It could be the television? Might she have left it on this morning when she left for work? She could not remember having turned the set on, but then she couldn’t remember closing the bedroom door, either. A cold current of fear shot adrenaline upward from her tailbone, expanding through her chest, down her arms to spark her fingertips... an alert, something was not as it should be.

She didn’t normally come home for lunch, but she wanted him to find the bottle of “Old Fitzgerald Bourbon” when he got home. It was an expensive, and rare treat. He would be ecstatic!

She laid the card with its sexy message and the beautifully gift-bagged bourbon on the granite bar-top. “No,” she knew, “the sounds coming from the bedroom were not the television.” Her heart began a slower beat, a cautious beat, a life unravelling beat. A strange taste bit the tip of her tongue, metallic and sharp. She tip-toed to the door. It could not be... not on Valentine’s Day, of all fucking days?

Twenty years crouched behind that door, waiting to pounce. Can there be a fear greater than twenty years lost? Of a lifetime spent wasting? The door stared back at her with immeasurable dread. Twenty years of life, of love, and children raised. Twenty years working, and saving, and laughing. It just couldn’t be... not today. They had reservations for tonight at ’Velencia’s”, for Christ’s sake! They were supposed to grow old together. It was that time for them! Could he really be in there banging some twenty-fucking-something-year old intern?

But what if it wasn’t some intern? What if he was in love? Her mind raced, looking for missed clues. How long could this have been going on? He was with her on Valentine’s Day. What did that mean? Was it just an easy day for a star-struck seduction, or was there more to it?

Her lip was trembling now, joining her fingers. Her chest was weighted, crushing her breath. What if it was Lucy? What if she lost her husband and her best friend in one life-draining swoop? What would she do then? That would be unbearable, would it not? He and Lucy had always been close, casually flirtacious. They were even cute together, how they got along so well. “Oh, God... could she have been that blind?”

And what would she do? Not about the cheating, but with the rest of her life? She did not want to be alone. She loved her life, the life they had built together... she loved him! Perhaps she should sneak away. She could act like it never happened. The kids were at college, they would never have to know. These things passed quickly sometimes, if left alone.

There was a, “shush”, from behind the wall. They heard her. They heard something. She began to panic. Should she run? She reached for the knob, and threw the door open... loosing the beast that would devour her.

“He licks the top of the salt shakers. Watch him, he’s doing it now.”

“What?” Katy spun around, certain that Cassie had to be joking but sure enough, there he was. Pete Livingstone, the emaciated and grimy cook, was busily licking each of the saltshakers as he lifted them, one by one, from a tray and set them out ready for service.

“Ugh, how revolting. How long has he been doing that?”

“About as long as he’s been going to the bathroom and not washing his hands,” Cassie said, screwing up her nose as they watched Peter lick the final salt shaker before returning to his post at the baked goods bench.

“I’m going to confront him. Someone has to stop him.” Katy tucked her order pad into the front of her apron and went to march across the kitchen to give Peter his pedigree.

“No,” Cassie hissed as she snatched hold of the back of Katy’s shirt, halting her indignant step midstride. “I don’t trust him. He’s in all the managers’ back pockets and I have no doubt that he won’t hesitate to tattle on us if we get on the wrong side of him. We both need this job, Katy.”

Katy dropped her hands helplessly down by her sides. “We have to do something.”

“I’ll see you at the break. We’ll talk about it then.” Cassie threw her one last warning glance before picking up a tray of meals and sashaying out to the restaurant.

***

“He is disgusting. I saw him picking his nose just before he began cutting the tomatoes for the salad this morning. Didn’t wash his hands, didn’t pull on a pair of gloves, nothing. We can’t keep letting him get away with it.” Katy pushed herself up off the upturned bread crate she’d been perching on while Cassie took her smoke break in the alley behind the restaurant. “I’m going to go and find Mr. Leroy right now and tell him.”

Cassie scoffed as she stooped to stub her cigarette out on the filthy, gum-spotted asphalt. “He won’t listen to you. He thinks the sun shines out of Peter’s butt crack.”

“There has to be something we can do. He’s going to poison the customers with his awful lack of hygiene and his complete unawareness of kitchen health and safety. I hate working in the same space as him. My skin crawls if he even glances in my direction and I’m sure he’s turning Mr. Leroy against us. There’s something villainous and underhand about the man, even if we could manage to overlook his grubbiness.”

“I know,” Cassie said glumly as she led the way back through the Exit Only door. “But I don’t think there is a whole lot we can do about it, other than find ourselves another job.”

Two Years Later

Katy tossed a sofa cushion at Cassie, who was sitting on the sofa with her head thrown back, her eyes closed, and her mouth hanging open. “Wake up, sleepyhead! It’s only 7.30! You can’t fall asleep now – you’ll be awake half the night.”

“W-what?” Cassie struggled to sit upright and peered at Katy, her eyes red-rimmed and bleary. “I’m exhausted. I’ve been double-shifting all week and it’s taking its toll.”

“I don’t care. You still can’t fall asleep at 7.30,” Katy said firmly. She picked up the remote control and aimed it at the TV. “We’ll watch a movie. That’ll keep you awake until at least 9, which isn’t quite so bad.” She watched as the TV flickered into life just as a commercial began. She was about to get up to go to the kitchen in search of a snack when a familiar face caught her eye. She stopped, frozen in time and space as their days spent working for Mr. Leroy came flooding back. “Cassie,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and unsteady as she struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. “Look. It’s Peter Livingstone. The wretch who got us both sacked from Leroy’s Restaurant.”

Both girls stared at the television screen in horror as Peter faced the camera and cheerfully announced that he, Cupcakes & Cinnamon Buns’ renowned and award-winning pastry chef, was the host of the upcoming reality show Cupcake Bake Off. He urged viewers to enter at the address posted below, smiling crookedly as he explained that the winner would receive $50,000 in prize money and achieve nationwide notoriety as a Cupcake Master Baker.

The commercial ended and the movie began unnoticed as a speechless Katy and Cassie stared at each other. It was Katy who spoke first, forcing her words out between suddenly dry lips. “Oh my gawd. Peter Livingstone is the pastry chef at Cupcakes & Cinnamon Buns! I feel sick. I ate there last week with Jennifer. I can’t believe I actually ate something that the horrendous Peter Livingstone baked with his bare hands.” She doubled over, holding her hands across her stomach and trying not to retch.

“He might have improved his hygiene habits,” Cassie said uncertainly. “We left the restaurant two years ago and he’s clearly gone on to bigger and better things since then. From the looks of it, he’s put on weight and his hair isn’t as greasy as it once was. He couldn’t have made it to the position of a TV show baking host if he was all that bad in the kitchen, could he?”

Katy was still shaking her head and clutching her belly. “Who knows? You once told me that our employer thought the sun shone out of his bum. He has that smarmy way about him; he can pull people in and trap them under his spell. He must’ve done something right. Cupcakes & Cinnamon Buns is famous. People line up at the door. Even that British chef with a fondness for f-words featured it on his Roaming Restaurants TV show, although I never realized until now that Peter Livingston was the man behind it.” She gave an involuntary shudder. “Ugh, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“Who could’ve ever predicted it? Filthy Peter Livingstone is now a highly esteemed cupcake villain, errrr, chef. How has he come so far while we’re still stuck waitressing?”

“I have no idea,” Katy said miserably. “All I can see is him with his finger up his nose as he cut tomatoes into slices for the buffet salad.”

“All I can see is him sucking up to the managers and telling lies about us.” Cassie stared morosely into the middle distance before perking up again. “You should enter. The Bake Off, I mean.”

“What? Yuck, Cassie. I’m not interested in going anywhere near Putrid Pete.”

“No, you should.” Cassie sat forward, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Imagine showing him up on national TV! You could be the one who finally puts a stop to his unhygienic, lying rampage.”

“How?”

“You could catch him out doing something disgusting during the show and point it out to the TV cameras. Make a big fuss and draw attention to him. You know, just be you.”

Katy frowned, not quite sure what Cassie meant by that last comment, but her friend continued merrily on. “This is our big chance. You have to do it.”

“Our big chance? Why do I have to be the one to do it if it’s our big chance?”

“Kate.” Cassie gave her that patronising look that she seemed to have perfected of late. “I don’t have time. I just told you I’m double-shifting.”

“I can’t. We didn’t jot down the application address.” Katy was grabbing at straws now and she knew that Cassie knew it too.

“I got it. candidates@bakeoff.com. Grab your laptop and you can apply right away.”

***

Katy tied on her apron with shaking hands. The entrants had been briefed on what to expect when the cameras started rolling, she had her cupcake recipe down pat, and she knew she looked good with her new short, red hair and green contact lenses. She and Cassie had danced around the living room in great excitement when she received the email to tell her she’d passed the screening test, but their excitement had quickly deflated when they realized that Peter would recognize her as soon as he set eyes on her. A quick trip to the hairdressers, a temporary dye job, and new contacts had transformed her completely and even Cassie said she’d have trouble recognizing her if she met her in the street.

The production manager stood at the front of the set with her glasses pushed up into her hair and her hands permanently held out in front of her chest as if she was expecting to stop a speeding train at any moment. “We go to air in 2 minutes. This is live, people. We had the run through earlier, you all know the script, and I’m not expecting any unplanned incidents unless they’re hilariously funny or emotional and can improve the ratings. Is everyone clear on that?”

A chorus of ‘yips’ went up from the four contestants but Katy thought it was a moot point. What else were they supposed to do so close to the moment of action? She glanced over at Peter, who had finally made his appearance surrounded by a fawning group of makeup artists and wardrobe mistresses. He peered haughtily over their heads as they fussed around him, running his eye over his team of contestants without much interest. Katy kept her eyes down, afraid to meet his gaze. She wasn’t too worried that he might recognize her, it was more the thought that her lip might involuntarily curl when his eyes settled on her face.

The production manager raised her train-stopping hands in the air. “3, 2, 1 – Action!”

Peter slid into the middle of the floor and leered into the camera. He welcomed the viewing audience and announced that the theme of today’s show was to be Vanilla Cupcakes with variations as chosen by each entrant. The camera panned slowly over the row of contestants as a disembodied voice introduced each one. Katy bared her teeth at the camera when it reached her, although she was shaking all over and she would’ve been more than happy to abandon her post and run out the door right then and there.

“Contestants, you have three minutes to assemble your ingredients. Go!” Peter clapped his hands together and the contestants scampered towards the well-stocked pantry at one side of the set. Katy stepped around Mandy, one of the other contestants, and lunged for a bag of flour, a container of sugar, some eggs, butter, vanilla, raising agent, and a packet of raisins. Her cupcakes were good, she knew that, but she did not intend to stay around until the end of the show. She was here to reveal Peter Livingstone’s unsavoury habits to the TV viewing world and then she’d be gone.

Her first opportunity came as she mixed her batter. Peter hovered along the row of benches, commenting on each contestant’s progress as he went. He reached her bench and sniffed as he watched her stir the batter. Katy glanced at the cameras, making sure the lens was fixed upon them. She subtlety tipped the bowl of batter towards Peter, certain that he’d be unable to resist the creamy goodness. Sure enough, he surreptitiously whipped out a long finger and quickly scooped it across the surface of the batter before shoving it in his mouth.

“Oh! Mr. Livingstone, I don’t think you’re supposed to stick your finger into the cupcake mix.” Katy said it loudly and sweetly, batting her eyelashes at the camera as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Peter glowered at her but said nothing before moving on to the next contestant.

She had her next chance as she was laying out the silver foil cupcake cases on the oven tray. Peter swooped in, his eyes on the open packet of raisins, and he quickly spidered his hand inside. Katy coughed loudly, attracting the attention of the cameraman who zoomed in just as Peter tipped the dried currants into his mouth. Peter glared at her again, muttering that she really should do something about that cough, before moving on.

As she pulled her tray of golden, fragrant cupcakes from the oven, Peter appeared by her side. His eyes goggled at the sight of the soft, domed tops and Katy hid her smile. He’d never been able to resist a freshly baked cupcake. He snaked out a hand to steal a pinch from the side of one of the cupcakes as Katy pretended to trip over a lose cable. “Oh! Peter! Mind that you keep your hands away from the hot cupcakes! I nearly burned you with the tray. Fingers away, as my mother always said.”

The cameraman swung his camera around, just in time to catch Peter’s guilty face as he backed off. Katy aimed another sweet smile into the lens and sat the tray down on her benchtop.

Peter avoided her for a while after that, as she tidied her workspace and began to make her frosting while her cupcakes cooled. She could hear him talking to the other contestants, and she even caught sight of him breaking off the side of one of Mandy’s unattended cupcakes and shovelling it into his mouth but unfortunately, the camera missed it.

She was about to frost her first cupcake when Peter was suddenly there in front of her bench with his back strategically placed to the camera. He leaned over, keeping his voice low so that only she could hear it. “I know who you are. I thought you looked familiar. You’re Katy from Leroy’s. You have no chance of winning. I’ve already decided that Mandy will win, regardless of how shitty her cupcakes taste.”

Katy’s heart pounded but she kept her cool. “I don’t care. Winning the cupcake contest isn’t the reason I’m here.” She swirled her wooden spoon vigorously around the sea of vanilla frosting, releasing the sweet scent for the benefit of Peter’s hairy nostrils. “Smell that? You never could get enough of my vanilla frosting. You used to order me to make it then take the credit for yourself.”

He sneered at her as he hooked one finger into a scoop shape and aimed it at the bowl. “You always did think too highly of yourself. Regardless of how good your frosting is, I’m going to tell everyone during the tasting that you added salt instead of sugar.” He plunged his greedy finger deep into the frosting and Katy opened her mouth to let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead before grabbing the remaining foil cases and upending them over his startled head. “Peter Livingstone has his dirty fingers in my frosting!”

The ensuing uproar was mildly pleasing, but Katy was more concerned with getting herself as far away from the set as possible. She whipped off her apron, dumped it on top of the bowl of frosting, and sped out the door, only vaguely aware of the astonished stares of the other contestants and the production manager’s voice as she shouted for everyone to remain calm.

Katy shoved open the door that led to the street, ploughing straight into Cassie’s arms. Cassie held her at arm’s length, her hands gripping her by the shoulders, and demanded to know what had happened.

“It worked. I caught him out. I made sure to call attention to him when he dipped his finger in the cupcake batter, I coughed loudly when he ate my raisins as I laid out the baking cases, and I pretended to trip as he broke off a piece of one of my just baked cupcakes. We were all told that he’d sample our goods at the end but oh no, good old Peter Livingstone had to jump the gun and put his grimy hands all over everything. Anyway, my fussing drew the cameramen’s attention towards us, ensuring the live audience at home saw it all. The piece de resistance was when I was making the frosting. He put his back to the camera and stuck his filthy digit right into the middle of the bowl after telling me he’d recognized me from Leroy’s. I screamed so loudly I even scared myself then I dumped the foil cases over his head. Everyone now knows he’s a dirty little grot. I did it, Cassie. Everyone has finally seen his true colours.” Katy was panting and laughing all at once, incredulous that she’d managed to pull it off.

Cassie started giggling, bending herself in half and convulsing with laughter. Katy stared at her friend with dismay, wondering if she’d finally gone mad right here on the street outside Starlight Studios. “Cassie? It isn’t that funny.”

Cassie staggered around, holding her sides while tears streamed down her face. She snorted as she tried to speak, her voice choked with laughter. “Katy, can’t you see what you just did? You foiled and burned the cupcake villain.”

The End

Life chronicled on four by six pieces of paper was tucked away neatly in envelops inside the end table drawer next to her bed.  Upon waking, she knew who she was and where the photographs slept. Challenging herself to mentally conjure the images of her family without peeking, she was happy to find her seven sisters striking poses behind her eyes.  Toothy grins blowing candles, parades of mini skirts, floral pedal pushers, red keds and white go go boots, even Jax the tabby appeared, but it was her parent's long gone comforting faces she was searching for, and they wouldn't come.  Driving rain hit the window across the room, gesturing an interruption to her trial of forgetfulness. Absent mindedly plunged, the images left her and so did the knowledge of their existence. For now. Like the tide, they would all be back, she would hope, but hope was not necessary if she wasn't aware of them slipping away.  Sliding under the covers, the warmth caressed her, sending her unthinking mind to a protective, hollow, dark space; womb-like, before her first breath. The bliss of uncounted time passed, until the disappointment of a single thought came back to her, signaling that it was time to rise.  Easing her aged bones away from the comfort of the memory foam and down, there was no direction.  Standing alone in space, sighted and blind, there was no family, no death, no thought; just the intrinsic reckoning of existence.

“What day of the week is it? What's your name again? What's my social security number?”  A doctor did not have to confirm it, she knew the onset of Alzheimer's by first hand examination, while watching her mother’s slow horrifying decline.  Yet there was also a dignity witnessed, a careful practical preparation before an advanced stage, and Maggie had vowed to the same should the time come for her to face the same reality.  And then it knocked on her door and she really didn't want to answer, but the intruder was coming in whether she resisted or not. Still standing in the same spot, she began to shuffle one foot in front of the other across the knotty pine without knowing where she was going.  The brown suede easy chair next to the window invited her to come sit, in the same way it had always invited her mother. Maggie couldn't part with the old chair, patting the stained arm rest as if it was a grieving friend. Perhaps it was the worn seat that triggered Maggie back.  Could it have been the ghost of her mother's embrace sending visual whispers? Or was it the solitude beckoning an awakening through simple meditation? Either or both, all that mattered was the communion she felt with her mother’s aura as she sat. If the essence of lavender was an aromatic hallucination, she didn't care. They sat together, two souls, one body, one waning mind, partially accepting defeat.  But she took solace in knowing she had also partly passed a test. Without picture peeking, Mommy had come to her lucidly, in all her radiant beauty, smiling through her whimsically curled lips; the same familial feature that Maggie carried throughout her day.

In the overcast room she decided she had no time to feel sad over remembering what was gone.  Remembering would not be a squandered gift. As the memories bombarded her, she remained jubilant, even when the floodgate opened her thoughts up to the end days.  Near death, her mother’s smile was as genuine and enchanting as it had always been, a work of art, even without the muscle control. All eight Iovino sisters, and some of their children took turns holding the matriarch's fragile liver spotted arthritic hands, stroking the strands of red turned gray hair at her temples, forehead, and crown, even when she saw them as strangers. Maggie was there for the final breath, lifting her mother's lifeless right hand to her bequeathed lips; sowing a parting kiss. Although she let her own tears flow, she also stepped up to higher ground, comforting her siblings unboundedly, becoming the soft place for all of them to fall.  In their individual solitude, the reality pecked at each of them, one by one, all eight of them began a waiting game, defying worry, bravely, silently, wondering, when? “Me too?” Maggie would become the first to honor her mother's unfortunate legacy; she would not speak of or accept the harsh cold truth until she had to, blissfully in denial, as long as she could function independently. “Why make them worry? I can do this, at least I can, until I can't.”

The test was complete when her strikingly handsome father’s face also came into focus.  It was hard for anyone to conjure an image of her father without his adoring wife by his side. His daughters were blessed with the daily visual of a man's love for a woman, stealing kisses from his wife at the dinner table nightly, openly, as if she was part of the menu, confronted in the early years with “yucks” and “ewws” from his coleen offspring.   As a proprietary orthodontist, Daddy wasn't home much, but he managed to break away to eat a meal with his gaggle of girls, place sets for ten, even if he had to run back to work afterwards. There was no shortage of love in their happy home and kisses flew around their abode as freely as the dust. If their father had wanted at boy, he never said so, and none of his daughters ever suspected they were one of eight due to his explicit intent of fathering a son.  He died fairly young; cancer, the constant radiation suspected as the cause, but until his last breath he loved all of his girls deeply, admittedly so, none more than his red headed Irelander beautiful wife. Maggie was the only daughter that loved to go fishing with him on his day off. More than trout, it was her father's wisdom she caught, but she knew that wisdom, her mind, was slipping away. “Daddy I love you and I miss you so much. Daddy I'm scared.” If he could have broken through, he would have.  There was nothing he wouldn't do for any of his girls.

Before she was symptomatic, following her mother’s death, Maggie had occasionally wondered if her husband divorced her to avoid the possibility of being her nurse at some point in their future, and she occasionally wondered if she never dated after the divorce to avoid that possibility for a future unknown somebody.  After the initial shock of betrayal, she picked herself up, walking briskly, daily, on the nature trails close to her modest home with her Welch Terrier, Winston, without thoughts of loneliness. Like a typical terrier, Winston liked to break free off leash, and even though it was against the park rules, she reveled in the freedom she afforded him.  He always came back to her, sometimes roughed up by jumping steadfastly through the bramble, having been chased by another mischievous dog. The aggravation of parasites, countless ticks and once or twice fleas, would never keep them from their clandestine crusades. Fleas were more dreaded than ticks, but she'd treat Winston with product, wash all the bedding on the hottest setting, vacuum vacuum vacuum like a mad woman, bombing with chemicals if need be, whistling while she worked.  Looking down at Winston she'd speak to him as an equal, as if he understood, “Freedom comes with a price, but you only live once.” And she'd let him off the leash again again again, whenever the mood would strike until he was too old to run and then sadly he passed away. In a way she was relieved by his death, since she no longer had to worry about who would take care of Winston, keenly aware she was in an early stage.

“It is time!” Maggie heard clearly in her half in half out state.

“Who's there!” She hollered at the colorless walls, and she gripped the armrests of the chair like an anxious driver's steering wheel.  

“Don’t tell me my darling child that you have forgotten my voice."

"Mommy. Is that you? Daddy?" Maggie could not determine with any certainty the speaker’s identity, in spite of that, she felt a deep connection and an authenticity in the voice, responding with curious unguarded attention. "Have I forgotten your voice? Am I dreaming? Or please tell me if I have gone completely mad?"

"Dear dear Maggie, is that fear I hear in your voice? It pains me to know you have been alone for so long, and it is understandable to be afraid, especially with the challenge you face, but fear no more my darling, because you will see me again before you know it.  There will be a period of darkness but in its own way it will be sublime. Haven't you already felt the comfort? The peace of no thought? There will be no loss, no grief, no pain, no worry. What you fear is the unknown, but move into it fearlessly in faith knowing that I am with you and you will feel my embrace. Did you understand what I meant when I said it is time?”

“Do you mean time to make arrangements? Time to ask for help?”  

“Yes my love.  It is abundantly clear.  Do not wait another day, another hour. Although life for you may seem bleak, someday there will be nothing but peace, comfort and love. Of this you can be sure.”  

Maggie rose from the chair with conviction.  All of her sister's had offered for her to come live with them, without mentioning the A word, but it was her niece Leslie, her godchild, that she decided to call.  Besides the namesake, red hair and gentle loving nature, Leslie, seemed to have stepped out of her grandmother's grave even down to the same pigeon toed feet.

“Hi Leslie, it's Aunt Maggie.”  Leslie already knew who it was from the caller id and she'd know her aunt's voice without it. “Remember we spoke about the assisted living complex near your house?  Would you be able to check into availability for me? It's time for me to give up my own place.”

Leslie asked no questions. “Of course Aunt Maggie!  No problem. I'm so excited you want to live near me.”

“But I'll have to sell my house and pack up all my stuff first .  Oh dear!”

“Don't worry Aunt Maggie.  We will get it done!” And they did.  When Maggie's friends from church and the woman's group found out about her quest, many of them pitched in.  A couple of the sisters trekked over to do the major work with their husbands and sons. What wasn't tossed was either packed or picked up by Goodwill.  Three months from that phone call with Leslie, with help from family and friends, Maggie was on her way.

“It will be great,” said Leslie through her whimsical smile on their last phone call before Maggie left for the airport.  “A new beginning with family that loves you.”

“Yes.  It will be grand!” replied Maggie enthusiastically sporting the same smile.

***

The heartbeat was hers alone now, the whooshing sound of blood and digestion had never been in her memory since the cord was cut, so why would she miss it now?  The shadows that came and went might scare her, but nothing scared her as much as her own reflection. “Who am I?” She cried. The nightmares loomed, and would sometimes be interrupted by the sweet vision of her parent's unknown faces, calming her.  And that voice. Whomever it was that spoke the comforting words of faith, the words kept coming. When Leslie and the sisters would arrive for a visit, accepting their hugs, she'd stare intently at their whimsical smiles, looking back at them through her own toothy grin, softly uttering the words, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

You were always kind

Never wanted to be rude

I thought you were truly amazing

But there was a side to you I never knew

Everything was great

Or so I thought

However, I learned otherwise

When in a web of lies you were caught

You kept trying to deny

That you lied to me anew

You said you did not change

Oh how I wish that were true

More time passed by

I was still holding to false hope

That maybe I was wrong

With the fact you changed, I couldn’t cope

Yet again I caught you in a web of lies

It was then I decided I was through

I pushed you out of my life

Finally cutting you loose

Lucy said she'd meet me at the blue swing "tomorrow." Then tomorrow came, and she didn't. I checked all the other hotspots of the park - the sandbox, monkey bars, and tunnel slide but no Lucy. I even stayed extra long at the playground, hoping she just got held up somehow. Eventually, I had to accept the fact I'd been stood up.

The neighborhood park held a lot of joy for me in an otherwise mundane life that summer. When Lucy was there, the hours just flew by. Her laugh was infectious and her spirit contagious. She viewed life as one big playground, never bogged down with sadness or worry, always a smile ready and energy abounding. I, being the quieter and more introspective one, could live my alter ego through Lucy.

When we met early that summer, it was because we were the only two there. Sure, we had noticed each other before. Only a handful of regular park-goers frequented Hillside Park, so we were attuned to one another. That particular morning, the heat was almost stifling in the early morning sunshine, but the need to expend energy prevailed. We both showed up, eager to run, hop, climb, swing, and slide. Since no others were present, we circled each other, wondering who would make the first move. Of course, Lucy did.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"Wanna swing?"

"K."

And off we went. It was the start of a best friendship that lasted a whole summer. While we swung, we'd talk about the future: I would be a famous author; she'd be a star. On the monkey bars I'd challenge her to skip a bar (she was tiny and couldn't reach) and puff with pride when I was the only one who could.

Day after day we played. I shed my self-consciousness that usually kept my nose buried in a book in social outings. I wasn't unnaturally shy, just quiet until I got my footing with new people. Reading let me be other types of people in my head. Lucy, on the other hand, instantly commanded an arena of people. She blended in with whatever type of person was around. If someone loved jumping, she'd produce a jump rope; if anyone twirled and leaped, she'd bring music to sing and dance. She was everyone's muse, everyone's blankie. Every single summer day brought fun and memories. It was like the playground was her stage, and we were her audience. Not for any kind of a show, just for ... life. Something powerful and uplifting emanated from her and seeped into my being then. Every day was a day of happiness. She was a force, a magnetic field that pulled the best out of everyone and towards everyone. No one could NOT like her. And I reveled in the fact that I was her best friend. I was never jealous of other kids, nor they of me. We all accepted our roles in this little society.

The day before our Meet You at the Swings date, she was subdued. It's only now, looking back that I can apply that term. At the time I just thought she was getting a cold, or mad at her parents or something. I wasn't receptive, still aren't, to subtle emotional hints. I greeted her with my usual chatting and peppered her with daily activities, the latest book I was reading, and my ideas for playground games. She agreed with all my suggestions, which in retrospect is suspicious, - she always took initiative - and I had a ball that day. I never thought anything would be or could be different. My friend Lucy was a permanent fixture in my mind.

Then "tomorrow" resulted in no Lucy. Not that day, not the next, nor any other summer day after. Nothing felt right at Hillside Park anymore. The swings creaked too much, the slide stuck in spots, and the sand was too clumpy and dirt-like. Other kids ventured over and played near me, but not really with me. I retreated into my usual quiet self, preferring a book under the tree once Lucy was gone. The summer felt unreal by the time school started. I hoped she'd be in my class, a distant hope that got me through the remaining couple weeks of summer, thinking we'd be in school together. I never saw Lucy again.

I was seven years old then, same as Lucy. I never knew her last name and never knew where she lived. But she brought out the silly in me all those years ago, and no one has matched her style. She might even be a star today; I wouldn't know what she looked like if she was a famous celebrity. The only bad memory that follows me from that summer is the devestating let-down I felt when Lucy didn't show up that day. I tried out so many theories in my head for her disappearance - she was kidnapped by aliens, she was a secret princess and had to return to her homeland, and even that she desperately tried to reach me but didn't know how. In all honesty, I hold that last one still. She mattered in a way few friends do now. She was truly a free spirit, but didn't expect anyone else to conform to her standard. Where can you find that today?

I know that she most likely moved away, but the doubts linger, and my creative juices invent fantastic scenarios of her whereabouts. Lucy makes for good book-writing.

Anytime I go to a playground, I still check the swingset for a blue swing and a girl sitting atop it.

The constellations of my life, dreary and somewhat boring as it is, connect lines to squares and squares to circles, some tall, some short; all better said as those years I have walked through, but they convert to simply minutes of a span of life in this walking asylum I live in. And the asylum is my universe less travelled by others.

Slow

to leave

the darkness

the comfort

the oblivion

of sleep

I awaken

day

after

day

after

day

to a world

drained

of color

of joy

of energy

suffocating

on hues

of gray

I feel

heavy

lumbering

listless

my body

an unwanted

weight

the air

laden

with melancholy

despair

woe

my mind

mired

in the endless

soul-destroying

mind-numbing

why’s

of it all

the answers

to which

I do not

know.

It feels like sandpaper, dried over.

Is that what it takes?

A dry , cold winter in a foreign land,

Before it turns its coat?

Cracks, flakes, itches.

Where was the promised protection,

The supple comfort of continued elasticity?

But I should’ve known better:

It had a spotty record , from my youth,

The scars of my adolescence.

And I tried to sooth with creams,

And I try to persuade with ointments.

But it betrays me still.

Hurts,chafes, breaks, tatters.

The betrayal I can not postpone,

Like hunchback Richard,

Abandoned on the field,

Among the follicles, I fall,

Into cracks, and wrinkles.

A hoarse, a hoarse,

Soon a furrow of disloyalty..

I couldn’t see through your cigarette smokescreen

when we met in that gin-soaked joint.

Lovemaking between twisted sheets of new-dew sweat,

mummified within our cheap motel sarcophagus.

Who knew I was just another slab of ready-to-order meat?

Pick a number at the delicatessen counter.

I could taste invading lovers on you, the salty brine of them.

Standing sentry at your gates, tunnel visioned,

while they crept through my periphery.

And as I sit with spirits clouding my mind,

I wonder if my claws clutched too tightly,

if truly I don’t know the difference between lions and lambs.