His Story

by Fiona Druce

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  About the author:

  Fiona Druce and her husband live in the Pacific Northwest with two daughters and a large neurotic dog. Her interests are singing, triathlons, molecular biology, qualitative chemistry, mechanical and aerospace engineering, and writing fiction. She’s positive there is somehow a connection in all that but she hasn’t found it, yet. Suggestions welcome.

  Find her online at:

  Blog and Author website: https://www.fionadruce.com/

  Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/FionaDruce

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/FionaDruceAuthor

  Want more of Greg? Here’s Chapter 1 of the Southern Women’s fiction full-length novel, where he’ll find his Happy Ever After!

  Author reserves the right to change the following as needed for storytelling, editing, or publishing purposes.

  “You need a life, Rapunzel. And I mean outside that house o’ yers.”

  Tuesday held the dubious honor of being the day each week that Cinderella decided to chide Rapunzel for her nonexistent life. Ella with her sparkling blue eyes, perfect cheerleader figure–despite having recently had a child– and winning smile, had never had a complaint in that particular department.

  “I do have a life, Ella.”

  “No you don’t, darlin’. You work all day, come home, slap dinner together, and then whisk your kids into bedtime!”

  I wiped whipped cream off of my forehead, unsure how it got there. Apparently, my brownies were feisty little buggers.

  “’Course I do, Ella. Kids need routine.”

  Ella twisted her elegant blond hair into cascade down her chest and huffed. “Right. Because I only have two children, unlike your four. Obviously, I’m inexperienced at child raising. Please. Do tell me more.”

  I smashed another square of chocolate heaven into my mouth, chewed it, and then glared at my friend. “You know what I meant.”

  She smacked her lips together, like a cow chewing cud. “’Zel, you need a man, not a routine. You got enough routine. What you don’t have enough of is co–“

  I squealed just in time to cover her. A small-sized demon with dirty blond hair ran through the kitchen, made voom voom noises, circled the island twice, and buzzed back out. I admit to being impressed at my son’s apt impression of a lightsaber. It might have also been an airplane. Regardless, I thought about joining their escapades.

  Ella was not finished, however. “Really, though. And…yes…I’m not afraid to admit I’m in the same boat. But at least one of us needs to go out and–“ she peeped around the corner of the kitchen to look out the backdoor. The coast was clear, but she leaned in to whisper, “Get. Some.” With a pointed glare from her perfect azure eyes.

  I did not answer, choosing, instead, to continue my mission to keep my children from eating too many sweets. This I accomplished by eating them, myself.

  It was a method.

  “’Zel, you are going out tomorrow night, if it’s the last thing you do.”

  “Girl, it is the last thing I’d do. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

  “Damnit, would you please work with me, here? I’m trying to help us!”

  “Yes. Help us by throwing me under the bus. I see where this is headed, hon.” I sent her my gravest I am not amused expression, including the dramatic single eyebrow lift.

  “Mama…”

  I knew that voice. I sighed. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  My twelve-year-old son walked into the house, his boney arms wrapped across his frail chest. I could only hope that today’s major drama would involve something simple.

  “The toilet ain’t working.”

  I exhaled any hope I’d possessed. “What’s going on with it, son?”

  Ella sat in her chair, absently spinning her drink around with her straw. Outside, hollering children, squealing toddlers, and rhythmic sprinklers ensured that every word my son said was lost in a cloud of ambient noise.

  “What?”

  I love my boy but sometimes he drove me nuts. His soft voice didn’t carry and he perpetually looked at the ground when he dealt with someone. He was still my baby.

  I walked to him and pulled him into a hug. “Let’s try that again.”

  “I flushed it…” he mumbled something, “rising…” he looked away and talked to the kitchen table, “…stop.”

  Despite the fact that I’d heard all but five words in that entire twenty second schpiel, I got the general gist. Besides, toilet ain’t working and rising are never good words to put together. They usually always meant the same thing: a major loss to the money in my bank account.

  This time was no different.

  My children’s bathroom– lovingly decorated in cheap, replaceable, but still memorable items from a supermarket– was sitting under an inch of toilet water. And everything that the toilet had recently possessed.

  I smiled. Over-exhaustion and overwork claimed my sensibility. I ran through my to-do list to rearrange priorities: I had inventory on Monday at my little herb shop, which– hopefully– I could complete before the children got out of school; my eldest had to go to therapy; my youngest was only in school for half of a day; my two daughters– the middle children– were preparing for a ballet recital this next weekend; clean laundry bred like rabbits in my bedroom; I was never up to pace with the dishes; and I hadn’t showered in…I don’t remember.

  And now I stood in front of my bathroom looking at the floor.

  Even better, the water was still rising. It slimed its path toward the carpet of my hallway, threatening to breach the bathroom door.

  “Towels!”

  Ella’s dainty feet pounded like a herd of cows down the hallway to aid me. My youngest child realized the excitement and had decided to join me. I managed to snag his arm before he plowed willingly into the sludge.

  My eldest slammed his door as a sign of his extreme emotional distress. Outside, my daughters reached the squeaky whistle of young feminine discord.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  The sobs ascended like a rolling wave of nausea. Tears prickled my lids and hazed my vision.

  A towel was thrust into my hands. Clean. Just clean. This crisis, then I can leave the kids with Ella for a bit and go sob into my Patience Pillow.

  My body moved in wooden jerks as I forced myself to consider only the task in front of me. Kneel. Drop the towel, sponge up the mess.

  Ella grabbed a bucket and we used up every one of my towels.

  The water kept coming.

  My best friend grabbed her cell phone and dialed the emergency plumber. My youngest ran off and something crashed in his vicinity, the girls were throwing things, and my eldest heaved pained moans of agony as his soul was pierced by the depth of his apparent wrong-doing.

  I simply let my tears fall and kept wiping.

  “Towel.” I gestured to Ella.

  “There aren’t any more, babygirl.”

  There had to be more. The water was still moving toward the carpet. I had to stop that.

  “Ella, please, just grab anything but the kids’ stuff. I can’t afford to lose my damned house!”

  The panic must have been evident in my voice: I felt the smooth cool brush of a towel in my hands.

  I dropped it to the ground. It would just do the job.

  As the brilliant dove-white cloth soaked up the dark swampy mess, I looked at the towel.

  Facing me was a heart, hand-embroidered on the towel. Inside, the letters “J. B. & R. B.” and underneath, “Married 4th of June.”

  I sobbed.