chin at me while she pried open the pizza box.

I gawked at her and she seemed not to notice. Huge, purple bags puffed out beneath her eyes. Her red lipstick was perfect, and so was the French twist in her black hair, but her eyes

45 scared me. I sensed something was off about her, but I didn’t know what. I shot a furious look at

Marie who deliberately didn’t turn her head one inch towards me.

“Are you looking at my puffy eyes?” Sophie asked coolly, without looking up from her food.

I was stunned silent, unsure of what to do. It’s strange how comfortable we are gawking until we’re caught.

“Yes, I’m sorry. Are you alright?” I ventured.

She shrugged.

“Did Marie tell you why I needed a roommate?” She asked.

I shook my head no.

“My husband left me. I can’t afford rent without him. It hasn’t exactly sunned up my cheery demeanor.” She laughed, but it was a bitter bark. “Trust me, I’ll be back to normal soon enough. It happened a week ago.” She waved her hand as if it was old news, but her eyes told a different story. Marie reached out to pat her shoulder.

I looked at Marie then. Why didn’t she tell me about this? Why didn’t she warn me

Sophie would be a mess? I considered that maybe it wasn’t only Miles she was pushing me out for. This person, her friend, so obviously needed some help. How could Marie support her emotionally as well as look after her own children? I decided, right there, to stay. I grabbed a slice of pizza.

“I’m really sorry that happened to you,” I spoke sincerely, “I promise to be a good roommate if you’ll have me. I don’t cook much, but I’m very neat and tidy. Marie saw to it that I came out that way.” I grinned. Marie’s face oozed gratitude towards me.

Sophie leaned back on her couch, considering me. “Well,” she paused to take a bite of her pizza, “Does flute bother you?”

I scrunched up my face. “Flute? Um, no, I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” she boomed, thrusting out her hand for me to shake, “let’s be roommates. Life can’t get any worse from here.” I took her hand, and our shake was slippery from the pizza grease.

After lunch and learning more about Sophie (she was an Aquarius who loved cats and hated the sound of police sirens, which you could hear often from her apartment) we drove home in a tentative mood. Things seemed okay, and Sophie was rough but generally good, but I wasn’t sure. I unlocked the door to the phone ringing. I rushed to answer it while Marie relieved Miles of his few hours of childrearing duties.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rose?” I recognized the gravelly voice.

“Yes, is this Camila?” I asked.

“It is. I’m calling to tell you that you got the job.” I thought I heard her smile.

I mouthed to Marie quickly: “I GOT IT!” She jumped up and down as quietly as she could.

“Oh my, thank you, Camila!” I gushed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at 9. Have a good night, Rose.” The line clicked, and that ensued screams of joy from Marie and I. Even Sean and Tom joined in, excited just to make noise. Miles yelled from the living room for us to quiet down, but we ignored him. I went into my room to lay out a work outfit for the next day, which, of course, included my lucky brooch.

*******

Living with Sophie was surprisingly easy. She did play flute in her spare time, but it made nice background music to read to. Besides, a tuba would’ve been much worse. She was so blunt, she made comments that absolutely grated me, but I brushed them off.

After a few months of our routine, Sophie came crashing through the front door with an announcement.

“Rose? Rose, where are you? I need to talk to you right now!” she screeched.

I walked out of my room.

“Yes?”

“Rose, you need to do me a favor!” She pleaded.

“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. I learned not to trust her to be a reasonable person.

One time I woke up to her giving herself a haircut at 3 in the morning.

“This guy, he works in my building, and I see him in the elevator all the time, and Rose he’s just the cutest guy in the whole building, maybe even the city, and you know how absolutely devastated I was after my divorce, I really –”

“Sophie, just ask me.” I interrupted her. She had the tendency to babble when excited.

“Will you go on a double date with me? Dan, that’s his name, has a friend who’s single. I kind of . . . already told him yes.” I shot her a look that would wither most in my circle, but she blinked unaffected back at me. “I am sorry. Truly. But this guy sounds nice. He’s an electrician!”

“I really have no interest in dating right now, Sophie! I’m so busy with work and helping with Marie’s boys!”

“You don’t seem that busy. I haven’t seen you use our kitchen once and you finish about two books a week.” She pointed out. She had me there. I knew how difficult it was to fight

Sophie and living in such tight quarters I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.

“You owe me, big time.” I said feebly.

She barked out a laugh. “We’ll see. You might thank me at your future wedding.” She said over her shoulder, already walking away from me. She was good. She missed another glare that wouldn’t have phased her.

That Saturday evening, Sophie stomped through the apartment getting ready. I finished getting ready early and read my book on the sofa.

“Is that what you’re wearing? Are you kidding me?” Sophie accused.

“Yes,” I replied, not looking up from my book, “What’s wrong with it?”

She scoffed. “You look like a grandma! Who wears brooches anymore?”

“I do.” I defended calmly. I kept my nose in my book until Sophie huffed off. Before I could keep reading, the doorbell rang.

“Get the door!” Sophie ordered from her room. I didn’t budge.

“Please?” she asked, softer.

I sighed and walked as slow as possible to the door. I opened it and put on my mannequin smile, as Marie so lovingly would call it. Dan stood with a bouquet of peonies. I saw why Sophie begged me to help her out. He was handsome. He had a strong jawline and thick eyebrows. He mesmerized me, for just a second, before I saw who stood next to him.

“Oh my goodness, Henry?” I cried.

He looked as shocked to see me as I him.

“Rose!” he only said my name, as if that confirmed I was really there. We both laughed, a little awkwardly.

“Do you guys know each other?” Dan asked.

“We went to school together.” Henry offered.

He smiled at me and I returned it. Before I could say more, Sophie shoved past me and almost fell into Dan.

“Dan, I’m so glad you’re here!” she mused.

Dan took a polite step back and cleared his throat. “Are we ready to go?” he asked.

I nodded while Sophie purred a yes. He turned, with Sophie right behind him. I hesitated.

Henry turned to go and gestured for me to follow. I looked at him, really scrutinizing his changes. His mouth was still wide, but he’d grown a beard around it. He had slight laugh and smile wrinkles around his eyes that would only further crease with age. His dark blond hair was shorter than it was in high school, making him look so . . . grown up. I let my eyes rise to his. He was giving me a curious look. I stared at him too long, I thought. But he studied me the same as I

50 him. I wondered, self-consciously, about my changes. I kept my hair short still, but my gray hairs outnumbered my black. My makeup skills improved, but nothing could hide the puffy bags under my eyes. I wore thick black frames to at least try to. I blushed and hurried down the hall trying to catch up with Sophie and Dan.

Dan led us to a French restaurant a couple of blocks from our apartment. “I recommend the pot-au-feu.” He said airily, unaware he completely butchered the pronunciation. Sophie lapped it up still.

“Oh, that sounds delicious! Doesn’t that sound delicious, Rose?” She kicked me under the table. I guess my lack of enthusiasm was showing.

“Sure.” I smiled a tight smile.

Sophie shot me a quick, intense look and then talked to Dan. I twirled my napkin in my lap. Henry leaned over to me and said, ever so softly, “This doesn’t have to be a date, you know.

We could just talk, try to enjoy ourselves.”

I stopped twirling my napkin to look up at him.

“Okay,” I said, “I wasn’t too thrilled about this set up in the first place.”

To my surprise, he laughed.

“Neither was I,” he admitted, “I think Dan is a little intimidated by your roommate.” We looked over at them. Sophie was leaned up against him as close as she possibly could without touching and every inch of Dan leaned away from her. I wasn’t entirely sure how he was still sitting in his chair. We snickered.

“So, what have you been up to since high school? You graduated and disappeared.” His tone seemed harsh. Did I sense some bitterness?

“I moved in with my sister here in LA so I could go to college,” I told him, “I haven’t been home much since.” It was my turn to try on a bitter tone.

He raised an eyebrow at this but didn’t pry.

“I remember your sister. She used to drop you off,” he paused before continuing, “you guys were close.”

I nodded. “We still are.”

We smiled at each other again. This time, my stomach dropped a little. Was it hunger?

No, something else. I couldn’t quite place it. Before I could pin down what that feeling was, the waiter came to take our orders. Sophie, of course, listened to Dan’s recommendation and I ordered a spinach souffle. I don’t remember what Henry ordered, perhaps ratatouille? All I do remember is trying a bite of it later in the evening and enjoying it better than what I ordered.

That always seemed to happen with him. He always knew what he wanted.

After I told him all about the publishing company I worked at, I asked him about his work. He shrugged.

“I mainly maintain and repair faulty wires in apartment buildings. If you get stuck in an elevator, I’m your guy!” he laughed and so did I.

We fell deeper into conversation the longer we were together. It was easy with Henry. I didn’t have to put on a show or buff and polish my family history. He already knew so much

52 about me. The wine didn’t hurt either. After a few glasses, he asked me what he probably had been dying to ask for years.

“Why did you disappear, Rose? Why did you leave so quickly?” he didn’t look at me when he asked it.

I took a deep breath and confessed to him my 18th birthday and what happened when I used my yellow pen. When I finished, he placed his hand on mine and squeezed. My stomach twisted harder.

“I’m so sorry, Rose. I didn’t have a clue. I would’ve helped if I could.” He spoke genuinely.

“Thank you, Henry. You were always so kind to me. I pressed the rose you gave me, you know. I still have it. In fact, I framed it!” I blurted out too much. Instantly, I regretted telling him this. His eyes shone and his serious face transformed into a smug smile. I guess I had more wine than I thought.

The waiter came over again, this time with the bill. When I reached for my purse, I saw our plates and the bottles of wine were empty. When did we finish? I barely remembered eating.

How much time had passed? I snuck a glance at my watch while we walked out of the restaurant.

It had been three hours since the doorbell rang! I couldn’t believe it. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn Henry and I only spent about 20 minutes talking. Just then, Henry placed his hand on the small of my back.

“Everything alright? You look a little pale.” Light concern touched his eyes.

“Yes, I’m great.” I told him.

“Let’s go to the park over here. The pond looks pretty at night. It reflects the city lights.”

Henry offered.

“That sounds wonderful! I’ve always wanted to go to that park at night!” Sophie exclaimed.

I wanted to scoff because Sophie called parks breeding grounds for rabid squirrels and animal droppings, but I didn’t. I was enjoying Henry’s company too much.

Dan shook his head. “Actually, I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“For what?” Henry asked, suspiciously.

Dan’s eyes darted from Sophie, to Henry. He was trying to convey to his friend, without saying it, that he was done. “You know I go to church every Sunday!” he laughed nervously.

“Okay, then. See you later. Sophie, it was a pleasure meeting you.” Henry said.

Sophie nodded glumly, looking absolutely crushed. She said nothing.

“I’ll get her home safely, Rose,” Dan spoke to me, walking away with Sophie, “you two continue catching up!” he called over his shoulder.

“Poor Sophie,” I whispered to Henry. He sighed sympathetically. As annoying as she was about this date, I really wanted it to work out for her.

“You ready to go?” Henry asked me, and I forgot all about how miserable Sophie must’ve been.

*******

His hand never left the small of my back as we walked to the park. It radiated warmth throughout me, gleaming up to my heart. Can you believe, still at this point, that my stomach felt weirder and I didn’t figure out why? It took me a long time. No one talked to me about boys.

Even Marie, for as smart as she was, made every wrong decision when it came to men, never spoke about it much with me. I didn’t know what it was like to have a crush, or that I even had one on Henry. I had one for years, without even knowing. He was so sweet to me. A distant friend. Someone I could have focused on if my parents didn’t demand so much of my labor, if I didn’t have to constantly please Gemma.

We walked down the concrete path to the edge of the pond. Glimmering like unsteady orbs, the lights of the buildings reflected onto the swaying pond water. We sat on the grass and enjoyed the view. We talked about everything. His parents, my parents, work, dreams, goals, fears, favorite colors (his was blue), and all the little and big things in between.

He pointed at my brooch. “That’s neat.” He said.

I laughed. “Really? Sophie said it made me look like a grandma.”

“It does, but that’s your style.” I mock gasped and we laughed.

He asked me about my favorite book. He remembered how much I loved to read. I told him and he hadn’t heard of it.

“How have you not heard of Pride and Prejudice?” I laughed.

He shrugged, “I don’t read much.”

My laughing hitched. The night and the feelings that engulfed us paused. It was as if someone dropped a rock into the pond in front of us, interrupting the lights and rippling in all the

55 wrong ways. How could I be with someone who didn’t read? Could they ever understand me?

Panic snaked through my veins and cooled my heart a bit. He noticed the shift.

“I’m too busy with work to read. If I do have free time, I like to draw. I’m actually not that bad of an artist!” He offered, flailing to find some common ground again.

The panic receded. The rippling slowed.

“I’m terrible at drawing,” I confessed, “What do you like to draw?”

“People, mostly,” His eyes shifted to meet mine, “I could draw you right now.” My eyes must’ve bulged, because he added quickly, “If you’d like!”

There was just enough wine still in my system for me to tell him; “Why not?”

So, he pulled out a mini sketch pad from his pocket, as well as a pencil, and drew me sitting by the pond. I stayed still for a long time. I snuck glances at him when he was deep in concentration and that only made my stomach feel stranger.

He finished, tore the paper from the pad, and gave it to me. I stared at it for a long while.

“Do you not like it?” he asked, tentatively.

“It’s beautiful.” I poured all my admiration into those two words. My stomach fell out of me and into the pond, sinking and tumbling deeper and deeper.

We looked at each other, and before we could do anything, to close the small gap between us, a flashlight shined on us.

“Hey, what the hell are you two doing?” I blinked at the light. An angry man in a uniform glared back at us. “It’s two in the morning! Go home!” he yelled.

We scrambled up and scurried off towards my apartment.

“Can you believe it’s two?” Henry asked. “I feel like it hasn’t even been an hour.” He breathed.

I nodded. So he felt it too. The impossibly fast passing of time. Interesting, I thought.

We continued to talk as we snaked our way up the streets. I thought he would say goodnight at the entrance, but he rode up the elevator with me. “I need to make sure you make it home safe.” He said sheepishly. We stopped at the door to my place.

“This is me.” I said awkwardly. I felt so jittery, and I couldn’t explain why.

He smiled in a way that let me know he was jittery too. Before I could comment or not on how we both felt, he swiftly leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.

Shock. Joy. Elation. Heart: melted. Stomach: disintegrated.

He pulled away, too soon, always too soon. “I’ll call you.” And quickly, he turned and stumbled back to the elevator. I fumbled my keys for a long while before I successfully unlocked my door and took a shaky step inside. Sophie lounged on the couch, mascara streaked and cigarette lit. She took me in for a moment before she spoke. “So how much better was your night than mine?”

*******

I picked up the phone in my room and dialed Gemma. I thought she would be overjoyed for me and I couldn’t wait to tell her all about my date.

“Hey, guess what?” I breathed when I heard she picked up.

“What?”

“I just went on a date. The blind date I told you I was going on? You’ll never guess with who!” I squealed.

“You never told me you were going on a date, but okay. Who?” she sighed.

My heart cracked a little bit at her forgetfulness, but I forged on. “Henry! Henry Martin from school! What a coincidence right? Oh my gosh Gemma, he’s the nicest guy! We talked about everything. We were out until two but it didn’t feel like it.”

Gemma stayed quiet for a long time.

“The quiet one? The one who was always with his mom?”

My heart cracked further. Now she really was starting to annoy me. “He wasn’t always with his mom, Gemma. Anyways, I-”

“Yes, he was. What’s he doing now anyways?”

“He was not. He’s an electrician.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Well, there’s other guys out there, Rose.” Her nonchalant tone sent acid through my veins.

“I called to tell you we had a great time.” I spoke harshly.

“You can’t be serious. You’re not going to date an electrician, are you?” she scoffed.

“What’s wrong with that?” I bristled.

“You need more than that, Rose. Don’t you want someone who will take care of you?

Don’t you want to live better than how you grew up?”

The word “you” instead of “we” gave me the rage and clarity I needed to finally realize that she had considered me as less than her for all those years. I didn’t need to say anything more. She took a breath in, to chip at me further, but I hung up before she could continue. I realized I was crying. I cried harder. A while later, when I was thinking about the friendship I just lost, one I never really had, the phone rang again.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Gemma!” I snapped.

“I’m not Gemma!” said a panicked Henry. “Is everything alright?”

I took a big breath.

“No. Maybe. I’m not sure.” I didn’t know what to tell him yet. I’d felt like I’d known him forever already, but maybe this was too much to bring up just minutes after our first date. A part of me also thought maybe there was just a morsel of truth in what Gemma had said. Maybe he wasn’t right for me.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about it that’s okay,” he said gently, “I called to tell you I started Pride and Prejudice. My sister had a copy. I don’t read much, but it’s great.”

I smiled. The doubts Gemma placed in my head dissipated, leaving only a prickling of guilt. He was perfect for me. We talked about the book, and then everything else for a few more hours. When we finally hung up – not because we wanted to, but because Sophie banged on our shared wall and yelled at me to “shut up and go to sleep”– I fell down on my bed and took off my brooch, flipping it over and over. I couldn’t explain it then, and I can’t now as I write this, but I had an overwhelming feeling that everything was going to be alright.

The next day, Henry showed up with a bouquet of yellow roses and a colored drawing of the cover of Pride and Prejudice. I knew I made the right choice.

THE BLUE BRACELET

That day, the sky held a steady blue. It stretched over the chapel without a cloud, the definition of perfect weather. Inside the chapel though, dark streams of mascara ran down my face. My splotchy face clashed with my lacy dress and veil. My mother, in an unflattering lilac two-piece, failed to comfort me. She ran out to get Marie, who barged in with authority. My mother flailed around us while Marie knelt down and wiped my tears.

“The wedding starts in ten minutes, Rose, and you’re ruining your makeup, makeup your father and I paid good money for,” Mother exhaled, “The world doesn’t revolve around you.

What will your aunts think if you come out looking like – like a raccoon!” She half-whispered, half shouted.

Clearly, she really cared about what my aunts thought, who were waiting on the other side of the wall for the ceremony, my wedding ceremony, to start. Everyone was probably in their pews by now, with the men lingering outside or in the lobby, sneaking sips of whiskey from their cheap flasks.

I was too preoccupied panicking to tell my mother she and my father only gave us $300 dollars, which was barely enough to cover the rental hall.

“Mother,” Marie started, “you aren’t helping. Why don’t you go check on Dad? I saw him talking to Uncle Ronnie.” Mom went rigid and without making any digging comments, marched out quickly.

Uncle Ronnie was her older brother. He and my father never got along. The Christmas after he learned of my father’s Jasmine allergy, he gifted my mother with the most expensive jasmine perfume he could find. He knew my mother would wear it, out of guilt and obligation,

61 even if it made my father break out in a rash. Our father never found that as amusing as Marie and I did.

“Was he really talking to Uncle Ronnie?” I sniffled.

“No, but she was making you worse.” Marie laughed and I snorted, forgetting myself.

“Now,” Marie used her serious voice, “What’s wrong?”

I stared at the church tile. I didn’t know what to tell her. How do you tell someone you’re having cold feet minutes before your wedding?

“What if Gemma was right?” I whispered, afraid to say the words out loud, “That Henry isn’t the one for me?” I kept my eyes glued to the floor.

Marie sighed. “With how we grew up . . . there’s no wonder you’re worried about marriage. We haven’t had the best examples.”

As if on cue, our mother could be heard just outside the door, scolding my father for drinking. We didn’t hear a response from him. That only made me cry harder. Marie grabbed both my shoulders and shook me. Although gently, it was enough to make me look up at her and stop sobbing. When I looked up at her, all I could focus on were the heavy bags under her eyes.

You only earn those if your husband ditches you with two small children. I didn’t want to allow myself to grow that reliant on someone. I think Marie knew she was one of the bad examples for me.

“Listen Rose, Gemma was wrong. You know that Henry is the perfect guy for you. Who took you to the hospital in the middle of the night when you had appendicitis?” She prodded.

“Henry did.” I relented.

“Who gets you paperback copies of books you want, without you even telling him?” She asked.

“Henry.”

“Who fixed your car engine?”

“Well actually, that was Henry’s dad.” I pointed out.

Marie rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t have met him if it wasn’t for Henry,” She snapped,

“Now, who is waiting for you at the altar, ready to put up with your meticulousness, your bossiness, for a lifetime?” She asked.

I sighed, out of relief, no longer sadness, “Henry is.”

She nodded firmly. “Yes, good. Are you alright to go through with this now?”

“Yes.” I breathed, “I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, Marie. I feel so…off.” I told her.

“It’s pre-wedding jitters. You’re fine.” She reassured me.

I had been so silly. Our parents and everyone else fluttering around polluted my mind.

And hadn’t I not wanted to get married in the first place anyways? I only went through with this for Henry, so he wouldn’t get disowned by his religious family. But he was so great it didn’t feel like a sacrifice at all. Besides, any big decisions (or little ones) made me so nervous I could be sick. So that day I was destined to have a panic attack about something.

I realized Marie, as always, was right. Everyone in my family loved him, and he treated me so good. I am doing the right thing, I repeated over and over in my head. I got up to go out the door, to get married, I thought, with a little flip of my stomach, but Marie made a noise.

“We need to fix your makeup first!” She tutted. She sat me back down and applied remover to erase the streaks. I relaxed while she made me presentable again, but then burst into tears, startling Marie.

“What is it now?” She demanded.

“I have this old dress from the thrift store, these new shoes, and I borrowed Sophie’s earrings, but I don’t have something blue!” my whiny voice even hit my ears wrong. Panic and nausea swept over me and threatened to pull me under once more.

But Marie, like always, didn’t bat an eye in the face of my anxiety. “I was going to give you this earlier, but the boys were distracting me.”

She handed me a small navy box with a white bow on top. I lifted the lid, and inside a blue beaded bracelet rested on black felt. Tiny silver cylinders wedged in between every seventh azure bead. I rolled it on. It made my wrist look so dainty.

“Thank you, Marie!” I cried harder and rushed to hug her.

She patted my back. “No more crying,” she laughed, “it’s showtime!”

*******

20 minutes behind schedule, I marched arm in arm with my now balding father. For some reason I couldn’t understand, he adored Henry. I appreciated it, especially after how he treated

Miles, but a small, immature part of me was jealous. Maybe he liked him because he knew he was the driving force behind us talking again, however infrequently or distant. Maybe he saw him for who he was, a good man.

With all the staring faces, I zeroed in on Henry. We locked eyes and I stopped noticing anything else. He gave me a small smile, signaling to me that he was equally nervous. I am doing the right thing.

Honestly, the ceremony was boring. Henry’s mother threw a fit when we wanted to write our own vows, so the words were uninspiring. But the way he spoke them to me and I repeated them left me sparkling and light-headed. I realized how much I loved him. I am doing the right thing, I thought, sliding the silver band on his finger. He put on my wedding band, a silver floral piece. It complimented my engagement ring, a pearl with two diamonds flanking it, nicely. He grazed my bracelet after sliding my band on. He raised his eyebrows at me, knowing I wasn’t one for jewelry. I lifted my chin and pointed it behind me, at Marie. He smiled.

After the ceremony, we all moved into the reception hall across the street. With my dress on, we garnered a lot of happy honks from the cars driving by. The reception hall wasn’t much, but Olive, one of my bridesmaids, decorated each table beautifully. I hadn’t talked to Gemma in years, but Olive and I stayed close.

There was so much whizzing past me, I don’t remember a lot of the reception. Coming down after my earlier panic attack didn’t leave me with much of an appetite. Everyone around me was happily gorging themselves, but I couldn’t bring myself to join them. I moved my food around my plate, rosemary chicken and Brussel sprouts, but it disgusted me. I thought that was odd, since I had been the one to pick it.

Shortly after the bar opened, Ms. Williams stood up and demanded she get to make a toast. She declared, slurring slightly, that she was the cause of why we were all gathered here

65 today and that she knew we were meant for each other. She ended her speech by bursting into tears and falling into her seat. Ms. Ayala, sitting next to her, look horrified.

Henry’s brows furrowed. “Do you think we shouldn’t have gotten the open bar?” He whispered.

I scoffed, “Do you think my family would have shown up without one?” we both laughed.

Sophie, one of my bridesmaids, noticed I hadn’t touched my food and tried to get me to eat. I politely refused, which fueled her to bulldoze all the harder. Eventually, it escalated to her spearing a piece of chicken onto my fork and waving it in my face. The nausea that danced around me all day burrowed into my stomach and shot waves of it throughout my body. I was going to be sick. I rushed to the bathroom with Marie trailing me, leaving a bewildered Henry and an angry Sophie. Marie scooped up my veil while I violently threw up everything inside me.

With each heave, my bracelet clanged against the porcelain bowl. I chalked this up to anxiety and tried to enjoy the rest of the day.

Henry and I honeymooned in Oahu. In paradise, away from our taxing families, I kept getting sick. I thought I had food poisoning, but Henry and I ate all the same things. I wasn’t too concerned, but he forced me to go to the doctors. I remember being so mad at him for making me go I didn’t speak to him. Instead I stared at my bracelet and turned it around and around my wrist. I was dreaming of the tropical beaches that were only inches away, so close that I could smell the saltwater, but instead I was stuck in a clinical waiting room that looked the same as the one back home. I was relieved he took me after all, because that’s where we found out I was six- weeks pregnant.

THE INDIGO PENDANT

I remember setting a bowl of blueberries on the table for Lana. She had just turned four and decided only blue foods were worth eating. That left me with little options. Henry was sick of red cabbage and cauliflowers, and I was too, but it was easier to put up with than Lana’s tantrums. The tiniest, most insignificant thing would send her into a complete meltdown, and there was no reasoning with her; no logic. She screamed and cried until snot rolled down her clean clothes and mine until I either gave in, exhausted, or fell into a more subdued meltdown of my own. This was the cycle of our relationship. But that wasn’t the situation that day – she was excited to eat her blueberries.

After I set her food down – without any thanks from her – I moved to close the blinds as the minimal light of day began to dim. I glanced out of the window before I did. The sun, impossible to find, was setting. I could only tell because the light gray clouds grew darker and streaked the sky dark blue. It had been two years since we left Los Angeles, and I still couldn’t get used to the missing sun in the winter. The logical part of me knew it still blazed beyond the clouds but…if it was such a strong force, such a massive mound of burning hydrogen, why didn’t it break through? Were the Oregonian clouds that impenetrable?

We moved here for Henry’s work. He was applying out of LA for a while, without my knowing. When he finally told me about it, I lost it. I loved LA, but he convinced me it wasn’t safe for children, and I had to agree. So, because of Lana (and a significant pay increase paired with a lower cost of living) we parted with the forever sun and settled under clouds of steel.

Henry made so much from his new job that I didn’t have to work.

“You can focus on your writing now!” He reassured me, out of genuine encouragement and a tad bit of guilt for uprooting me. Ever since our first date, when I told him why I stopped writing, he had been my cheerleader. My muse and my captive audience. Whatever he was doing, no matter how tired he was, he dropped it all to focus solely on my writings. At the time, they were short stories at first. Little ones that burned me with embarrassment when read again.

But with his love and enthusiasm, they got longer and cooled to the touch.

With Lana though, how could I write? As if she could hear what I thought, she screamed from the kitchen, breaking my study of the darkening clouds. I ran from the window to see what was wrong. Her face twisted and her tongue, purple. In her bowl, a few moldy blueberries looked up at me. I helped her rinse her mouth out and gave her some strawberries to get rid of the taste, which she ate without complaint. How had I not seen the moldy blueberries? Didn’t I check them before I gave them to her? As a child, I popped a moldy cheese cube into my mouth without looking, and even now, as I write this, I cannot stomach cheese. This lapse in my parenting put an end to Lana’s blue phase. Small victories, right?

*******

Later that week, I ran errands with Lana downtown. Where we lived had one cute little main strip of stores and restaurants and the rest of town was dotted with suburbs nestled between forests. In California, the trees were additive, decorative. Nothing overwhelming. But in Oregon, you had the odd sense that you were intruding. That the people and buildings were decorative, and the trees simply allowed them to be here. It was unsettling or beautiful, depending on how you looked at it.

After Lana and I finished our errands (and if she didn’t have a meltdown) we would get ice cream from a tiny store on main street. It was a corner store, so we enjoyed window shopping on the way. We passed a toy store – one I would walk quickly past, so Lana wouldn’t start screaming for something she saw –, a hardware store, and a jewelry store on the way. I’ve already told you I’m not one for jewelry…but that day, I spotted a piece that stopped me. In the window, on a black felt stand, an indigo pendant shone brilliantly in the store lights. On the dainty silver chain hung a heart-shaped gem. Lana tugged on my hand towards the candy shop, but I told her we had to go do one more thing first. Her face soured but I ignored her and marched us inside.

“Excuse me,” I said to the shopkeeper, “What gemstone is in that necklace? The one in the window display?” As I spoke, Lana lunged to put her hands on the glass. I scooped her up before she could, but that didn’t stop the shopkeeper from smiling a rather thin smile at us.

“That’s lapis lazuli.” He informed me, rather coolly.

I nodded. “It’s beautiful. How much is it?” I strained to keep my voice casual but even.

Lana could sense my desperation and stopped squirming for a moment to look up at me. His smile was noticeably thinner.

“That piece is 250 dollars, but that is if you prefer the original chain.”

“Oh. I think I’ll come back for it.” I lied.

He nodded without looking at me. A good salesman knows when he isn’t getting commission. I took Lana to get a cone of pistachio and rocky road (her favorite) while I dreamed about having that necklace. How quickly that salesman’s smile would go from thin to apologetic, how it would hang off my neck, complimenting my fair skin. I got so distracted I didn’t even

69 notice Lana’s dress covered in ice cream splats when I picked her up – covering me in ice cream as well. Oh, I was going to get that necklace, I decided. The only question was when.

*******

That night I made my customary (dry) chicken with my newly customary white wine. I never used to drink, but during my housewife years, it became an automatic ritual. The first sip at dinner dissolved my tension and accompanying headache instantly. It made it easier to keep up my cheerful façade for Henry, who had no clue how much I missed my job, sister, and the city I worked so hard to live in. Later in life, the wine flowed harder and earlier in the day, but that isn’t this story. Besides, I’m sure your mother has told you all about that already.

Anyways, that night while poor, sweet Henry gnawed through a piece of white meat, I decided to bring up the necklace.

“You know, while Lana and I were running our errands, we saw the most beautiful necklace.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” I answered for her, “In fact, it’s only 250 dollars. Mother’s Day is coming up and

I’ve been sick of flowers ever since we started dating.” I laughed, but Henry didn’t.

“I’ll think about it Rose. $250 is a lot of money.” He offered quietly.

Before I could argue, Lana started to cry. He retreated before I could bring it up again.

That was okay by me, I at least planted the thought in his head.

Mother’s Day passed with only a bouquet to show for it. They died within a few days. I was left with no token of appreciation for all my hard work, all my sacrifices. I politely smiled when I received them, holding out hope for my birthday, just a few weeks later.

My birthday, my 30th, came on a Saturday. Henry let me sleep in – which was a gift unto itself. Usually I was the designated caretaker, no matter if he was home or not. His work week ended at 40 hours, while mine had no neat, merciful end in sight.

Henry finally woke me with a kiss and a whisper: “I have a surprise for you, birthday girl!”

He led me to our kitchen, which I thought odd. Surely, he could have given me the pendant in bed. But to my (guilty) disappointment, there was no jewelry box. Who greeted me instead were Marie and her boys, sitting around my kitchen table.

“Surprise!” they yelled together.

I stood there searching in vain for my jewelry box, but they took it as shock. Marie got up to hug me, and her boys shyly followed.

“Henry had this planned for months – isn’t that amazing?” Marie mused, much to

Henry’s humble embarrassment.

“Oh now, families should be together on birthdays. It’s only right!” he replied.

I grabbed a cup of coffee to further hide my disappointment. Marie was always a phone call away – now she was in my space; judging my cleanliness, my parenting abilities, and God knows what else. Thinking of this made me scan the room for Lana – and I found her, nestled like a cherub in Marie’s arms. I felt two pangs – one of jealousy and another of incredulousness.

Jealousy towards Marie…I never got Lana to let me hold her like that. Incredulousness because that was not how Lana ever acted…except maybe with Henry. I sipped my coffee while I watched her.

“So,” I began, eyeing Henry, “what are the plans for today?” I asked.

He shrugged, proud of himself. “I don’t know! I made a reservation at Portifino’s for later tonight, but the rest is up to you.”

I smiled a tight-lipped smile. Oh, so now I’m going to be responsible for this too? I thought. But I was just bitter; I was too heartbroken by not having the gift I thought I would get.

I deserved that pendant, or at least I thought I did at the time. I thought that it would make me happy, but really, what is any object going to do for you? Any change isn’t much. It’s what meaning you attach to things that gives them their power.

I wore a brave face for the rest of the day. We went to the aquarium and even Lana was on her best behavior. I sat in front of the tropical reef tank with Marie, watching our kids play together while Henry bought snacks. I opened up to her about how much harder this all was than

I thought. How I didn’t feel like I was right for motherhood. That things between Henry and I were calm, but I wanted…slightly more from life. How I missed my job. How I missed Los

Angeles.

“But most of all, I miss you, your support, and the kids.” I finished, crying softly.

She took my rantings with serenity and patience. When she finally spoke, it shocked me.

“You know, I struggled with the boys too. I think it’s the lack of sleep. It messes with your brain.”

We laughed blithely together.

“Really though Rose, why do you have such high standards for yourself? Have they ever made you happy? You don’t have to work…I’d kill for that.”

I flinched at her words. When Miles ducked out, Marie scrambled to get her old job back and continued to juggle single motherhood and working.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad!” She added quickly, “But…I want you to appreciate the good in your life.” She reached for my hand and squeezed it. Before her words could further crumble my fortress of ungratefulness, Lana, Henry, and the boys walked over to us. Lana, to my surprise, climbed into my lap and kissed my cheek. Things may not have been as bad as I’d perceived them to be, I realized right then.

“Who’s ready for dinner?” Henry asked, beaming.

*******

Dinner was good. Great actually, but I couldn’t dislodge the pit in my stomach that was the disappointment of not getting the locket. Henry noticed something was wrong and kept asking me what it was about when we were in our room getting ready for bed. I didn’t tell him.

He kept asking. He asked me when I brushed my teeth, when I changed into my pajamas, when I took the throw pillows off. So, I snapped.

“Alright fine!” I seethed, as quietly as I could, because the kids and Marie were asleep in the living room, “I know you won’t leave me alone until I tell you, but I don’t want to be the bad guy! I wish you got me that pendant! I expected it on Mother’s Day and didn’t say anything, and

I really expected it today, but didn’t get it! And I know how spoiled that sounds, but I’ve just

73 been working so hard,” my voice began to break there, “so, so hard at being a good mom to Lana and keeping a tidy house for you, and I just can’t do it! I am not set up for this! I can’t even cook chicken for Christ’s sake!” I spat the last words – not purely out of anger, but because I’d run out of breath. I looked to his face after I’d finished speaking and registered unfiltered, concentrated hurt there.

He spoke slowly. “I worked…so hard at making this a nice birthday for you. I flew your family out; I took you to your favorite restaurant…all you can think about is a necklace? A material thing?”

I am ashamed to admit here that although I do not remember what I said after he spoke, I do remember flying off the handle. It was ugly. He stormed out of the room and I fell asleep alone, crying, on my 30th birthday. Now that, is what I really deserved.

The next morning, Henry stood in the doorway, his hands behind his back. “You know, I think I read once somewhere that forgiveness begins and ends with love.” I rolled my eyes at this cheesy line.

“Oh? And which idiot wrote that?”

“It was in one of your poems, Rose.”

I blinked. The machinery of my brain that was responsible for churning out clever comebacks screeched to a halt.

“Well,” I began, indignant and full of confidence, “It sounds stupid now.” I deflated. The balloon which was my anger for him flew around the room, growing smaller and smaller with each pathetic look he threw me.

“Here,” he said, handing me my favorite candy bar. “This is for you.” The balloon flopped to the floor, empty.

Against everything in me screaming not to, I rushed to hug him. He hugged me back.

Holding on to anger didn’t do anyone any good. When he hugged me, I heard the opening of a box. Could it be…a jewelry box? I hoped, against all odds. When he released me, he indeed held open a jewelry box.

“For you, Rose. I wanted it in time for Mother’s Day, and I hoped it would be ready for your birthday yesterday, but I had them add this,” he delicately flipped over the gemstone to the silver backing, which an engravement there read,

For Rose, the best wife, mother, and author. Love, Henry

I had no words. I cried in gratitude, and in guilt over my selfishness. This was undoubtedly something that I had not deserved, but he thought I did. His faith in me healed some of my wounds. Those of them that he couldn’t, he gave me the courage to work on myself.

I started going to therapy. I talked to someone other than Marie or Henry about my childhood. She helped me realize the connection between growing up poor and my need for nice things now. I gained valuable insight into why I spiral the way I do, why I obsess. This especially helped me be a better mother. When me and Lana reached an understanding, when I learned how to communicate with her in a way that wasn’t tantrums, I had more free time to read and write. With this, I organized a book club that met once a month. And each meeting I led, I wore my indigo pendant proudly.

The Violet Cabinet

I never intended to write any of this down. I didn’t think these would be stories at all, but you changed my mind about that. That started a few months ago, when your mother dropped you off, interrupting me while I was watering my garden. I picked you up before you could trample through my violets and roses. The perfume of my lavender plant surrounded us while we watched the hummingbirds.

Every day you were at my house, you would drag me into my back room and beg me to tell you about all the trinkets I had in my violet cabinet. It was an ugly thing – something I found at a thrift shop that I just had to have. Someone once told me that every house needs one ugly piece of furniture. This was it for me. It was ornate, but the garish violet color is what really made it stick out (and not in a good way either). I realized that my whole life equaled a rainbow with this last piece, and what better way than with something that could hold the rest?

Inside, all my important things, things that took a lifetime to collect, were on display. The red stone, indentation worn down from years of rubbing, sat on the left-hand corner of the top shelf. My ruined orange carnival ticket I encased in a square of resin – on the recommendation of a therapist who told me I needed a reminder of what my anxiety takes away from me when I allow it to. My yellow pen shone in its stand – alone without the ink well that broke so many years ago. The green brooch glittered, rivaling my violet cabinet in brightness. The beads to my blue bracelet were held in a clear bowl – the string that held them together breaking many years ago (while I was getting out of my car, of all places). My indigo pendant hung off a jewelry holder. That and my green brooch are the only two items I wear anymore. I would put them in a jewelry box, but I love how they look all lined up together on the top shelf.

Below that are pictures of you and your mother, books on topics from anthropology to zoology, and figurines that range in size, material, and subject. Your favorite currently is the brass ballerina picking up a rose.

But you didn’t care much for those. What you really cared about were my rainbow items

– the items that tell the story of my life. And I tell them to you, over and over again. That is the only time you are sitting still. You are so rapt and interested, even though I don’t think these stories are particularly all that interesting. But a few months ago, the details of my stories began going fuzzy – so much so that you were reminding me of them. That’s when I realized I had to write these down, if only for you. I wouldn’t have written them down at all if I wasn’t forgetting them. You love them so much, and I know your memory of them will fade away with me. I don’t want that to happen.

When they diagnosed me with Alzheimer’s, I was in denial. I couldn’t believe what had happened to my parents, was happening to me. I didn’t believe it until my stories started to fade and the realization really set in after what happened a few weeks ago. I mistook your mother for

Marie, and she reminded me that she’d been dead for 15 years. I knew I needed to write these down before I really start to slip. Even writing them, there were details I don’t remember – ones that I used to know so well.

You’re too young now – to understand my illness and to understand some of the subject matter in these stories. So, once I finish this story, I will give them to your mom and make her promise to give them to you when you’re old enough, whenever that may be.

Please don’t read this letter, or any of the others, and be sad for me. I know everyone says they’ve had a good life, but I really have – even if that isn’t obvious from every story I wrote.

Life was far from perfect, but I had Henry. I had your mom, and I had you. For a short time, I got to live in Los Angeles. I eventually got published. I was poor as a child, but I grew up and never knew that kind of poverty again. If I have any regrets, it’s that your grandfather wasn’t alive long enough to meet you.

If you learned any lesson at all from my stories, let it be this: I loved your Grandpa, I loved your mom, and most of all, I loved you. I need you to know that. I need you to remember that for me, especially when I cannot.

You can throw out all my things after I’m gone, they don’t really matter. I want you to have my violet cabinet though, because I know it’ll annoy the hell out of your mom. But also, I want you to fill it with things that are important to you – that remind you of good and hard times, of people you love, of places you’ve been. Because really, these items don’t mean anything. It is the meaning I attached to them and the people who gave them to me that’s really important.

You’re calling me now to make you a snack. I am grateful because I can’t think of a good ending for this. Please remember that I love you. I wish you a good life filled with all the happiness and success you can possibly achieve.

With love,

Your grandma,

Rose Campbell

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