Virtually Lace

by Uvi Poznansky

  Could beauty be taken apart without loss of emotional impact? Could its data be synthesized, somehow, into a lifelike experience? In short, could he apply his analytical skills to fool his own senses?

  Acknowledgment

  I would like to give recognition to five authors who read this book while it was still in a half-cooked state and with great generosity, offered their comments, insights and suggestions. I am deeply grateful to them.

  S.R. Mallery, two-time Readers’ Favorite Gold Medal Winner, is the author of Tea, Anyone, Sewing Can be Dangerous, The Dolan Girls, Unexpected Gifts, Tales to Count On, and Trouble in Glamour Town. History is her focus and is woven into her stories with a delicate thread.

  Sheila Deeth, a high-ranking book reviewer and an editor, has a Bachelors and Masters in mathematics from Cambridge University, England. She is the author of Exodus Tales, Bethlehem Baby, Divide by Zero, and Infinite Sum.

  Aaron Paul Lazar is a multi-award winning mystery author. He created the Gus LeGarde mystery series (featuring protagonist Gus LeGarde, a classical music professor.)

  Paul Douglas Lovell is the author of autobiographical stories, including Playing Out and Paulyanna.

  Marie Anne Mayeski, Professor Emeritus from the Department of Theology at Loyola Marymount University, is the author of Women at the Table: Three Medieval Theologians, and Women: Models of Liberation.

  A Note to the Reader

  Thank you for reading this book! I hope you enjoyed it. I invite you to check out more books from the same pen. There is always a new project on my drawing board, so please come back to check it out.

  I would love to hear what you thought of this book. You have the power of bringing it to the attention of more readers, by posting your own review. It would mean so much to me.

  And another thing you can do to help me spread the word is this: please tell your friends about my work. How else will they hear about the story? How else will the characters, who sprang from my mind onto these pages, leap from there into new minds?

  Please click here to post your review:

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  Bonus Excerpts

  Excerpt: Coma Confidential

  Rhythms of footfalls are intensifying outside my hospital room. It must be morning. Immobile, all I can do is count beats. I must have spent days here—who knows, maybe even weeks—or else I wouldn’t be able to tell time by means of listening to echoes.

  It’s a new skill, a new gain for me, barely significant enough to offset the loss of something far more important: my identity. Even so, I’m proud. I pat myself on the back. Mentally.

  By their patter, I know that two pair of shoes have just stepped into the room. It doesn’t take much to figure who is standing in them. The two nurses prattle about having to change my feeding tube. In a blink, a craving comes over me.

  Oh, what I would give for a decent donut! I drool at the thought of dunking it into a bowl filled with smooth, warm, vanilla-flavored sugar glaze, then lifting it to my mouth for a quick lick.

  One of the nurses wipes the dribble off my chin. I wish she would stop handling me. I wish I could turn my head away.

  Meanwhile, my stomach is growling. I’m so hungry. At this point, never mind pastry. I’ll take any real food—even peas and carrots, which normally I hate. Being able to chew them would cast me back among the living.

  In this sorry state, I’ve come to acquire a new affinity with vegetables. Maybe they have feelings, too. Maybe they dread being poked about with a fork, just as much as I fear being injected. Maybe being sucked down that dark, cavernous windpipe to be consumed by something yet unknown is repulsive to them. I think that at long last, I understand carrots and peas. So no, I’m never going to put them in my mouth again.

  Seriously, I prefer donuts.

  “Oh my! Accident?” asks one nurse, while pumping liquid food into my stomach with a syringe.

  “No, worse than that,” says the other one. By comparison, her voice is lower and more mature. It is also secretive.

  “What can be worse than an accident?”

  “Don’t even ask.”

  “Fine, then. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, what d’you want to be, ten years from now?”

  There’s a faint sound—maybe the older nurse is scratching her head—which leaves the question unanswered. Oh, the things I’d say, if only I could revive my vocal cords! I’d shout, “Ten years, are you kidding me? Who cares! I just want to make it through today!”

  But on second thought, I want more than that, much more. I strain my vocal cords in a desperate attempt to cry out, “I want to wake up from this nightmare, at the snap of my fingers. I want to walk away from this bed. Most of all, I want to know who I am. Is that too much to ask?”

  Ash in Coma Confidential

  Excerpt: Overkill

  Ed lies still on the sidewalk, his eyelids open but unflinching. The only thing about him that moves are the lapels of his corduroy coat, flapping slightly this way and that across his neck as the wind floats chilly feelers over his body.

  Mike gasps—but his eyes are not tearful, yet. In that second, when time starts slowing down, the driver side door is swaying with an annoying noise. Each time it squeaks, he takes a gulp of air and seems about to ask, “Dad, will you get up? Will you grab the door handle?”

  No blood is visible, at first, so I too allow myself to wonder: Will Ed climb back into his seat, dust off his shoulders, and wave goodbye to his son, while driving away?

  I expect it. Almost.

  Until another round of gunshots blasts the air.

  Without even thinking, I push Mike down to the asphalt, which is quite easy because he’s such a skinny child and because he’s utterly in shock. Then I land hard on my elbows beside him and push a hand against his chest until he crawls backwards, until he butts against his father’s car, which casts a shadow over him. At the moment, there is no better place to hide.

  Up on the pavement, a short distance from us, blood starts to puddle under Ed’s shoulder. I try to block Mike from seeing it. He shakes his head, still in disbelief.

  Please, God, no. This can’t be true.

  Everything around us appears to be in a state of utter confusion. The sidewalk is strewn with abandoned backpacks, as some pupils are running for their lives. Others cower behind a bush or a car. One uses his flimsy umbrella as a shield.

  A teacher cries out to him, “Duck!”

  And another teacher, by the gate of the school, yells, “Run! Get inside! Get down under your desks! And for Heaven’s sake, stay away from the windows!”

  A couple of parents attempt getting out of their cars to pull their children back to safety, but at the sound of shooting they drop to their knees.

  Next to me, Mike turns onto his stomach, mashes his nose against the tire, and wedges himself, somehow, between the curb and the Ford. Then he crawls under it towards the rear bumper, making room for me, too.

  I try to cock my head up from the damp surface. Looking at the scene from under the belly of a car is a whole different experience. Someone stands at the other side of the car, and all I can see is his sneakers, socks, and the hem of his coat, flaring at its bottom. Also, the muzzle of his gun. For a heartbeat, before dark clouds close in, it glints in the sunlight.

  I reach over and clap a hand over Mike’s mouth to prevent him from screaming, from drawing the killer’s attention, as a hail of bullets rains down, sparking off the front bumper.

  Mike tenses up. His breath trembles as it escapes my touch. I must protect him. I must bring him back safely to his mother.

  The edge of the curb gouges into my back. So I adjust, I turn over. Now it presses against my belly. I must not lose that child, either.

  Now, the killer kicks the grill of the car, then jams his weapon, hard, into the front window. I know it by seeing only one of his feet on the ground and the sound of crac
king. It reverberates all over as the car shakes, as shards of glass come pinging at the asphalt, all the way down to my fingers.

  Why does he waste his time—at the risk of being identified, or even caught—on an empty car, when all around us, juicier targets present themselves to him in plain view?

  Ash in Overkill

  Excerpt: Overdose

  Perched on the exam table, I’m desperately searching for a way out. There isn’t any.

  Even worse: I’ve drained my energy trying to resist him, with little to show other than a long scratch across the wall as he carried me to this room. Exhausted, I have no breath left in me.

  In a blink, my entire life passes before me. Pa always wished for me to make my mark. Have I?

  Not if Kabir is about to blot it out.

  He sets the wine flask on a nearby desk, using his elbow to shove some medical instruments out of the way. Maybe because of some force of habit, Kabir takes a piece of clothing—green medical scrubs, of all things—off a hook on the door, and puts it on right over the white polo shirt he’s wearing, so the Tommy Hilfiger appliqué on its front pocket is no longer visible. The impostor is now in costume.

  Then he pulls open a drawer and takes out a small bottle, filled with pills. I strain my eyes to read the label, but from where I’m sitting, it’s a bit too far.

  Kabir casts a sly look at me. His lips curl, as if he’s about to tell some joke. “This is the single most prescribed psychiatric medication in the U.S. I ought to know, not only because I am a medical professional and not only because I married into a family that owns a pharmaceutical company but also because of my wife. She passed away because of it. Overdose, you know.”

  Kabir takes a pause, perhaps to see if I would ask anything about her death. I don’t. Why upset him? What’s at risk at this point is my own life!

  A moment later, he pivots to an entirely different subject. In his professional tone, he asks, “Are you pregnant, or plan to become pregnant?”

  “Not anytime soon!” I gasp, somewhat in shock. “Why?”

  “Because.” He shakes the bottle to a loud rattle. “Your pills are about to run out.”

  “Pills? What pills?”

  “Xanax.”

  He steps closer to me and raises the bottle to my unbelieving eyes. The name, printed on the label in bold letters, is mine.

  “What? That can’t be!” I cry. “I’m not on any medication, let alone this—”

  “You’ve been taking it for months, to treat your anxiety.”

  “Oh no, I haven’t—”

  “Why try to deny it?” Kabir laughs in my face. “You seem to be in panic, even now!”

  About that, he’s right. But the only cure for my dread is for him to let me go, which is doubtful, or for me to find a way around him, which is far-fetched.

  Kabir crushes a bunch of pills into a small heap of powder, transfers it to a glass, and pours some wine into it, all in plain view, as if wanting to show me the method of my own demise.

  I can’t afford to give him what he seems to want: the pleasure of seeing how scared I am.

  He swirls the wine about, then raises it to my nose, so I may smell its aroma. “I’m happy to hear you’re not expecting a baby.” His tone is loaded with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t want it to suffer any ill-effects, once you have your little drink.”

  I brace myself into being stubborn. “You can’t force me.”

  “You know I can.” He coughs up a sharp laugh. “And then, there would be no more need to have this prescription renewed.”

  What I want—even more than a chance to save myself—is to give the doctor a taste of his own medicine.

  In a heartbeat, my hands turn clammy. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

  He growls, “Sure you do! You’ve been asking too many questions about me, about my trip to India years ago, and about the woman I married there. No one gets to do all that and live to tell the tale.”

  I hesitate to ask, “Not even your wife?”

  “Especially not her.”

  “What about me?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Am I going to survive the night?”

  “Trust me, it is with a heavy heart that I must kill you.” Kabir comes closer, strokes my chin. “Such a beauty.” For a second, his eyes seem sad, almost. “Such a waste.”

  Ash in Overdose

  Excerpt: My Own Voice

  The minute our eyes met, I knew what to do: so I stopped in the middle of what I was doing, which was dusting off the glass shield over the ice cream buckets, and stacking up waffle cones here and sugar cones there. From the counter I grabbed a bunch of paper tissues, and bent all the way down, like, to pick something from the floor. Then with a swift, discrete shove, I stuffed the tissues into one side of my bra, then the other, ‘cause I truly believe in having them two scoops—if you know what I mean—roundly and firmly in place.

  Having a small chest is no good: men seem to like girls with boobs that bulge out. It seems to make an awful lot of difference, especially at first sight, which you can always tell by them customers, drooling.

  I straightened up real fast, and it didn’t take no time for him to come in. I was still serving another customer, some obnoxious woman with, like, three chins. She couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted hot fudge on top or just candy sprinkles, and what kind, what flavor would you say goes well with pistachio nut, and how about them slivered almonds, because they do seem to be such a healthy choice, now really, don’t they.

  He came in and stood in line, real patient, right behind her. So now I noted his eyes, which was brown, and his high forehead and the crease, the faint crease right there, in the middle of it, which reminded me all of a sudden of my pa, who left us for good when I was only five, and I never saw him again—but still, from time to time, I think about him and I miss him so.

  I could feel Lenny—whose name I didn’t know yet—like, staring at me. It made me hot all over. For a minute there, I could swear he was gonna to ask me how old I was—but he didn’t.

  And so, to avoid blushing, I turned to him and I said, boldly, “It’s a crime?”

  And he said, “What?”

  And I said, “To be sixteen. It’s a crime, you think?”

  And he said, “Back in the days when I was young and handsome, that was no crime.”

  And I countered with, “Handsome you still are!”

  He had no comeback for that, and me, I didn’t have nothing with which I could follow it up. So I asked, “So? What kind of cone for you?” but that woman cut in, ‘cause I was still holding her three-scoops tower of pistachio nut on a sugar cone. And she started to cry out, and like, demand some attention here, because hey, she was first in line and how about whipped cream? Or some of that shredded coconut?

  So I smiled at her, in my most cool and polite manner, and squeezed out a big dollop of whipped cream, which was awesome, ‘cause it calmed her down right away.

  And I scattered some of them coconut flakes all over—quite a heap—and went even further, adding a cherry on top. At last, I raised the thing to my lips, because at this point, it was starting to drip already.

  Then, winking at him, I passed my tongue over the top, and all around the ice cream at the rim of the cone, filling my whole mouth and, just to look sexy, also licking the tips of my fingers. Then I came around the counter, swaying my hips real pretty, and steadying myself over the wobbly high heels. I came right up to him, and before he could guess what kind of trouble I had cooked up in my head, I kissed him—so sweet and so long—on his lips, to the shouts and outcries of the offended customer.

  Anita in My Own Voice

  Excerpt: The Music of Us

  My son, Ben, has been gone for a month now, staying in some youth hostel in Rome. If I call him, if I stumble into revealing how scared I am that his mother is losing her mind, he may listen. He may heed my fears, grudgingly, and come back here, not even knowing how to offer his support to me. Should I ask for it?<
br />
  The last thing I wish to do is lean on him for help. He is not strong enough, and whatever the problem may be with her, I can grit my teeth and handle it, somehow, all by myself. Besides, I pray for a spontaneous change in her. I mean, her memory may take a turn for the better just as quickly as it has deteriorated.

  Given this hope I decide that for now I will not schedule the head X-Ray that her doctor recommended for her. I figure she has been through so many checkups, so many exams to rule out depression, vitamin B deficiency, and a long list of other possible ailments, all of which has been in vain.

  So far, the results have failed to produce a conclusive diagnosis, and this new X-Ray will be no different, because from what I have read, Alzheimer’s disease can be determined only through autopsy, by linking clinical measures with an examination of brain tissue. So this new medical hypothesis is just that: a hypothesis. One that cannot be proven; one that cannot go away. An ever-present threat.

  Perhaps all she needs is rest. Time, I tell myself. I must give her time. Meanwhile I resolve to keep her condition secret from everyone, especially from my son. Let him enjoy his time away from home, his independence.

  Since his departure I called him only once, three weeks ago, and said little, except for blurting out the mundane, “How’s Rome?”

  “Great,” he said vaguely, adding no particulars.

  I could not help myself from asking. “So, what about your plans?”

  “What about them?”

  “D’you have any?”

  “For now I have none,” he admitted, and immediately changed the subject. “How’s mom?”

  “Fine.”