by Cody Luff
Mommy? What should I do?
Well, it wasn’t your fault. We won’t say a word.
So, That Girl hid her flute, making sure daddy didn’t see.
That Girl did well in school. All A’s and B’s, except for math. She became more independent in her choices. Brother’s new wife was all shiny with dyed blonde hair and lots of make-up like Dolly Parton. She sang like an angel just like brother and she’d also been a world champion baton twirler. That Girl begged the new sister to teach her, and she did. So, That Girl became a majorette because sister had been a cheerleader, and since That Girl couldn’t turn a cartwheel, she’d twirl. The costumes didn’t cover enough and daddy didn’t like that, but Mommy talked to him. Still, he didn’t like it, so he didn’t come to see That Girl twirl at the football games.
That Girl got a bad case of the flu right before the Christmas parade. She hurt so bad, and the fever was high. But on the day of the parade, she felt better, got out of bed and declared she would not miss it. Mommy had a fit, but That Girl was independent now. She knew Mommy would not put her foot down like daddy did. So they went. Mommy followed along beside That Girl the entire parade route with That Girl’s warm velvet cape, afraid she would pass out. But That Girl didn’t because That Girl was strong. That Girl was determined.
But inside, That Girl was still afraid. She didn’t fit in. She wasn’t normal. People and stories occupied her mind. She was serious and good, always doing what her parents said. She didn’t know how to act around teenagers because she’d grown up spending all her time with adults. And then there were her vampire teeth and no money to fix them with braces. Plus daddy was a preacher now, and that made everyone, including That Girl, uncomfortable. She wanted people to like her, but she didn’t know how it was that some girls were popular and some, like her, were weird.
That Girl stayed home a lot. She did not date. She did not have many friends, and the ones she had for no reason at all would shut her out for months at a time. She couldn’t go do things other kids did; not because she was sick, but because of daddy’s church work. She couldn’t even go to get pizza because they served beer there. She must always worry what people would think if she were seen with that person or in that place or doing that thing. Something about That Girl must not be right or good enough. Church and school where she must always be good. Band was her only break, but the majorette thing hadn’t worked out. Everyone in school said they were a joke because the other majorettes were so bad, and always so serious, That Girl did not like to be teased, so she quit. She didn’t want to march in the band anymore either. What if she tore her flute up? Daddy would never buy her another.
That Girl didn’t watch television. She didn’t read either. Reading took too long and her mind always wandered. She only had her flute and the movies in her head. Too big for dolls now, she’d lie in bed, close her eyes and let the stories play across the screen of her mind. She’d lie for hours and hours, watching the movies in her head. Mommy thought she was napping, but she wasn’t. She never wrote the stories down.
Next year, That Girl did something she knew daddy was not going to like. She tried out for the dance team at the new high school. Everybody said the sponsor was a slut, so it came as no surprise that she chose what Mommy and Daddy considered “inappropriate” uniforms. Off-the shoulder leotards with dark leggings. Sparkly silver. Scandalous! Everyone at school talked and said that the girls on the dance team were like the sponsor. But for the first time, That Girl didn’t care what anyone thought. She knew she was a good girl. Let people think what they would. The majorettes—who were supposed to be her friends—really didn’t like the dance team because they sparkled more than them. But still, That Girl danced not only that year, but the next one as well. She’d never taken dance lessons, but she was good and dancing made that girl happy except for when the sponsor told her she should lose weight, but That Girl figured a size ten was small enough for a tall girl like her. She didn’t eat at all the day before a performance.
When she was a senior, That Girl did something really crazy. Most girls who graduated from high school where she grew up got married and had babies, or they got a job at the big chemical company and hoped to soon get married and have babies. That Girl who’d never fit in didn’t want to get married. Ever. She didn’t want to have babies either. That Girl wanted to go to college. That was radical. No one in her family had gone to college and finished. None of her friends were going to college. A girl go to college? Everybody knew girls just went to college to find a rich husband, that’s why they said she wanted to go, but That Girl didn’t care what they thought. The joy of dancing had taught her how to not care what people said.
So, That Girl told Mommy and Daddy what she was going to do. Daddy said I don’t have money for you to go to college.
There’s something called financial aid. We can apply.
Well, do what you want. I’m not paying for you to go to college.
So, Mommy and That Girl did all the paperwork. An appointment was made at a small college that was interested in having That Girl as a student. The high school Latin Teacher, a pretty dark-haired lady with a soft smile and voice, had told That Girl about it. That college offered That Girl a lot of money to be a student there. That Girl’s eyes widened like they had when she was a little girl in front of that candy case at the store with her kind neighbor. The world opened up in front of her like an endless red carpet had been rolled out for her to walk into an adventure where anything would be possible.
And she went, That Girl, and lived on campus, her first time away from Mommy. Her first time of feeling normal and accepted, surrounded by so many people like her who enjoyed school and church. These people didn’t think she was weird, and they didn’t treat her like she was different. That Girl worried a lot about making good grades. The classes were so hard. She panicked and cried a lot, but phone calls to Mommy and bible verses helped get her through.
When That Girl was not studying half the night and working on the weekends, she had the time of her life. There were dances and ski trips and pajama parties and dorm raids. And boys started to pay attention to her. Started to think That Girl was pretty.
First, there was the boy at church. He was already out of college and so handsome and so popular. That Girl loved going out with him because he made her feel important, but she didn’t love him. He was for having fun and going to movies and eating French fries dipped in vanilla shakes. Next there was a senior at college. So dark and so handsome and so popular. He knew things she’d been sheltered from growing up and That Girl said naïve things that made him laugh, so it didn’t work out. There was this other guy who liked That Girl a lot, but he was her friend. She liked him and liked studying with him, but just wanted to be friends.
Sister fixed That Girl up with the perfect guy. He sang and played the piano and wrote hymns. He reminded her of That Girl’s brilliant and talented brother. She had daydreams of the two of them singing together in church. It was a sweet dream that turned into a nightmare. He wasn’t what he seemed. There was a darkness in him that caused him to lie and hurt himself. Sister threatened him because he told ugly lies about That Girl, but That Girl didn’t know. He broke up with her during exams. That Christmas was so sad. So sad. That girl didn’t understand. Didn’t understand why boys she liked treated her bad and the ones she didn’t like were so nice. She’d never treat them the way she’d been treated, but after this hurt, That Girl didn’t care anymore.
When That Girl went back to school, she knew her only dating option would be her friend who studied Latin with her. It was a small college, and everyone knew he liked That Girl. So, no other boy would ask her out. She told That Boy that she’d go out with him, but she also told him she’d had her heart broken and that she’d not yet recovered. That Boy didn’t care. He was just happy to be with That Girl.
So, they dated. That Boy liked everything about That Girl. He liked her just the way she was. He didn’t seem to want her to be someone dif
ferent or to be his personal possession. He didn’t tell her what to do or how to think. A first for That Girl who could think for herself and make good decisions all on her own, thank you very much. She’d had enough of the smothered, sheltered, directed life. He loved her and she realized she loved him. So, they married.
She got her degree. The first in her family. She was so proud, and so were Mommy and Daddy and Sister. Brothers didn’t seem to care. They didn’t even come when she graduated high school or college. Guess they still didn’t like her getting so much attention.
That Girl worked, but none of the jobs worked for her; travel agent, teacher, secretary, paralegal. All traditional things a woman would do, but That Girl was not traditional. She just hadn’t realized it yet. She had a Son who brought her joy. She worked and mothered and wifed and worked, but with each day that passed, darkness crept into her soul. Though she was good at all her jobs, she wondered if there might be something else. Something that would make her soul sing and banish the darkness. Her flute was silent. She no longer danced, That Girl.
Yet stories still played out like movies in her head. When one would end, another began. Now, she read books. Many, many, many books, one after the other, one-a-day books. They all ran together. Her soul began to speak, telling That Girl that the stories in her head were just as good or better. Curious, she sat with pen in hand to see if she could write one, a book, but soon realized she didn’t know how.
She went back to school, That Girl, to learn how to make the movies in her head pages of a book that people would turn one after the other. She wrote that book and the creation stirred her restless soul. Instructors and friends alike, they all said the same; you’ll have no trouble getting this published. But she did. And what’s funny was that even the editors in rejection said the same. You’ll find a publisher for this; it’s just not right for our line.
Years of that followed and years of writing book after book after book. Writers in writers’ groups came into That Girl’s life, too. Write the book of your heart all the published authors That Girl had met said. Easy for them to say. If That Girl wrote the book of her heart, who would publish it? There were things in her heart people wouldn’t want to see or know. And there were so many rules to follow. That was the problem. That Girl had long lived with rules and she wanted no more to follow.
Another problem was the voices. There were so many voices shouting ugly things. Who did she think she was, That Girl, to think she might be a famous author someday? Too big for her britches. Reaching, thinking that she’s better than everybody else the voices said. They tried to push her down, but she got back up every time, even though each time it became harder. Their words hurt. The way they treated her hurt. Memories of the mean Teacher and the isolation pressed in, covering her in a dense dark cloud that wouldn’t go away. How she secretly longed to dance again.
That Girl was tired and so sad. So, searching for a bit of joy, she allowed her heart to tell its story, no hope of ever selling it. This she wrote for her alone and the writing of it lightened her spirit. She created a small town with an intriguing history, filled it with crazy, fun characters, love and everlasting happiness. At first, it was a short story, but her heart had so much to say that it became a novella, and then a novel. She loved it so much, she decided it should be—could be published. So she found a publisher, but the book languished, and the voices said I told you. You’ll never succeed. Give up and focus on your family. The dark cloud covered That Girl, weighing her down. For years, she did not write. The movies in her head stopped.
You’re depressed. You have to start writing again, the counselor said.
No! That Girl said through the tears and the panic closing her throat. She would not relive the disappointment that follows the death of dreams again. She’d given up on writing, That Girl. It hurt too much. Too much. Pain and joy and pain and pain. Too much pain.
You have to write again. It’s the key to your recovery.
That Girl knew. She had to choose. Did she want to be better or would she rather it be over? Was having it over an option? She had That Boy, her Son, a Mommy, a Daddy, brothers and a Sister, a couple of friends she had not yet alienated. Did they matter more than her getting better? Could That Girl survive that heavy disappointment again? Again and Again?
Be Still and Know a Voice in her heart whispered. That Girl didn’t trust the Voice. Hadn’t He seen her hurt? Didn’t He know it? She just wanted it to end, one way or another.
Send the books here, the email from her former editor said. It’s perfect.
What? The same day the counselor had said write, the email read send? The happy stories she’d written? The ones that had authored the end of her dream? Had the editor somehow cosmically heard what her counselor had said?
Be Still and Know the heart Voice Said Again. I Know the Plans that I Have for You. Did you forget?
A Sign, That Girl thought, so send it she did, but without hope. The editor wrote that the first book looked good and could That Girl send the other one? And so she did. Hope flared like a candle being lit in her shadowy heart, and That Girl hated it. The hope that would be doused with the thank you, but . . . that surely would soon come. But by week’s end, a contract to republish and write another to make three? How could this be?
Be Still and Know, the Voice said again. I Know the Plans. I’ve Known All Along.
But what if it happened again? The disappointment, the failure, the disappointment?
Be Still . . . and Write.
So write she did. For That Girl now, no more sickness. That Girl now knows all those hours alone as a sick girl were not a cruelty to be endured. They were preparation for turning in, to living in so that she could put the movies in her head on paper. The darkness and sadness still come, but not so often. Now That Girl dreams, dreams that come true, like a community of writers that are not only true friends, but who also provide encouragement and love and hope like nourishing water to her parched soul. Her stories live on pages of books so that all the encouragement and love and hope she feels flow through her heart to the world.
ANN KEELING
The Singing of the Sun
THE VIOLIN’S SQUAWK SHRILLS to her temples. Rudy is the last pupil of the day. Four-year-old Rudy with round Harry Potter spectacles and a Holland-boy haircut of straight blonde bangs is her youngest student. Judith enjoys the high school students most, some who have been with her since they were Rudy’s age.
“Judith.” The voice at the door makes the raking bow stop moving. It’s Steven and he has a take-out bag in his arms. He catches her eye and winks. “I’ll be in the band room.”
Rudy’s mother has been napping in the corner. Mothers are supposed to take notes during lessons, but Rudy is the youngest of four and she probably needs the rest. The mother gathers her purse, the child, the violin, and the music books. She nods thank you as she retreats out the door.
The silence is golden. Or silver with radiating hums of light pouring down from the heavens. It’s not silent for long as a resonant and pure “A” note vibrates down the hall from the band room. It must be Steven who has struck the tuning fork. Strike it again, Judith thinks, and he does. Like a mating call, she floats to the source, craving more of the purest note that exists. She hums as she gets closer. Steven holds the fork to her ear. This is better than silence.
Judith is still humming the note and unaware that she is as they walk across the grassy field to the man-made pond just outside the grounds of the school. The sky is heavy but the rain has stopped. Steven takes napkins from the bag and wipes the wet seat of the carved stone bench. Together, they sit on the inscribed gold label: Gift of Harvey and Alice Herschbaum. Judith imagines growing old with Steven, but they still don’t talk about that yet.
Henry is at baseball practice so Steven has another hour. He spreads the food out between them—turkey sandwiches, potato salad, fruit cocktail, and two chocolate chip cookies. He hands her an Izze Sparkling Pomegranate Soda and opens his own S
napple Ice Tea. They drink and watch the ducks.
“I like this,” he says.
“This?” This. Judith questions, agrees, she’s not sure which. Placing value on things requires judgment. She likes the consistency of definable truths. Music for her. Engineering for Steven. Logic and order. She and Steven understand one another. When he takes her hand, his are bony and long at the wrists, just like hers. Neither of their bodies fill their clothes to the edges. Warmth is elusive. She imagined they would hug more, but they don’t.
She doesn’t talk about New York or the Juilliard offer. Neither of them could really fathom that for her. For different reasons.
Steven puts his arm around her. She half hugs him back. Their bones touch. He brings up the trip to Reno. In a few days, they will drive 3½ hours from San Francisco. They will stay at the Nugget. It’s supposed to be a nice weekend.
“Good,” she says.
“Good,” he says.
***
Judith has volunteered to take Henry to the dentist. She doesn’t teach on Fridays and this way, Steven doesn’t have to take time off from work.
“Here you go, Jude.” Henry hands her a clipboard of paperwork to fill out. She has never allowed anyone else to call her Jude.
In the waiting room, he says, “My occlusion is off.”
“Oh, really?” Judith isn’t sure he knows exactly what that means. Or maybe he does.
“See? How my teeth come together?”
Occlusion. He may be right. Judith will look it up if she remembers.
Henry takes a National Geographic with Northern Lights on the cover. “Aurora Borealis,” he says. “Did you know the Greenland Eskimos thought it was the spirits of stillborn children playing with their afterbirth?” He nods convincingly.
