by Mary Campisi
I can’t do this! I am on my feet, running for the garage door, hurling my body against it, hard, harder, clawing my nails into the weathered wood. I spot a shovel propped against the side of the house, grab it and ram it into the door, over and over, until the knob bends forward and I push the door open, coughing and choking as I fight my way to the car. I’m coming, Dad! I’m coming! I lift the handle, pull hard but it’s locked.
Damn you! Damn you, open the door!
I’m lightheaded and nauseated but I push on, grab the shovel and bang it against the window until the glass shatters. He doesn’t move. His eyes are still closed. I reach in, turn off the engine.
My lungs are heaving, pulling for fresh air. “Dad?” You can’t die, not now. I love you, Dad. I give him a light shake. Don’t die. His huge body falls forward and slumps over the steering wheel.
I open my mouth to scream, yell out the pain and misery of living, the injustice of it all, but nothing comes out, nothing but air and grief and horror. Then everything is black.
***
In the hospital with Sara and Ms. O’Grady
She strokes my arm. “Your father wanted it this way. He knew he’d never beat the bottle.” Her hand stills. “He gave you a gift, Sara. The most precious gift he could, the only way he knew how … and he took his, the only way he knew how. You let him give you that gift and you let him take his. Only a strong person could do that, someone like you.” She sniffs, clears her throat, “We’re all counting on you—me, your mother, your father, your sister, your aunt. We need you to pull through, show us, not just how to survive, but how to live.”
The End
Pretending Normal
Pretending Normal, formerly Lies Imitating Life, was a past quarter finalist in Ray Bradbury’s New Century New Writer Award contest. It was also a past semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest.
1976 Before-Sara Polokovich wants out of Norwood, Pennsylvania, population 4,582, where the undertaker and the butcher are the same person. All she has to do is earn a scholarship. Just two more years… but until then, she pours over classics to strengthen her comprehension skills, reviews for the SAT, and continues to request college brochures from every school in the northeast.
Sara’s just buried her mother, her father drinks too much, and her kid sister won’t leave her alone. Why can’t her life be normal? Even half-normal? Why does Frank, (she refuses to think of him as her father anymore), spend all of his time in the garage with that damn ‘57 Chevy? And why does he have to hide bottles all over the house; in the red metal cupboard in the garage, behind the faded orange curtain in the kitchen, under the sink in the bathroom? Why can’t anybody talk about what’s happening?
As Sara struggles to free herself from a life of dysfunction and disease, she will learn the true depths of a parent’s love and the ultimate sacrifice given— and taken— in the name of that love. Pretending Normal follows Sara Polokovich’s coming of age as she discovers the truths about family with all of its flaws and weaknesses as the bond that holds one to another, in love, loyalty, even death.
Chapter 7
Am I crazy for sharing a story about a squirrel? Possibly. But I wrote this at a time when I was coming to grips with a painful betrayal and writing was much cheaper than therapy. It would be the beginning of the end of my marriage and while neither my brain nor heart could process the truth, my subconscious already knew. I guess this was the first step in accepting what would happen months later.
Across the River
Samuel tossed a small acorn back and forth between his paws, enjoying the briskness of the fall morning. The village where he lived with his family and friends was surrounded by trees and a splash of sky that while a safe haven, had become much too predictable. It was this very sameness that caused him unrest, festering until one day it burst from him in the form of a question. “Jacob, have you ever considered leaving this place?”
Jacob peered over his spectacles and twitched his nose as squirrels did when they were searching for answers. “Leave?” he asked, as though he did not quite comprehend the question. “Why would I leave when I have everything I need right here?”
Samuel pointed a paw at the huge expanse of water known as The River and whispered, “Look across the water. Do you see that oak tree?” He zeroed in on its majestic presence, its green glossy leaves swaying in the breeze. He watched, mesmerized. “What I wouldn’t give to make that tree my home.” He scratched his head. “I could leave this place with its tepid offerings… and live on the Island of Id.”
And so it began. Each day, Samuel lay on the grassy bank dreaming of a future in the beautiful oak tree across The River. He spent his mornings planning his escape, his afternoons plotting his future, and his evenings gazing at the titillating beauty and all it promised.
And each day, Jacob watched helplessly as his friend turned his back on his home. Neglect swept through the overgrown garden laden with weeds. The once clear walkway marking the entrance of Samuel’s home became shrouded with sticks, brambles, and weeds. The inside of the abode was in similar disrepair, layered in dust and disinterest. The nuts, which had once been so bountiful, had dwindled to no more than a scant, sporadic offering. Samuel didn’t care. He was too busy dreaming of what lay across The River in the arms of the oak tree.
Jacob grew relentless with his warnings. “Don’t throw everything away. Samuel, wake up before it’s too late. Your tree has been a constant. It has guided, supported, and nurtured you for many years. Even now, when you totally ignore and abuse it, it still provides what sustenance it can—but it will not last forever.”
Samuel scoffed at Jacob’s incessant worrying. “This place is ugly and drab. Nothing sparkles; no new excitement awaits me. Do I not deserve better?”
Jacob shook his head like the worrisome creature he was and continued with his preaching. “You have trampled everything that was offered to you and are ready to abandon your home for an illusion. Yes, Samuel, an illusion. That tree, that land, is what you perceive it to be, not what it really is. It has done nothing to earn your steadfast devotion, yet you are ready to discard everything for it. Go back to your true home. Clear the garden and walkway, then open your eyes and see the love that is there. Why not devote your misplaced attention to rekindling and multiplying the fruit of your own hearth? For that is where faith, love, and loyalty lie. Open your eyes my friend before it is too late.”
Samuel ignored Jacob’s words and replied, “I spoke with Raven today and I will be leaving tomorrow. I must do this—for myself. For my happiness.”
“You have no idea what really lies past The River on the Island of Id. You see what you want to see. Those seemingly lush ripe nuts you desire may be empty. Or rotten. Have you considered that?”
“There is no need to consider what is not so.”
“Your oak tree has endured and sustained you through all manner of hardship,” Jacob said. “Even now, in your utmost neglect it still nourishes and shelters you.”
“I don’t want it anymore. The fruit is soft and flavorless, the presentation even more so.” He smiled. “But that tree”—he pointed to the oak across The River—“will have the sweetest fruit I have ever tasted.”
“You can never come back.”
“Why would I want to? Freedom awaits and I shall have it.” Samuel turned his back on Jacob and once again stared over the waters at the object of his fascination. He did not hear Jacob leave. Soon he would begin his new life. Too excited to sleep, he spent the night pacing the grassy banks of the forest. He would not return home for farewells. Why should he when it had done nothing to entice him back? In truth, it had grown old, shabby, and disgusting. Soon, all of this desolation would be behind him.
As dawn approached, Raven swooped down upon a sleeping Samuel and startled him. The bird’s dark gaze pierced Samuel as he inquired, “Are you certain this is what you want? Things are not always as they appear.”
“Raven, this is different. Soo
n, I will have everything I could ever desire.”
“Samuel, you can never return.”
“I don’t want to return. Ever!”
With one last look, Raven leaned low enough for Samuel to hop on his back. Off they glided toward the Island of Id and the nebulous future.
Samuel was too caught up in the moment to notice The River’s current had become quite turbulent, tossing smaller animals against rocks, hurling them to painful, bone-crushing deaths. He never noticed the decay scattered on the perimeters of the island or smelled the stench of death. But death and decay were all around them, from the fragile protrusions of fish bones and small game to the slime of algae. The closer they got, the more evident the destruction. Raven landed on a fallen rotting log and Samuel slid off.
“Good-bye, my friend,” Raven whispered to the retreating figure.
Samuel scurried toward the direction of the beautiful oak tree. In his haste to reach his long-awaited destination he had been oblivious to his surroundings. Now, as he paused to rest a moment he was surprised by the complete absence of sound save his own rapid breathing. He was in a forest and yet he heard no birds chirping, leaves rustling, or other signs of inhabitants.
For the first time since his descent, Samuel looked around—truly looked. He blinked, blinked again. From a distance everything had appeared green, lush, vibrant. But what now lay before him was an expanse of decay and ruin such as he’d never before witnessed. A green fungus, disguised over the expanse of The River as healthy foliage, covered every tree trunk and limb. Pools of fetid water emitted an odor so foul Samuel held his breath as he scurried around them.
This could not be! Long tentacles of grassy overhang grabbed at him. His paws bled as he raced over thorny briar patches. The farther into the forest he ran, the more he fought to deny the sight that unfolded before him. Could the vision he’d seen from the other side of The River been nothing more than a cruel trick the sun’s rays had conjured up for Samuel’s eager eyes and mind?
Sensing he was being watched, Samuel whirled around to discover several pairs of haunted eyes staring back at him from behind patches of tall brittle growth. Cautiously, the scrawny little predators inched forward, ribs protruding over matted wisps of fur. Samuel was drawn to their eyes—empty and haunted. The most emaciated down-trodden creature in the group limped forward. He may have been a rat or some other type of rodent, but he’d degenerated to such a degree that his true lineage was difficult to discern.
“Don’t look at us with such horror. You are one of us now,” the rodent mocked.
“Hah! Hardly. I’ve come to make a life on this island with the oak tree. I have waited and planned for a very long time. I am most definitely not one of you.”
“Of course,” the rodent said, letting out a hollow cackle that was more menace than laughter. “The ever-faithless promise of the oak tree. Tell me something, squirrel”—the rodent narrowed his beady eyes—“did her shiny leaves blow in the breeze just so, making you think she was calling to you? Did her strong limbs make you dream of finding hours of comfort in them? And did the grace and elegance of her trunk cause you to believe she would shelter you? Forever?”
“How did you know?”
“Do you think we always looked like this? Lived like this?” the creature asked, raising a chewed-up hairless paw toward the rest of the group. “I see you are thinking. Yes, each of us fell prey to that very tree. And each of us betrayed ourselves and everything we held dear to get to that tree.”
Before his words could register, a sudden, piercing sound screeched above them. The animals scurried for shelter in the denseness of the brush. Samuel followed the rodent and hid behind a large bramble. Seconds later, a barrel-chested hawk swooped down to the recently vacated spot. He surveyed the area with predatory eyes for a moment before soaring to the sky once again.
Samuel was the first to speak. “I saw those very birds from across The River. They appeared so majestic and strong.”
The rodent spat out, “They are strong because they prey on the likes of you and me!”
Samuel refused to believe the rodent’s cruel words. “I gave up everything for this place. I will find the oak tree and it will bring me happiness. I’m sorry for all of you but I’m not like you.”
“Open your eyes, squirrel. You are exactly like us. You sold your soul. Just like the rest of us.” With that last comment, the rodent disappeared into the brush.
Samuel turned and ran from what he feared might be the truth. The faster he ran, the more manacles and thorns grabbed at him. He finally emerged from the wooded prison and fell exhausted at the foot of the oak tree.
All doubt fled as Samuel gazed upon the magnificent beauty before him. Slowly, with great reverence, he touched the bark, enjoying the rough texture between his paws. The green leaves were long and beautiful, tantalizing him as they swayed in the breeze. Pain and doubt fled. He would never look back in regret at what he’d left behind.
He had found his true home.
He bound up the tree, heading for the largest most succulent acorn he’d ever seen. Samuel plucked it from its stem, cradled it gently and made his way back down to the ground. He caressed the nut, reveling in its soft gleam. Oh, how heavenly it would be to taste the lush meat within—sweet, fragrant, intoxicating. Unable to wait a moment longer, he cracked the acorn open and peered inside. It was empty.
He stared into the hollow shell, confused. Then he tossed it aside and scampered up the tree after another. This one cracked easily but was just as empty as the first. Samuel threw it aside and darted from one nut to the next, cracking each open and finding the same black nothingness inside. How could this be? He’d seen the fruit, seen the tree. Hadn’t he? A rustling behind him disturbed his thoughts and Samuel turned to find the rodent peering at him, a bizarre smile on his face.
“Just like the rest of us now,” he taunted. “No way out. Not now. Not ever.”
As the rodent scurried away on hairless feet Samuel wondered how long it would take before he looked like that. He hung his head, the weight of grief too heavy, and lay down among the empty acorn shells.
A few weeks later, Samuel pulled a thorny branch aside and peered across The River. He’d found that brambles were good hiding spots but they tended to tear at one’s coat and often drew blood. But they were safe. Grassy banks were not. Neither was the sunshine or long stretches of daylight—not if one valued one’s life. His gray coat was tattered and thinning with burrs stuck in odd places.
But he was alive. And that was better than some of the other creatures crawling about. He’d lost weight which wasn’t surprising when the only sustenance one could look forward to was an odd assortment of bitter berries and dried leaves.
He squinted across The River. If he looked long enough and hard enough he thought he could see Jacob resting on the grassy bank. Perhaps not a bed of velvet but a soft comfortable spot just the same. And off to the right was his oak tree. Not beautiful and tantalizing but strong and sturdy with thick green leaves and a solid trunk. Someone had cleared the weeds from the path, tended the garden, showered attention. Showed love. The oak, his oak, stood proud and serene. And he knew there would be acorns. Abundant overspills of them, scattering the ground.
Samuel licked his lips, almost able to taste the sweet meat. His mouth watered. He closed his eyes, dreaming of his tree. Wishing… wishing… Something pinched his tail, rousing him from his daydreams.
“Best move, fast,” the rodent warned. “Our spot’s been discovered.”
Samuel took one last look across The River, his attention settling on the oak tree. Later, he would find another safe place, even if only for a few minutes, and then he’d gaze across the water and dream…
The End
Chapter 8
Several years ago, I read an article about a man who’d kept a secret family for years without anyone’s knowledge. I was fascinated that someone could and would actually do this. That one small article lived in my subconscio
us for years, emerging occasionally as I considered how a person might achieve this, the effects on the primary family as well as the other family, the pain, the grief, the anger, the emotional, financial, and psychological entanglements between the two, and the ultimate question; which was the real family? I became so engrossed with the emotion of the situation that I knew I had to create my own characters and my own story and so emerged, A Family Affair.
I have received many emails from readers who are wondering about Charles and Gloria Blacksworth. Who are they? How could they do what they did? The weakness? The commonness of it? The selfishness, especially for Charles and his secret life, which appeared to benefit him most of all. One of my first drafts contained a narrative in which Charles thinks about his life and his choice and is simply not strong enough to make that tough call. An integral part of his backstory is his sister, Ellie. He loved her, yet couldn’t save her from the illness that killed her. She is the one who leaves him with a parting message that propels him to enter a daring relationship with Vivian when she pleads, Live. Live for me.
And Gloria? Well, when I read her backstory, I am saddened and want to tell her ‘Wake up, don’t sell yourself!’ But wait, I’ve created Gloria, so I guess this is how I saw it play out. Two more tidbits before I post the narratives of Charles and Gloria Blacksworth. A Family Affair was initially titled Four Days a Month. If you’ve read the book, you’ll know why. And second, the ending was different for the first several drafts. I’m glad I didn’t choose it because doing so would have changed the entire dynamics of the story. Still, I want readers to know what almost was.
Four Days a Month
From Charles Blacksworth’s viewpoint
He sat in the dark, staring at the slit of moon illuminating her hair. She was asleep, the slow methodical rise and fall of the chenille spread taking her dreams away from him, safe, protected, while he hung caught between sleep and wakefulness, too afraid to close his eyes lest he miss these last few hours with her. It was always like this, the dread mixed with the longing, pulling at him, shredding his sanity.
