Excerpt: The Blessed

The Blessed
By Amy Yarger

Chapter 1

Sometimes when I walk Happy at night, whoever’s on patrol will stop and check on me. “You okay, Mel?” If it’s cold, they’ll try to convince me to get in the car, but I say I’m fine. It’s good for me to be out and about, better than what I would otherwise be doing, which is lying with my eyes wide open, worrying. Happy is used to my crazy nights, has come to expect these late and lonely wanderings as well. She, my pampered pet, will push me with her wet snout if I don’t get out of my chair quickly enough.

What I love about being out at night is the freedom. I can forget everything about myself and just absorb. Happy is an old dog, and we can move as slowly as we want without worrying about cyclists, other dogs, ominous clusters of young people. We’re no longer in anyone’s way, and that is a free and perfect feeling. Even if it’s cold, it’s the best I feel most days. The best nights are the nights that I see the other night creatures prowling, finally free from the eyes of men, like the foxes or the raccoons or the skunks. I tell my parents or my neighbors what I see, and they are amazed. They don’t get to see these things in their real lives. This whole other world functions only when they are absent from it, but I see it.

When my headaches are really bad, or my legs feel particularly weak, I might lie down in the grass. Happy doesn’t seem surprised, but she just stands there alongside me, like a shaggy canopy. I know that it looks strange, to lie down in the dark, all alone, near the creek trail. Mom tells me it isn’t a good idea. If Officer Robertson or Officer Valdez are on duty, and they catch me lying down outside, they get pretty firm about driving Happy and me home. They know my story, but they also, because of their job experience, have limits to their tolerance. I try not to give in to the impulse unless I feel really bad and absolutely cannot help it.

One time, Happy and I were on one of our walks and it was pretty hard going. I could feel the tug of my right side, heavier and heavier. Mom tells me that I start to lean when I get tired out, like both sides of my body can’t keep up with each other. This makes me look drunk, even though I never drink, not even a glass of wine at Christmas at my brother’s. Interactions with medication can get pretty scary, and if I’m an expert at anything, it’s taking pills. That night, I was keeping myself going, reciting a childhood song, the one we used to sing on the bus sometimes. “Glory, glory, hallelujah, teacher hit me with a ruler,” that one. It had a nice marching rhythm to it, and I was sort of whispering it under my breath. Everything seems so much louder at night, anyway. I was about to turn around and head for home when I sensed a car pulling up behind me. The lights reflected and ricocheted on the snow; it felt like a UFO landing, something big. Officer Robertson and Officer Valdez don’t ever use their lights when they check on me. I couldn’t run, of course, so I stopped, and waited for further instructions. I didn’t want to turn around, since bright lights make my headache worse. Happy turned to look at the car, though, her tail wagging slowly, tentatively.

“Ma’am? Can you please turn around?” The question was abrupt, this guy had already made up his mind. I didn’t recognize the voice, either. I turned slowly, keeping my eyes down. The policeman was in silhouette against his car lights.

His footsteps crunched on the snow and I sensed his bulk, now closer to me. Happy leaned up against my leg. My mind was doing its best to tune all of these stimuli out, It was just too much for me to bear, and the fear was a physical jolt, a jerk on a line. I actually thought that maybe I didn’t know it all this time, but I was doing something wrong. I shut down when I panic, play possum. It’s not always the best strategy.

“Ma’am? How much have you had to drink tonight?” said New Cop, bringing his light up onto my face.

“Officer, I don’t drink. I have a neurological disorder. Sometimes, I lose muscle strength in one side of my body.” It was exhausting to have to explain. That magical aloneness was lost, utterly dissipated as if it had never existed.

Instinctively, he backed away, perhaps afraid that I was contagious. But he didn’t let up. Had he heard that excuse before? Are drunks going around saying they have a rare neurological disorder these days?

“What are you doing, walking around this time of night? Do you know what time of night it is?”

I looked down at my watch, perhaps a little too literal for my own good. “It’s 2:37 in the morning, officer. And I always walk my dog late. I can’t sleep, so I walk,” I finished lamely.

New Cop’s face was absolutely stony. He wanted to show that he was the boss, the boss of frail little me. What an accomplishment.

“You can’t walk around this time of night. I think I’ll have to give you a breathalyzer.”

“Is it really against the law to be awake at 2:37 a.m.? I’ve never heard that before.” I tried to sound jocular, a free and reasonable adult, but my attempt at humor was not penetrating his grim eflon exterior, not even a teeny bit. I tried my connections instead. “Ask Officer Robertson or Officer Valdez. They’re usually on patrol about now. They see me out and about all the time.”

If possible, he pushed out his chest even more, stood straighter. The voice of reason was out to humiliate him, and he was going to fight it with every authoritative bone in his body. If that meant that he had to cast a gimpy, middle-aged woman with an old snow-muzzled dog in the role of a disturber of the peace, then so be it. I had to reconsider; was there something about me that looked rebellious or smart-ass? No one would ever believe that I was a troublemaker, except perhaps this conscientious lawman, but it wasn’t worth fighting about, not with as tired as I am.”

So I gave in. “Okay, give me the breathalyzer, officer. Just to give you peace of mind.”

“It’s not my peace of mind, I’m worried about. It’s your safety and the public safety, Lots of things can happen in the middle of the night,” New Cop said stonily. He seemed vaguely disappointed, as if he wanted more of a fight from the sick and weak lady. I wondered if he had a quota to fulfill. He walked away, and I stayed put. I had not been dismissed.

I thought he had gone to get the breathalyzer, but I could also hear the buzzing and crackling of the police radio. “Calling for reinforcements for the old lady and her dog?” I whispered to Happy. The image of a fleet of police cars, all in high dudgeon very much appealed to me. After all, I was never even sent to the principal’s office when I was a kid; that sort of attention is still a novelty.

New Cop sauntered back, but I could see that he had given up on the Breathalyzer. Perhaps that had been one of my regular officers on the other end of the radio, and now I was off the hook.

“You’d better go on home now,” New Cop said, gesturing me away like one would a dog. “And next time, choose your time for a little promenade,” he stretched this last world out in a particularly nasty fashion, “a little more wisely.”

I said, “Yes sir,” even though I didn’t plan on changing my routine. What I’ve learned in my four decades on the planet is that if something works, you keep doing it until it doesn’t work anymore.” But when I got home, I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to go outside anymore. New Cop had ruined the freedom for me.

That’s the way I felt then, but by the next night, I was ready to brave the dark and the solitude and the possibility of being harassed by a figure of authority. Of course I knew I could be setting myself up for major irritation, but perhaps I wanted a little bit of that too. After all, I knew I was right. There was no law against walking one’s geriatric pooch after midnight, no law against being weary or sick out in public. New Cop might have been concerned for my safety, or he might have been acting in his His Royal Jerkiness role, or he might simply have been bored. But he was acting on his own advice and did not truly represent the Prairie Ridge Police Department. I would be sure to let him know that I knew, in a polite and completely law-abiding way.

So, it was a little disappointing when the officer on duty happened to be Officer Valdez. Officer Valdez, or Jared, thinks I’m funny, both in a peculiar and ha-ha way, but he is never less than entirely respectful. He says that I remind him of one of his tias, the one who never married, but handles all the family business. I’ve told him that I wouldn’t know how to shake a stick at business, but he just laughs and shakes his head. He’s so young, and I’ve never mustered the guts to ask him if he’s ever had to shoot anyone. I just can’t imagine it.

Anyway, I did mention the New Cop situation to Officer Valdez. “So, should I bring him cookies, or something? I don’t want him to be suspicious of me.”

“Oh, him,” sighed Officer Valdez. “No, don’t bother, Miss Hunsaker. He’d probably be even more suspicious if you did that. And we can’t really accept gifts,” he admitted sheepishly.

“I guess he just didn’t like the way I looked,” I sent this comment out as a feeler, to draw Officer Valdez out. I don’t really think New Cop noticed a single thing about me other than he didn’t want to deal with a feeb in the middle of the night.

The young policeman tut-tutted, an oddly henny sound, not what you’d expect to come from a man with weapons all over his belt. “No, Miss Hunsaker, it’s not that. It’s just that Officer Barlow comes from a different sort of town. He’s more by the book, if you understand me.”

“That could be a good thing?” I asked.

“Could be,” Officer Valdez muttered, but he didn’t seem all that enthusiastic. “Don’t worry about your walks, Miss. We’ve explained the situation to Officer Barlow, and he won’t scare you like that again.”

I thanked Officer Valdez and continued on my walk. My legs were steadier that night than they had been for a long time, and the evening air was especially clean. I felt like I could gulp it down all night. How could New Cop want to deprive me of such a healing draught? Was he so wrapped up in his procedures and protocol that he couldn’t smell that watery, soft sweetness?

“Who’s the sick one?” I asked Happy, and we walked along the greenbelt and watched the rabbits frolick on the grass.

By the time the sun came up, however, I was a little more sympathetic to Officer Barlow. He wasn’t trying to deprive anyone of anything. He probably saw himself as protecting some crazy lady from harming herself; perhaps he felt he simply couldn’t rest easy if they found my mutilated body in some ditch. I identified Officer Barlow as a worrier. My father is a worrier, and suddenly, Officer Barlow became paunchy and lost hair, grew a little caterpillar over his lip, morphed into my own father. His gruffness was the combination of worry and his need to be in authority, to be in control. I actually loved that about my father, in small doses. I would try to love that in Officer Barlow, too. Well, as far as love for a complete stranger went, of course.

For, my father had much to worry about when it came to me. I have suffered from a dozen different neurological and immune system ailments in my adult years. I have never had a career, owned a car, raised a family. I am alone, and no parent wants to see their child alone, especially as mortality rages in a corner. Theirs and mine. My mother has wept and told me that she fears that she will survive me. She has also wept and wondered what will happen to me when they are gone. I wonder, too, but I try not to dwell on it.

I try not to dwell on it because it’s really unpleasant to picture myself suffocating on my own tongue with no one but Happy for company. I don’t want to think about being found days-old dead in my kitchen or losing the last little bit of my mobility, my sanity. All of these things could happen, and the best thing to do is to pretend they won’t happen. Officer Barlow reminded me that I am fooling myself. I don’t know whether to be thankful or not.

In a world in which most people identify themselves as a banker, or a mother, or an excellent cook, I am an invalid. There aren’t many true invalids left these days. Sure, there are lots of sick people, but they have other roles to play, and they hope that their unwellness is only temporary, just a fluke, just a turn of bad luck. For me, Mel Hunsaker, wellness, or the lack of wellness, is everything, the idea that consumes every hour of my life, dictates my routine, constrains every relationship. I don’t wish this to be so, but medicines and surgery and wishing haven’t changed that fact.

Every Sunday, I go to my parents’ house for dinner, and my brother David also comes with his family. The world might melt into a big puddle of blueberry jam, but we’d still have to come for Sunday dinner. We eat, maybe play some cards, sit in the barcaloungers and gossip, and then Mom packs up leftovers in little foil packets for us to take home. I take the little packets gratefully, because I don’t always feel like cooking.

David is another story. He’s three years older than me, but a million times more mature. This is something that he never gets tired of reminding me. When we were little, the age difference didn’t seem like that big of a deal. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? We played together a lot, or at least David included me in his games. Now, of course, I’m strictly peripheral. Little sisters turn out to be pretty unnecessary creatures.

This past Sunday, Mom made lasagna for dinner, with a big green salad, garlic bread and chocolate cupcakes for dessert. “Mom,” I told her, “I love your cooking.”

David was sitting in Mom’s reclining chair in the den, but he could hear us. He had that sort of bunched up look on his face that he gets when he is about to launch into a “suggestion”. That look has remained the same since he was a know-it-all first grader. It might have existed before that, but I can’t remember. It certainly seems like a part of his face.

“Mom, we don’t need all that fat. Tess has some really good lo-cal recipes I know she’d be glad to pass along. And, why go to the trouble of making dessert? We don’t serve anything like that at home for the girls.”

“Honestly, David, you think I don’t know that? I can see the way Bridgie and Fee gobble down dessert when they visit. You’re depriving them.” My mom does not appreciate “suggestions” from her offspring about what she chooses to cook.

“We’re keeping them healthy,” David countered, looking like he was about to swallow his own eyebrows.

“Healthy is appreciating good food,” Mom replied. “and being grateful for good food. You can starve a person in more ways than one.”

David didn’t have an answer to that. And I really shouldn’t be so gleeful about it. I love my brother, I really do, but he’s really lost a lot of his capacity for having fun. He takes himself so seriously, which would be fine, except I remember him being very different when we were small. I miss that David, the dreamy David, the little man with a plan David.

I was sorry about gloating over his rejected “suggestion”, even though David probably didn’t notice that I was even listening. I thought I’d go and try to cheer him up a little. “So, David, what’s new in the world of atmospheric science?”

David rustled his newspaper and barely lifted his head. He likes me to see that he’s so busy and preoccupied that he can’t even have a proper conversation. “We got the state grant, so we’re set for another year of testing.” He did seem pleased about this.

“That’s great, Dave! So, will you be using those satellites again?”

“Mm-hmm” was all I got. So, I tried another tack. “Fee just shot up, didn’t she? Did you tell me last time that she was going to try basketball?”

“Softball,” David corrected.

“Maybe I can come see her play,” I suggested, but my suggestions don’t pack the same punch as David’s, not nearly.

Our chat had reached another dead end, and I was weary of David’s lack of attention. I could hear Bridgie and Fee’s bell-like voices from down the hall, laughing over a game. Beautiful girls, Bridgie and Fee for Fiona, with long golden ponytails and teeth still too big for their faces. They capered like ponies, too.

I waited for David to ask me how I was. He didn’t ask very often, probably because he knew he would hear something he didn’t like. He didn’t ask this time. So, I plunged ahead, “So, David, I got pulled over by the cops last night.”

“I thought you didn’t drive. Seizures and all that.” David had put down his paper now.

“I don’t drive. I got pulled over walking.” The thought of it made me laugh. It was still light outside just then, and that night seemed so far away, almost impossible.

“Well, Mel, what the hell were you doing?” David didn’t laugh, not one little snicker.

“Me? You know me. I was taking Happy out for a walk, disturbing the peace, dancing the hoochie-coo down Smithfield Street.”

“Mel, if the police stopped you, you must’ve been doing something wrong.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, exactly. Most of the policemen around her know me, and this one didn’t. He probably was just curious.”

“So you didn’t get a ticket for jaywalking or anything like that?”

“You think I should’ve gotten a ticket?”

“I think you should be more careful. You can’t have it both ways, you know, Mel.”

“I don’t have it both ways, David, so don’t worry.” That familiar falling feeling, of an approaching electrical argument

David turned back to his paper, and I went to go find his wife Tess and his girls. I usually get along with them better than I do with David.

Tess was in the back room with her daughters. “What are you guys playing?” I asked.

Bridgie, the older of the two kids, looked up and smiled. “It’s called ‘Shopping Mall’.”

“Oh, that used to be my game,” I sat down on the guest bed and looked over the board. “Is it fun?”

Fee eyed me warily. “Well, if it’s your game, you should know.” She takes a little after new David, but in a good way. She’s very intelligent.

“I hardly ever played it,” I admitted. “And it’s been a long time.”

Tess smiled at me. “You look very nice this evening, Mel. Lois tells me that you’ve been swimming a lot.”

“Swimming’s great. I always feel better after I swim.”

“They do say it’s easier on the joints. Where do you go?” Tess idly played with one of the little pieces from the shopping mall game, a little green plastic girl with an oversized ponytail.

“Just the rec center,” I answered, but I was eager to change the subject. “I’ll bet Bridgie and Fee are looking forward to summer!” Tess is a lovely woman, and I think she really cares, but I’d rather avoid talking about my health regimen, especially in front of the girls. I don’t know why; I just feel a little bashful about it.

“Yeah!” chorused both girls.

“We’re going to go camping!” Bridgie told me. “And Daddy told me I could bring a friend!”

“Oh, that will be excellent. You know, your dad and your grandparents and I went camping a lot when I was growing up. Yellowstone, mostly.”

“We’ll just be in Rocky Mountain,” added Tess. “I’ve never done much camping before, but David was eager to go.”

“You’ll love it there, Tess. Once you get unpacked and set up, it will be so lovely and peaceful.”

“I guess I’m just a little afraid of the wildlife,” she admitted, a little color coming into her freckled cheeks. She had golden hair, just like that of her daughters. Dark-haired, coal-eyed David barely made an appearance in their features at all. I wondered if that bothered him, to be in a house with three little fair-haired Celtic princesses, but I was on their side all the way.

“I hope we see a bear!” Fee said.

I laughed. “Just don’t let the bear get into your food; they’re all very well as long as they don’t eat your s’mores.”

Tess added with a girlish giggle, “Or your children.”

I was pretty impressed that David and his family were going to take a long camping trip this summer. He was always so busy in the lab that it was hard for him to get away. I thought about the last time I had gone camping, years ago. I wouldn’t really be able to go so far away without consulting my doctors. So, both of us were tied down, but in different ways.

When Mom called us in to dinner, I said, “So you’re going camping, David? You’ll have a great time.”

“Not until July. I have to get the data on the AERO project in some sort of shape before the conference.”

“Well, it’s still great that you’re going. You deserve a vacation,” I said generously. “You always work so hard.”

“I’m not sure that you really understand what that means,” David said, with a clenched sort of cruelty. Tess admonished him with a gasp.

I was ready to let that sort of comment go. When David was upset with me, there wasn’t usually anything I could do about it. Usually these comments had nothing to do with me, but with David’s general level of stress and frustration.

“David, if you can’t be pleasant, perhaps you should just be quiet,” my mom hissed.

“I’m not trying to be unpleasant, only that I worry about Mel. What is she doing with her life? What does she have?”

“She has plenty,” Mom spoke up for me. Now I really wanted to get up from the table. I glanced over at Tess, who was separating the layers of her lasagna.

“Okay, you two. I don’t think this is the best time to solve my problems.” I tried to laugh, but it sounded pretty weak.

“Mel, what do you do all day? Can I just ask?” David narrowed his black eyes at me.

“Eat bonbons. Watch my stories,” I replied flippantly. “Sometimes, if I can fit it in, I have my nails done.”

“Be serious, Mel.” David growled.

“David, not now,” pleaded Tess.

“I don’t feel like being serious right now, David. I’d rather enjoy the company and this delicious lasagna. I get the feeling that you have other plans, but could you please hold them off until after we eat?”

“I just have some ideas of what you might try,” David suggested airily. His clenched mien had completely relaxed. I suppose that meant that he had arrived at his destination, lengthy list of lethal suggestions. I felt like he had just sucker-punched me. That’s what older brothers are for, I guess.

But I hate fighting, and I would never fight in front of Mom and Dad. They don’t need that from their adult children, not with everything else on their minds. David and I rarely fought when we were children; it seems rather perverse to do so now. So, I have developed another strategy: the secret drift. I keep my face as placid as possible, and allow my mind to stray to happier pastures. It sort of feels like closing all the doors and windows, or putting on a suit of armor. There is also the pleasure of not letting David believe that he can get to me.

“I’d love to hear your ideas, David. Shoot.” It is difficult to play this secret drift game without sounding sarcastic, but with practice, it makes you look like an almighty saint.

“You could get a job for one thing. That would be huge. Maybe apply at all those stores at the Prairie Ridge shopping center, or even a temp agency. You’re not stupid, Mel, you’ve just convinced yourself you can’t do it.”

He has no idea of how I live now. He is around it all the time and somehow it hasn’t sunk in. How can this be when we used to be as close as ice on a window pane?

“And once you started working, you could get out more on your own, meet more people, get involved in something. Stand on your own two feet a little more. It would be good for you.”

“David, these are well-meaning ideas,” I began, the bitter twist of rejection already in my voice, I could hear it, and I could see that Tess and Mom and Dad heard it, too. Fee and Bridgie were staring at me, wondering why I didn’t throw a tantrum like they did when they argued between themselves. I took one look around at that bright dining room, all of Mom’s Hummels in a glass case, the vase of hydrangeas on the windowsill, the half-eaten pan of lasagna exuding a fragrance of tomatoes and cheese. It was beautiful. Those lovely children in Mom’s dining room, and of course, I know that I shall never have children like that. But, perhaps I don’t deserve my life as I have it now. I don’t deserve to fight back, not when faced with David’s career, his family, his hobbies and plans for everyone and everything around him.

So, I stop there. And everyone at the table sighs a little garlic sigh. Dad wipes his hands on his napkin and says, “Who’s ready for cupcakes?”

David didn’t always regard me with the same revulsion he would show a three-legged sewer rat. But, I’m being too harsh, on David and on myself. There was a time when we were each other’s best playmate. It could be my illnesses have placed a wedge between us, or it could be that our age has done its work in separating us from childish things. Or, at least, one of us is separated from childish things.

I’m not saying that I wish David was still the dreamy boy who, if he couldn’t light out for the territories in real life, knew how to do a little inner exploring. He should be proud of all he’s accomplished. It must be natural to feel some disdain for everything he left behind. Why should he understand me or my life? Why should it matter to him?

Part of me says, it shouldn’t matter. He has a full plate as it is. But, another part of me says, “But what about the Bonny? He said he’d always remember the Bonny.”

What would happen if I asked him about the Bonny right now? Would he go ballistic? Would he melt with tenderness? Both options are pretty scary, so I’m not going to find out.

When I was a little girl, I had a book of Robert Louis Stevenson’s, A Child’s Garden of Verses. I loved the illustrations and would peruse this little poetry primer all the time. There was one poem about “The Land of Counterpane,” and the picture had a little boy in his bed, surrounded by his toys and books, everything he might need. I wasn’t sick back then, but I loved the idea of contracting my existence to a point at which everything important would be within reach. Now of course, I can almost hear the boy fidgeting, the restlessness slowly overtaking him from his toes upwards. That Land of Counterpane is more like a prison, and he can barely imagine ever leaving it again. I wonder if I’ll ever leave the Land of Counterpane?

It all started when David and I were both home with the chickenpox. I think he must’ve had them first, but Mom wanted me to get them over with as well. I didn’t mind the chickenpox, except when they itched all the time. My mom put little dots of calamne lotion, pink, on each red bump. I remember not going out that day to see my friend Lisa Walkup, or going to preschool or anywhere. David and I watched cartoons in the morning, but then we were getting a little burned out on SuperFriends.

“I don’t want to hear any fighting, you two. You’re supposed to take it easy when you’re sick,” called Mom from the kitchen. David had just started pushing me on the upper arm, something I was taking for the exchange of a few kicks and pushes.

“We’re not fighting,” called David, and then he gave me another shove. This time, I didn’t cry out, because I didn’t want David to call me a baby. I hated when he called me a baby. And I hated it even more when my behavior warranted the term.

“Melly Belly, do you want a snack?” I shook my head. My appetite was pretty paltry ever since I contracted the chicken pox.

“I’m sick of cartoons,” sighed David. “I wish we could go somewhere.”

Then inspiration struck. David asked mom if we could build a fort, and of course, she said yes. We pulled out all the sofa cushions and the afghans and the dining room chairs and constructed a doozy of a fort in the middle of the living room. Grandmother’s quilt, made from all the scraps of the clothes she would send us, transformed into topography. And, of course, if you build a fort, there must be something you’re trying to keep out, right?

“The knick-knacks are getting all their weapons together to knock down our castle, Mel!” Dave whispered. “We’d better get our weapons, too.” David gathered his cowboy pistol and a plastic wiffle ball bat. I was only three, but I must have expressed a wish to lay in provisions, so we asked Mom for some crackers.

And there it was, our own Land of Counterpane, except this was more like a protected compound against that evil David called the knick-knacks.

He described these baddies to me. He said they were really blobby and an icky green color, and their eyes flickered every which way. The worst thing about them was that they didn’t like anyone else to have anything nice. If you had a nice picnic, they would come and spit and sneeze all over it, so that you couldn’t eat it. If you built a nice house, they would bang into it until it came down. They were relentless in their attacks, even though they couldn’t really hurt us. Oh, and they also dressed in purple with big curly slippers and shiny helmets.

I was very affronted by the existence of such horrible people in our little land, and I think David was compelled to come up with some friendlier neighbors for us. I used to be quite a social girl, not like nowadays. I had no reason not to be, I suppose. Some kids start out shy, but I don’t think self-consciousness sets in until much later. So, in our fort, we communicated with some neighboring Lagoonas and shared our crackers and they brought us tea (I think that was my contribution; I was obsessed with tea parties at the time), and then we planned a way to get the Knick-Knacks to leave us alone. By lunchtime, we had formulated a plan which involved a cannon, some chewing gum and a flock of birds. A productive morning, I’d say.

We didn’t go back to Bonny after lunch. I probably took a nap, I was that age, and David, as a first grader, had lots of possible amusements. But the memory of that first adventure was enough to inspire further visits.

Why Bonny? My Bonny lies over the ocean, my bonny lies over the sea? All I know is the Knick-Knacks came first, our stalky antagonists, and the rest of the world built up around them. If David had been older, or a different sort of boy, Bonny might have been quite an un-Bonny sort of land. It was unthreatening, and rather domestic, if I picture it right. We had lots of meals in Bonny, whether it was toast and honey inside a giant tree, or cockles on the beach. There was some fighting, but never very bloody, with the Knick-Knacks and their allies, the Hurley-Birds. I probably threw in some royalty somewhere, but that doesn’t come back to me just now.

For the next few months, David and I spent a lot of time thinking out this place we had invented. I was in preschool and had a few playmates my age, but I certainly didn’t have the freedom of the neighborhood. David had more freedom, this in the age of roaming children on banana-seat bikes, but didn’t like to play with children that he couldn’t control. He always did like being in charge, which I didn’t mind at the age of three. He led the games and invented most of the population of Bonny, from the Roly-Poly Shopkeepers to the Gummies. He also was our official recorder of Bonny history.

I would love to find those writings again. I can picture them, large blue scrawls on fringed notebook paper, occasionally illustrated by David or by me. I’m sure David was very tolerant to allow a three-year-old to illuminate such a precious manuscript, just as he was tolerant to allow the entrance of a princess or two into Bonny. I’m sure Mom has held on to them somewhere; I should ask her about our childhood papers, perhaps sometime when David isn’t around.

The masterpiece of the Bonny chronicles was, of course, a big map of the country and its environs. David must’ve been learning about maps in school, for he was sure to include an ornate compass rose, a key and even a few sea monsters scattered here and there, roiling the blue waters of Bonny. Bonny was a wild land on the margins, but utterly settled in the center, thus the tea parties and picnics. The capital, Davidtown, was completely safe for his three year old sister, Melissa Belissa, whose emblem was a bee. I believe I was in charge of all the china cupboards and flowerbeds in Davidtown, nothing too important but very pleasant nonetheless.

And then, just as suddenly as Bonny sprung into being from the fertile brain wrinkles of a six-year-old boy, it was supplanted by other interests. David received his first chemistry set that Christmas, and oh, how I loved to watch the crystals grow in the beaker, the colors change in the test tubes. It seemed like another kind of magic, something that would be completely at home in Bonny. David joined a peewee basketball team, and I started tumbling class. David drew a lot of airplanes and tanks. We would grow up and launch into the wider world, which was both more frightening and richer than the patchwork kingdom of Bonny ever could be.

However, Bonny didn’t disappear. A rainy day, a long school vacation, a fight with friends at school, and we’d get out the records and the maps. Another chronicle, perhaps the description of a dangerous quest or an enduring love affair (Bonny was growing up too, a little), would be added to the record. We could break each other up by calling a hated teacher a Hurley-Bird. I made little cakes and pretended one of the Roly-Poly Shopkeepers had baked them. When I was eight, and David was eleven, I went through a phase of writing dozens of Bonny stories. Mom used to muse aloud that she might have a writer in the family, and I felt so proud! David read them and approved even if he no longer believed; he had taught me well.

And then Bonny really did disappear, and I got sick, and David got sick of me being his sister. David was, I mean is, a great big brother, patient and protective. He awed me when I was little- so smart, so sure of himself. Everything about him was solid and certain- his dark, dark hair and eyes and straight bearing. He stood out like an exclamation point. I was more like a comma.

I wonder if David remembers Bonny at all. I wonder if he has constructed worlds for Fee and Bridgie. Or, does he ever act the prince with Tess? I can’t ask these things. If he asked me to go on a quest, to find the Giamante jewel and bring it to him, I would. I would, even though I’m so upset with him now, with his callousness. I would find the jewel, and it might issue a clear, sparkling fluid that would bring his heart back from its shriveled state. If that’s what it took, it would be worth it.

He wants me to work, to have a life that’s just like his, but he ought to know that that fate isn’t possible for everyone. If I get tired, I go into seizures. If I catch a cold, my lungs fail. If I am on my feet, I start feeling like I have bricks on the ends of my legs. Who would want to hire me, to have me as a neighbor, to marry me? And, if I never find a job, does that mean my life was wasted?

I could believe that my real life was left in Bonny, where I was still whole and suffered no pain. Somehow, it got trapped back there, and I was left with only the smallest scraps. But that’s storytelling, or at the least, a metaphor. Truth is, even the doctors don’t understand all the things that are wrong with me. I get all the attention I can handle when I present yet another biological mystery in the exam room.

Perhaps David is right, just as he knew I would finally admit. I cannot do everything, but I certainly can do something. He wasn’t asking me to go to medical school or run a bank, for heaven’s sake. He was asking me to do something, to break out of my shell. I can just imagine his reaction if, some weeks from now, I announced at the dinner table, “I’d better not stay too long; I have to get up early for work.” It wouldn’t register for a while, and then suddenly, his face would crease into a smile, and I would be his family again. He would be Bonny and I would be Bonny.

I should ask Mom where she keeps all our old papers.

I was pretty lucky for a few days there, and it’s amazing how one adapts to being well. Without the migraines, or the buzzing and needles in the extremities, without the sudden racing of my heart, I think I’m free of it all forever. It’s a type of bliss, to be that free, and I know that most people probably take it for granted. But, the disappointment of my ailment reasserting itself is always worse after such a respite.

Perhaps it would be better to always be in pain? To always suffer under the lead blanket of my body, to sense mortality with every twinge, never to forget, it might be easier, or at least less suspenseful. As with most sick people, my life is centered around my sickness. My week is a jumble of doctor’s appointments, prescription pick-ups and nurse visits.

The day I first knew something was wrong was like something out of a horror movie. Thunderstorm season had rolled in on its dark chariot, and at first, I thought that what I was seeing and hearing was part of the storm. Was that glowing just a different sort of lightning? I remember the underside of the grass shining, and this incredible glow around it, and I thought how strange the light looked against the dark clouds. It was enchanting in a way, in the same way in which the hypnotist’s watch in a bad movie is. You know that you shouldn’t stare, but you do, and then you can’t stop and you end up falling over.

By the time the rain began to shoot from the sky, millions of icy missiles, I had gone into a seizure. I was alone in my apartment, getting some dinner together and looking out the window. Until that day, I had never experienced anything other than the normal course of illnesses: some wretched days of flu, a cold every spring, a broken collarbone when I was nine. My first thought was that something was wrong with the weather. My second thought was that I had accidentally ingested something that was affecting my perception; did one of my friends leave some illicit substance among the salt and pepper in the kitchen cupboard? Was there some airborne toxic event?

All this wondering and pondering got me nowhere but down on the ground fast, and of course I have no idea what was going through my brain at that point. Nothing human, I bet. I was pretty much reduced to paramecium level at that point. Ten minutes before, I had been a young woman, just graduated from college, home from work at a grunt job to tide me over until my career could begin. I was on the same track as my peers, dating but not with much direction, working but not with much ambition. I liked to go to movies with my friend Sheila, or hiking with my sort-of boyfriend Pete, big old golden retriever kind of guy. I wasn’t a wild girl by any means, but I was young with all these questions on the sheet in front of me, and I thought I still had plenty of time in the test period left.

Pete was the one who found me, dear old thing. He was as lanky as a worn out sweater, always needed a haircut, but he was very sweet and not very demanding. He came in after dark, the storm had departed to the lonely plains, and found me on the floor in front of the big window.

Of course, I didn’t hear from Pete, not after I woke up weeks later. I hope he doesn’t feel bad. None of us had ever had to deal with anything this horrifying, not in our short sheltered lives. The worst had been a fender bender or a general feeling of alienation, complete with black turtleneck. Our parents were alive, our siblings were busy, healthy people. Why would a floppy puppy of a person know what to do when he found his girlfriend unconscious on the floor, almost choking on vomit?

Mom told me that Pete came by the hospital soon after I was admitted, but that was it. I hope he told me good-bye.

It took a long time to recover from that particular event, the stark dividing line between my real life and this sort of vague passage from one bodily breakdown to another. The doctors told me that I would bounce back, if not all the way, then to a functional state, and I, being young, believed them. It took many seizures in a row, and damage to my autonomic nerve system, to make me scale back my expectations some.

And David? He was worried about me, of course. His little sister looking like a backwoods distillery one day, not talking or smacking her gum (something he always hated) or formulating little sister type plans- this was beyond his control, and he hated it. He treated me very gently once I woke up. I swear that sometimes, if we were standing together, he would stand with his arms slightly out, like he would shield me from the rest of the world. He was the ultimate in older brothers. I was tempted to fall, just to see if he would indeed catch me.

It was only after my heartbeat became erratic, my digestive system began to fail, my hands and feet haunted by invisible pins and needles, my migraines become regular guests of my cranium, when David began to back away. It wasn’t that he thought I was contagious, only way over the top in all my physical problems, greedy almost. Maybe he thought I was doing this all for attention, the typical younger child ploy.

My migraine is moving in with the wrath of a demon army, about to ransack and violate my brain. I can almost hear the hoofbeats of thousands of skeleton horses. I’m supposed to go see my internist this afternoon; Dad is going to drive me, since my seizures prohibit me from driving. I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere except in my dark bedroom, or my sensory deprivation tank, as I like to call it.

The phone rings, and I wish I was strong enough not to hear it. I know that I should just shuffle off to my room and shut the door, but habit’s too great.

“Hello? Melissa speaking.” The last part of my name comes out like I drooled it. I hope this isn’t my dream date calling.

My dad still talks into the phone like he thinks the sheer force of his voice will get his message to me. I don’t know why. He’s not that old. “Mel? This is your father calling.”

“Daddy, I have to go to bed. Can we talk later?” I’m conscious of the fact that there’s no way to convey how bad I feel in words. It will always sound like I’m trying to pull a fast one.

“Migraine?”

“Yep. I don’t know what to do about the appointment today,” I say weakly.

“You should go. You know how hard it is to get an appointment with Dr, Fuchs. He’s a doctor; he’ll understand how you’re feeling.”

That sounds pretty callous, but I know my Dad understands. He gets migraines, too, except he didn’t get them until he was about 50. Still, I can’t muster the wherewithal to reply.

“Mel?” An investigative tone- does he need to rush over here, or am I just thinking something over? “Are you okay?”

“I’m still here,” I say, and I know then that I will be going to see Dr. Fuchs, even if my eyeballs have fallen out of my head and my skull turned itself inside out.

“Mel, I’ll be over in about an hour. You lie down for a little while, and I’ll come get you.” He doesn’t need to remind me to take some pain medication. If there’s anything I know how to do, it’s taking pills.

I see why Dad is so avid to see Dr. Fuchs. If I put off one doctor’s appointment because of a migraine, who knows how many postponements I’ll have to make? It would be like one snowball leading to an avalanche. So, I lie down and wait for Dad to arrive in his big mauve Buick, which I can always hear pull into the guest spot at the apartment complex where I live. It makes a little scraping sound, like plastic over a cheese grater, and it’s not loud, but it always wakes me up.

A key turns in the lock, only after a little unsteady scraping. “Mel? Are you up yet?” Dad calls through the apartment.

“I’m getting up,” I call, to let him know that I haven’t descended to anything worse than my usual.

“You should probably eat something,” Dad says, with a little serious tilde in his eyebrows.

“My stomach’s too upset,” I reply. “Maybe later.” I always throw up when I have migraines, and can’t bear any food except greasy pizza afterwards. That’s got to lead to some other health problems on its own.

The drugs have kicked in, but I still feel pretty shaky, like the pain is only hiding somewhere behind my ears waiting for its chance. And, I can’t wait to get in my bed again; those migraine painkillers flatten me every time. But we see the doctor, and he checks me over and issues me more drugs. He’s a perfectly nice gentleman, with his direct blue gaze and round, Germanic nose, but he definitely talks to me as if I were stupid.

“So, you have a bit of a headache, do you?” he says at one point.

I don’t even dignify that with an answer.

“Your symptoms have gotten worse lately, Melissa. Have you been taking all your medication?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Have you been under any stress lately?”

I have to stop and think about that one. Why would I have stress? I don’t have a job or a family to give me daily doses of discord. But, I have felt more stressed out lately. I have a sinking feeling that my stress is coming from the very lack of stressful elements in my life. “I have been a little worried lately.”

“Well, I’m not a psychiatrist, Melissa, but you’re going to have to find whatever it is that helps you relax. Talk to a counselor, or take up a hobby or even take some naps. Or, whatever. But if you continue to get worse, we’re going to have to look at some other approaches.

I nodded, as eagerly as I could with what felt like a fifty-pound weight in my head. I don’t like to go against authority, and really, doctors are the biggest authority figures in my life right now.

My dad was slouched in one of the waiting room chairs reading a paperback Western novel. His whole body looked baggy in his clothes, and I could see that he was getting older. He was getting to the age at which men grip the steering wheel with an alien ferocity, when their opinions ossify and frivolity no longer seems charming. I should be taking care of him, and not the other way around.

“How did it go, honey?” My dad put an old lottery ticket in his book, in place of a bookmark.

“Okay,” I replied. “Dr. Fuchs says I have to watch my stress levels, or it’s the big honking needle for me!”

“Your stress levels? Are you stressed about something?”

I patted his arm. “About nothing. About everything. You know how it is.”

“So, how are you going to do that?” Dad asked.

“Doc gave me some exercises to try, but I think I’m going to go lie down right now.”

“Eat a little something first.”

“Aw, Dad. I don’t like to eat when I have a migraine.”

My father, who used to swing me around like a sock monkey, who was as scary as a thunderhead when he was angry, now seemed so small and worried.

“Speaking of eating, what about you?”

“Mom’s got some chili she’s heating up.”

“Ugh.” I said, and Dad left me at my apartment. I hate chili.

That night was long, long, long. The pain surged again, and this time was searing enough that I had to stay in that dark room with my thoughts. Let me say that my thoughts have made poor company lately. I mean, how many times can one go over an old Kool and the Gang song or one’s medication regimen? So, migraines are bad enough, and then there is boredom on top of that. Sometimes, I begin to make out shapes in the darkness or songs in the sound of the furnace.

If I let my imagination run away with me, the shapes are threatening, nightmarish, crouching ghouls and gargoyles, a man with an ax. That hasn’t changed since I was a little kid. If anything there are more nasty things lurking in the dark.

And, when the sky paled, as subtly as blood moving under the skin, I had dozed off, a restless exhaustion finally capturing me and throwing me down into a dark hole. When I finally did wake up, I could barely understand what day it was.

The phone rang. The nice thing about not knowing many people is that I almost always know who’s on the other end.

“Good morning, Mel,” said my mom. “How are you feeling?”

“”I just woke up,” I slurred.

“That’s probably what you needed, then. Do you want me to call you back?”

“What time is it?”

“A little after eight. I wanted to talk with you before I go to my volunteering job.” My mom calls it a “volunteering job”, so that it sounds more serious. It sounds like a gaggle of elderly ladies gossiping to me. “I can call you back.”

“No, Mom. Go ahead. I’m up now.”

“How about you come over for lunch later today? Do you have anything else going on?”

That was a question she asked purely out of politeness. I suppose I could say, “I’ll check my schedule. Between my meeting with the mayor and the book I’m writing about the petroleum industry and my marathon training session, I might be able to squeeze you in.” I could say a lot of things, but Mom knows the truth.

“I don’t have anything else going on. Today.” I added. Hope springs eternal, said the dog looking at the food on a high counter.

“Well then, come over.” My mom sounded chipper, like she had suspicious plans.

“You’re not going to make me eat chili, are you?”

“Listen to you, Mel. You must be feeling better. No, I won’t serve you chili. I’m expecting someone I’d like you to meet.”

I was rendered dumb, rubber-mouthed. My mom was going to try to fix me up with a man. That might be more torture than chili.

“I don’t know, Mom. I might not feel up to it today.”

“Dad will pick you up at 11:30. See you soon.” My mom hung up with a victorious ferocity that astounded me. She really must have a doozy in store for me today.

Obviously, except for one instance, I haven’t dated much lately; since I developed all these health problems, I’m just skeptical. I just don’t think a man wants to hear, “Oh, and I might be twitching in my fettuccine.” But mostly, I just know what I look like, and I don’t look like what a man would want to look at.

I used to look okay, I guess, but I was never a beauty. I was on the short side, with a round face and kind of a big butt, but my hair was glossy and thick and dark brown and I was pretty fit. Now, my hair has really thinned and my body has thickened. My skin is sallow and dry-looking. I’d just prefer not to have people appraise me anymore. That can’t result in anything good.

And what kind of guy would my mom find for me? Would he be sick, too? Or, is he old? “Come here and sit on Daddy’s lap.” Ugh.

Happy came over and nudged me. It was time to let her go out. At least she didn’t care what I looked like, she only cared about what I could do for her

Outside, the milky sunlight hadn’t asserted itself fully. From the moisture in the air, I could tell that it wasn’t summer yet, although it loomed close, breathing down the back of my shirt. I don’t do well in the heat. Happy nosed around. I couldn’t see anyone else around just then. Was everyone at work or school or just away? My neighborhood might as well be a deserted isle during rush hour on a weekday morning. I can’t help but think that perhaps I should flee, too.

A flicker laddered up a tree in the park, and Happy only gave it a benevolent glance. She’s never been the kind of dog who went after squirrels or rabbits, or anything. Everyone and everything has its place, is her philosophy. She doesn’t even bark at cats, and geez, I bark at cats. Can’t stand them. Everyone, like my home visit nurse or Mrs. Walters my neighbor, tells me that I should get a cat. Happy is better than a cat.

It was very peaceful in the park, and no one cared that I had a bald spot in the center of my head, or that I had slept in the sweats I was wearing. The scraps of birdsong filtered through the opaque light, and it was a lovely morning, and yet I couldn’t wait to get back inside. It all felt so lonely. I wondered if another seizure was coming on. Dr. Fuchs said that I was too stressed; going over to my mom’s for lunch with a complete stranger could be a major mistake.

And yet, I wasn’t sure if being home all day, with only Happy for company, would be a bearable option. It might be bearable most days, but not today. It was something about that muffled daylight, that uncertainty about spring. Someday, I might realize that I was experiencing my last wishy-washy spring day, my last snowfall, my last balmy summer evening. And why wouldn’t that be now? Or, why couldn’t that be now?

The worst thing is that I know exactly how unimportant my death would be to everyone else.

What if I met a wonderful man at my mother’s, and we fell in love, and then I died? Okay, I do get a perverse satisfaction that perhaps this mystery lover would mourn for me. I mean, my mother and father might mourn, but they wouldn’t be surprised if the Big One were to hit on a morning such as this. So, note to self: make man fall in love before dying.

I knew love once, and he went and died on me. I’m determined that that won’t happen again. This isn’t Pete I’m talking about here. We liked each other, felt comfortable around each other, but it wasn’t love with a big L. We fit together, and then I was in a coma, and we no longer did. Like I said, I don’t blame Pete. But I do blame Clem, because our love was real, but it still wasn’t enough to keep him around. It’s wrong to blame him, but I still do. Next time, I’ll go first, thank you very much.

Happy was sitting on her big furry rear, staring at the playground. She didn’t mind that I wasn’t going anywhere, except in my head. Except now, I did feel a little weak, because I hadn’t eaten anything in so long. I didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Happy died anytime soon.

“Happy, don’t die. If I die first, I bet Mom and Dad will take you, and they’ll take good care of you.”

Happy didn’t argue, so I hoped that meant it was a deal.

My days move pretty slowly; that’s what happens when a person moves slowly. It takes me a while to move from front door to park and back, then another good long while to get something to eat. I didn’t want to eat too much, because I knew I’d be eating at my mom’s later. And then, after all this rushing and hullabaloo, I needed to rest a while.

And then I read some of “Planet of Night”. I’m about one hundred pages in, and it’s just as good as every other Tasha Sarcoeur book I’ve ever read. I buy books in bulk from the used book sale at the library, and it’s always good when there’s a Sarcoeur or Anne Rice or something like that in there. My home visit nurse, Kristine, goes for more romantic stuff, so I pass along the undesirables to her, and she’s thrilled. Something for everyone, that’s what I always say.

Anyway, “Planet of Night” was about this sorceress who is exiled and has to travel through this extremely dangerous world to get back to her own colony and prove that she is innocent. Elilla is innocent, but she sure isn’t shy about dispatching people right and left. It’s not highbrow, but it’s entertaining. And, I can totally picture Rin, the aforementioned planet. It’s covered with water, except for a few swampy bits, and there are enormous swimming creatures, sort of like lobsters, that show up every once in a while. I often lament the lack of giant man-eating lobsters on our own planet, don’t you?

I looked at my clock, and it was already 11 a.m. I had been on Rin long enough, and I knew that my dad would be coming by soon. Whatever time my mom said, my dad is always half an hour early. I learned to bring a book with me wherever we go, believe me. So, I picked up around the house, watered my plants on the balcony.

I was tired again by the time my dad came by. It’s a good thing his car has a plush interior, because I was ready to settle my bones for the short trip at least.

“What have you been up to today, Mel?” Dad asked as he helped me down the stairs.

I couldn’t summon the energy to joke around like I normally do with my dad. “Took Happy to the park, picked up a little around the house, stuff like that.”

“Did Kristine come by today?”

“No, she’s coming tomorrow. We’re supposed to do some physical therapy, but I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for it. I get so tired just walking a little way.”

“Well, honey,” Dad began with a sigh, “regular therapy will help build your stamina. And if not now, when? What if you only get worse?”

This was different coming from Dad. He usually let me get away with all sorts of self-pity, but not today. I wondered if I would learn the motivation for his new stringency, or if it was just a mood thing.

“So if you get a call around 10:30 tomorrow morning and you hear groaning on the other end, it’s just me being pummeled by Kristine, not an obscene phone call,” I muttered.

Dad didn’t say anything, so I changed the subject. “What’s for lunch?”

It was a relief to hear my dad’s usual dry humor. “I think your mother said chili.”

I gave my father a little nudge in the arm to show that I appreciated his sparkling wit so very much.

“Actually, your mom was putting together some soup and sandwiches when I left,” Dad admitted.

“Okay,” I said. “That meets with my approval.”

“It had better. Now get in the car, missy.” And, I felt better about my dad, because he sounded like he had sounded since I was very small.

“So, who’s at the house, Dad?”

“At the house? What do you mean, Mel?”

“Mom said that there was someone she’d like me to meet. I hope he’s cute.”

“Cute?” My dad’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know about that. I can’t judge that sort of thing.”

So it was a guy waiting at Mom’s and Dad’s house. I loved when my predictions came true; I always thought of fortune-telling as a possible career avenue. The bangles and scarves would be to die for.

“What’s his name, and how does Mom know him?” If I could get the skinny before we even got there, I could plan my strategy. I joke about that, but you know what they say about jokes.

“His name is Paul, and I think Mom met his wife Jody at the community center where she volunteers.” My dad was busy looking at the road, so I couldn’t tell if he was holding back or just utterly uninterested in the whole thing.

But I was a little shocked. My mom wanted me to go out with a married man? And if his wife volunteered with my mom, just how old were these people anyway? I almost told my dad to turn around right there.

I could see that I would have to amend my ideas of what was planned for today. To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed.

And then I was disgusted with myself for being disappointed. My parents only live a few miles away, and by the time we lurched up the driveway, my curiosity had evaporated like soda in the sun, leaving only a sticky residue of a bad mood.

Mom’s garden was just coming into it’s own, that high spring jubilee of columbine and roses and salvia, before the ennui and heat of summer comes in. That cheered me up a little, since I’m a sucker for flowers. And, I thought of an escape. “Dad, would Mom like me to do a little dead-heading?” That’s a chore I can do for a little while, and I love it. I also love saying that I can help out a little around the house, because I can say that so seldom.

“She might, but let’s have lunch first. Your mother doesn’t like anyone messing with her schedule,” he said in a resigned way. But that resignation is pure love, I’ve learned that. Some old couples positively adore being exasperated with one another, and I even love experiencing it vicariously.

Mom was at the front door, watching us through the screen.

“Mom, your roses! When did this happen?” I stopped at a bush of magenta blooms that seemed to glow in the sun. I swear that the last time I visited, it had not a blossom on it.

Mom didn’t answer my question. God love her, she has a one-track mind. “Come in and we’ll get started on lunch. Have you eaten today?”

“Sure, I ate. Is there dessert?”

But I could sense that someone was standing at the end of the entry hall, except that something about the height seemed wrong. Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I finally understood that I was seeing a woman in a wheelchair. What happened to the old man?

Mom turned, and with a big platinum-caliber smile, said, “Mel, I’d like you to meet Jody. She’s one of my fellow volunteers at the community center.”

I came forward and lightly held her hand. It’s hard to tell right away just how bad a person is in a wheelchair. They could just be recovering from a temporary injury, or they could be lifers. Jody didn’t look like she’d be walking around anytime soon, but her smile was vivid across her pale face.

“Melissa, your mom has told me so much about you,” she remarked in a warm tone. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Uh oh,” I replied drily. “Don’t believe everything she tells you.” Jody had lovely hair, a sweeping auburn ponytail, and I was a little transfixed by it until a man walked into the room, my suitor-never-to-be.

“And this is Jody’s husband, Paul,” said my mom.

I shook his big warm paw, too. Paul reminded me a little of Paul Bunyan- broad, bearded, strong, and then there was the name. And I couldn’t help it but I started to wonder how long had Jody and Paul been a couple? Was Jody normal back then? Did Paul mind that his wife was in a wheelchair.

“We should go into lunch before the soup cools off too much,” my mom declared, and we all followed her into the dining room, Paul helping Jody to swing her chair around in the narrow hall.

I had to be careful, because I can always think of a million inappropriate things to say in social situations. One example would be, “Hey, at least we didn’t have to put another chair at the table for Jody- she brought her own!” And there’s worse. Not that I would say these things, I’m not that far gone, but my mind tends to go a little contrary when I’m uncomfortable.

Once we had settled into the meal, I turned to Jody and asked, “So, tell me about your volunteering at the community center. Mom’s been there for four years now.”

“Really, it’s only an excuse to let bunch of old ladies gossip all day,” Jody whispered confidentially.

“See! That’s what I say, too, but Mom tells me I’m being small!” I spoke with mock indignation.

“We’re greeters, Mel. We answer questions and help people get to their classes or programs or whatever,” Mom replied.

“With ‘whatever’ being the most important part?” I was needling my mom a little bit, but she’s used to it.

My mother rolled her eyes at me. I was delighted because I felt that