Nano chapter 7 and 8

 Chapter seven

Retirement

     Alice Wallis was at her desk writing Christmas cards to her friends and family. Six fifteen in the evening, her husband, Leonard napping in the living room. She was on the H section of her address book, and even though she had already filled one out to Roger Hollins and family, she thought again about his loss this year. Alice worked with Mary Hollins for sixteen years. They became fast friends, even through the years when Alice was her immediate supervisor. This was at least twenty five years earlier, and Alice thought back to how different they were in those days, Mary barely in her thirties then and Alice a vibrant forty five years of age. Life was rarely fair, and Alice knew never to feel like it was unfair. That was just a selfish attitude by those who demanded their own way, from their jobs and their families, and especially from those around them in society. Asking God 'why me' was akin to asking a drunk why they drank. It was a pointless questions.

     Still, there were moments in life when you just had to imagine that things occurred simply because somebody out there was a dick. She and her husband, Leonard, married now for fifty seven wonderful years in a row, had been battling cancer off and on for the past sixteen or seventeen of those years. And not to sound ungrateful that her husband was here, in the living room snoring, and her best friend was gone, but it just wasn't as natural as the order of the world pretended to be. Then again, Alice Wallis figured, cancer is not really a natural part of the world, even if it were so prevalent in society. That was the thought that was still with her at dinner later that evening, when she and her husband were sitting at the table eating their broccoli and pork chops, and the topic,s till burning in her head, came up in conversation.

     “It's just not suppose to be a part of our world, Lenny. You know what I mean?

     “I don't know. Seems like it's a very major part of the world, doesn't it?”

     "Yeah, but why? I mean, why would it even exist. Why is it here?”

     “You're getting into one of your moods again, Alice.”

     “Don't tell me what kind of mood I am in or not, Leonard.”

     “I know better don't I?” Her husband smiled at her, in a kind and gentle way.

     “Yes you do.” replied his wife. And it wasn't as if she were feigning anger at him with her gritted teeth response, because she was slightly annoyed at him. But he was correct and she had no reason to go off on an angry tangent. So she mellowed out and formed her thoughts.

     “As I was saying,” she continued, “Cancer just isn't natural. I know some of it is caused by these unnatural toxins, pollution, radiation, greenhouse gases. But some of it just shows up. Where did breast cancer come from? Why is it so dangerous? Why does it keep showing up?” Alice was on the verge of tears now, and her husband stood up from his seat at the table to come around and hug his wife.

     “I'm sorry. You're right. I am in one of those moods aren't I?”

     “Of course you are. But that's okay. You're supposed to have feelings.”

     “But what are the answers? I mean, what is the reason for cancer?”

     “You know I can't answer that, my love. It's just one of god's things.”

     “That's just it, Lenny. It isn't one of god's things. It can't be.”

     “Careful, Ally. We start thinking we know more than He does-” Leonard paused just long enough for Alice to interrupt.

     “It is not natural, Leonard. That's the whole point of what I am saying. I mean, if we have this forgiving father now and no more need for plagues, then why is there a plague like this still around? Why is god taking us away with this disease?”

     “Honey, you are asking questions no person can answer.”

     “Not until the afterlife, I know. Seems a convenient cop out doesn't it?”

     The quiet between them grew from a moment into a minute into a few minutes of silence. An observer would think they were mad at each other, quietly fighting each other inside their own heads. An observer who knew what it was like to live with somebody for that length of time knew better. That observer would see the couple silently expressing their love toward each other. It could have been either of those ways between Leonard and his wife of almost six decades, and always more of the latter than the former. In this case, it was much less of avoiding an argument with his wife. It was even only a miniscule thought that she was disturbing him with her thoughts, her near blasphemy. It was simply that he loved his wife, his partner through richer and poorer, and he let her come around to wherever she needed to be, to feel.

     “It is just incredibly sad, isn't it?” Alice Wallis stated after these few minutes of quiet reflection.

     “Of course it is. Especially when you keep thinking her instead of me.”

     “what do you mean?”

     “I mean, you can't help but think that. It could be me gone, not her. That you are more lucky than Roger is, who is alone now.”

     “I don't know how you always seem to know what I am thinking.”

     “That comes with the territory, love.”

     “Yeah I guess.” Alice Wallis sighed deeply, a sigh that released all of her tension. “I am going to call him and see how he is doing.”

     “Go ahead. I can clean up the dishes.”

     “well, at least there's that.” She winked at her husband, kissed him and went out to the patio with her cell phone.

Chapter eight

Cut Away

     About an hour later, Roger Hollins and Alice Wallis said goodnight and promised to check in again in a week or so. Roger was just finishing one last cigarette for the evening, noting to himself again that Alice never remembered the time difference between California and Florida. He was out on the back patio in a crisp forty five degree Florida winter chill. He knew that people came down here to Florida for the warm weathers. He grew up with those people in New England. As a boy he had never visited the south but his grandparents had come down yearly as well as a few of his aunts and uncles. But Roger Hollins had spent too many of his adult years, twenty four to be exact, in sunny southern California, to find forty five degree evenings just a tad chilly for his blood. Californian's retired to Arizona, or Las Vegas. They did not travel across country to Florida to retire. Yet here he was. And to top it off he was alone now. Of course there was family here, his brother spent the winters here, and his children were only five or six hours away most times. And he had made several close friends here in Florida the past seven years. So he could not say he was alone. But that was exactly what he told himself, and he felt that he earned that right, having spent just less than fifty years with his wife and a few months without her. Roger was alone now and there was not much else he could do about it but accept it. Alice was smart enough to know what he was feeling. She sympathized even if she could not directly relate. Alice Wallis had not called him to remind him that he was alone; that was simply a side effect of the conversation.

     He love Leonard and Alice Wallis like they were family. He remembered how scared she was when her husband was diagnosed with cancer, and Mary and he were by their side during the first round of chemo and the second. And when it returned ten years later they were on a plane almost immediately. He tried to imagine the relationship that his wife had with Alice Wallis, her former employer, between himself and one of his bosses, and he could not imagine it. He had nothing against his various supervisors over the years. It was simply a matter of separating his work life and his personal life. He knew people who felt differently, he even married one of them it seemed, but he did not picture himself getting so close to one of his coworkers, let alone a boss. Being friends with his wife's boss, however, was completely fine by him, and he thought back to when they first started hanging out and when his wife first took that job. This of course led him to one more cigarette out in the breeze and he figured he would either dire of exposure or lung cancer soon enough.

     Images seemed to continually flash through Jessica's head. These images were memories of Florida, of visits to her parents' house in between trips abroad.

     “I just can't handle living on a golf course Roger.” her mom, complaining again about the location of their new house.

     “Ma, you can't build another house right now. There's a recession.”

     “I'm tired of people telling me what I can and can not do.”

     “You won't sell this. That's all I mean, Ma.”

     “This is Florida. Things will sell.”

     That was all, what, six years ago? Seven or eight, Jessica figured. It was always surprising to her that she did not feel like she's aged since then, since ever. Was it her whole generation who felt perpetually young, or just her? She would have to ask around about it some day.

     “Tulip died, Jessica. I am so sorry.” Another flash, this time of a phone call, Jessica in Amsterdam, filming a fashion show this time, with news of her dad's King Charles Spaniel, Tulip, being put to sleep. “Your dad is just beside himself.”

     Another flash, of the house in Riverside. “you have a red wall in your kitchen?” This was her asking her mom. Mom and dad had just moved into this house, a smaller two bedroom out in the hills of Southern California.

     “Yeah, it's pretty cool isn't it?” mom acting like a teenager, her daughter was thinking.

     “You've never wanted color in any of your houses before.”

     “Well, people change. You know how that goes.”

     Flash of images again inside Jessica's brain. Packing up that house to move east. Packing up her own house to move west. Then abroad. Visiting her mom and dad in a trailer park in Florida.

     “You know, I think you guys were happiest there, in the trailer park.” This was a flash from a few years later, house number one in Florida, a memory of a memory which was interesting to Jessica. In the real world Jessica was in bed, under the covers, waking up slowly, letting these images flash through her thoughts, not so much different from a dream but in a way something much more tangible.

     “I just don't like being right on the golf course, that's all.”

     “I would love it, no back yard neighbors.”

     “Yeah well, you aren't living here, are you?”

     “I think you're only happy when you're upset about something.”

     “You really think that about me, your own mother?”

     “Well, it's a trait you passed down to me, that's all.”

     Another flash, this time later in Florida, her dad speaking to her this time. “what do you mean you blocked out your childhood?”

     “Well, she only remembers the bad things that happened anyway.”

     “Are you this way on purpose, Jessie? Is this the way we raised you to be?”

     “Dad, she's just in one of her moods. You know how it goes.”

     “My name is not she.”

     Jessica bothered herself to roll out of bed this time. She was through with the flash backs, the lucid dreaming. She pondered a moment to explore her real memories and match them up to the events running through her mind the past half hour or so. They seemed on point to her, and this actually bothered her. Not every memory was her mom and herself arguing, at least disagreeing on things. But in some moments it certainly felt that way. Was that really all there was to it, or was she in some sort of funk right now and focusing on those negative aspects. Jessica walked into the bathroom to freshen up, as it were, and came out and finally looked at the bedside clock. Two o'clock in the morning, in Wales just about parallel to the International Date Line. She subtracted in her head and figured it was only about nine thirty at night near the Eastern portion of the States. She called her father.

     “I miss her dad.” She did not have to announce herself to him, or the reason for the call. She was instead able to state that simply and firmly and quietly cry while he comforted her from four thousand miles away.

     “I do to baby girl.”

     After a few moments Jessica began to explain why she was calling. She described the dreaming state to her father and her conclusions.

     “So I don't know, am I supposed to be learning something from all this?”

     “You think that your mom is trying to tell you something, in other words?”

     “Maybe. I think it's more that I am wondering what exactly she taught me. What is my legacy, in other words.”

     “You seem to be contemplating some big questions there in the middle of the night, son't you think?”

     “Well, I might still be on states time, you know? Been here only a week so far. My body is still adapting.”

     “And that has nothing to do with having bad dreams?”

     “It's just that, they weren't really dreams, like I said. I mean, I know I have to call them that but it was different than dreaming. I was awake, and I was,”

     “Was what?” He asked, after a moment's pause.

     “I don't know. I was reliving those moments, if that makes sense. If that were something possible, that's what I feel like I was doing this morning.”

     They were soundless for a full minute on the telephone.

     “Listen, dad. I know you don't understand. I don't understand.”

     “It's just that, well, I don't want you to think I don't believe. Because I do. You know that. I believe in a god and all that and maybe your mom is in heaven talking to you. Maybe you miss her, and your mind is just making up reasons to be mad that she is gone.”

     “Well, if you are going to put it so logically like that I guess you might be right.”

     “Don't get sarcastic with me, Jessie.”

     “No. I mean, I didn't mean that. It does make sense that way. I wasn't trying to make fun.”

     A few more minutes of banter followed, and father and daughter were able to hang up from each other, one to retire for the evening and the other to awaken and face the day.

Chapter six Nano

 Chapter six

Visiting hours

     Patricia Hollins Kraft left the patient's room that afternoon with the strangest feeling. She felt honestly that her mother was trying to tell her something, through this old lady who was slowly deteriorating in the retirement home that Patricia spent much of her time at. She did not know what the story meant but remembered now, a week later, that it was important for Ms. Ellis to get the story out. She had wanted to share it with her. She only remembered this because this morning, while at the senior center attached to this retirement home, as Patricia was stacking chairs and folding bingo tables, Ms. Ellis walked in from the hallway. Peeked in, was more like it, all one hundred and six pounds of her fragile body taking those baby shuffles forward through the double doors in order to look up at Patricia and smile.

     “Still working all alone?” she asked.

     “I suppose.” Patricia withdrew her silent exasperated sigh. Inside her first reaction tended to fall toward oh god they found me. Almost immediately she countered that thought with the realization that she decided to be here with these patients, and why become frustrated at them when they were doing the best they could. So Patricia smiled at Ms. Ellis, and was ready to ask her how she was doing.

     “You're always doing something around here.” Ms. Ellis had stated first, while Patricia was still sorting out her thoughts. “It's nice of you to do all this for us.”

     “Thank you Ms. Ellis.” Patricia didn't scream it so it was unlikely, from across the spacious banquet hall, that she was heard, but she conveyed the message through smiling teeth. She always hoped so, anyway.

     “It was nice to talk to you the other day, too. I always remember what my pastor told me; when you have a unique experience from god, don't hide it. Tell it”.

     “Well, thank you for sharing your story with me, Ms. Ellis.” And at that moment there, Patricia Hollins remembered the story, and the feeling she had listening to Ms. Ellis talking, that her mother was trying to tell her something even though it all seemed unrelated. And noting how surprised she was that Ms. Ellis, ninety three years old now, a bit senile and recently losing her driving privileges but still living independently, remembered Patricia right away, and remembered the conversation. Ms. Ellis would usually come around and remember some thing about Patricia, once in a while even calling her by name. But never out of the blue like that, and never in a different setting. This all caused Patricia to review the story she was told in more detail, wondering if it meant anything at all.

     It was only a week earlier. This was the middle of winter now, and her mom had been gone a few months. Spring time was getting close and the plan was to scatter her mom's ashes into the ocean. Patricia's world had changed with her mom's passing, but she would not consider it a complete upheaval. It did seem to shift though, sideways, as if on a parallel plane to her previous existence. If she tried to explain that to somebody they most likely wouldn't know what she meant. When she had returned home after her mom was cremated, Patricia Hollins Kraft found herself getting involved with Hospice, and a certain nurse in particular. With the care they had given to her mother in those last few weeks, Patricia felt like she needed to do something in return. That lead her almost immediately to helping out at the senior center, volunteering with bingo and with setting up activities for the neighborhood senior.

     Attached to this private center was the retirement home that ran the center. Not a huge facility comparatively, with forty beds downstairs and another fifteen small apartments upstairs for independent living, it was nevertheless enough to support the senior center and to outreach into the aging community around it. Patricia Kraft, a nursing degree earned and quickly ignored twenty years prior, was offered a real job at the home and accepted. The past year for her had been one of accepting change, of going with the flow and finding a spiritual center, wherever that center lead her. Her life was imitating her meditation process, in other words, and it was all so far so good for Patricia. Her degree too old and her training lapsed, Patricia was unable to perform those functions but it was planned for her new employer to help her update her licensing and to complete some training, and Patricia was hired more as an outreach director. Outreach, it seemed, was an industry code word for sales person.

     But this job had lead her to meeting Miss Ellie, a retired art teacher who was now confined to her wheelchair, and Mr. Sprintz, a sly old devil who liked to accidentally bump his hands into the girls behinds. There was also Miss Eleanor and Mr. Fitzgerald, seeing each other on the side, at eighty something acting as if they were still in high school sneaking off from a dance. And of course Ms. Nettie Ellis, one of the more confused residents, which lead to many of the others, resident and staff, to avoid her when they could. Patricia fit into this category well enough but she was also paid to reach out to her and she spent time with Nettie, at least occasionally, one on one, to evaluate how she was doing. Nettie Ellis was one to wander around as well, just walk the halls and look for conversation.

     “I get so lonely.” Ms. Ellis told to Patricia that afternoon. “And they can be so”, there was a pause here while Ms. Ellis gathered her thought, “clicky. Or they have their partners. You know?”

Patricia smiled but stayed wordless. It was about five o'clock now, and she was tired and ready to leave and head home, a bubble bath and a mystery novel waiting for her on this mid week afternoon. Patricia was not that interested in hearing again about the other residents here, Ms. Ellis's neighbors, who may or may not of avoided Ms. Ellis when they saw her coming.

     Patricia had come up to fix her telephone, which was working fine and Ms. Ellis was repeatedly trained to hit only one button, the answer button, when it rang, and not two, as she demonstrated again to Patricia, how she always pressed this button (on the left, which said talk) and then that button (on the right, which used to be red and said end on it, blurred by the continued friction of fingerprint to rubber). “How come it's changed, all of a sudden?” Ms. Ellis had asked her a few moments ago.

     “I don't know, Ms. Ellis. But it will work again for you.”

     “You're so good to me. Thank you deary”

     “You're always welcome, Ms. Ellis.” Patricia turned away from the kitchen counter, into the hallway, where a photograph of a young lady, thirteen or fourteen perhaps, posed with who appeared to be her father, had struck Patricia's field of vision. “Is that your daughter?” she asked and thought immediately that she would regret asking.

     “Why are you asking about my daughter?”

     “I was just wondering. She looks quite lovely.”

     “Oh she was gorgeous you know. All the boys were after her, even with her problem.” Patty tried to remember the files. Miss Nettie's daughter, Lilian, lived in Michigan. Or maybe Minnesota. She never came out here and Patty had no reason to talk to her, but as far as she gathered in the office, there was no problem with the daughter, who must have been sixty years or seventy years old herself now.

     “Bi-Polar,” Ms. Ellis continued. “That's what they call it. Oh it was such a shame. Wait, I have another picture.” Patricia inwardly moaned. She felt like a bad person for this, but she figured it was just human. Patricia forgot how long these conversations, not only with this resident but most of them, could go on for. Patricia followed Ms. Ellis into the bedroom now.

     “Where is it?” she asked herself. “There she is” she beamed with pride at the other picture, sitting on the bedside nightstand. Ms. Ellis turned and began shuffling out of the room, Patricia backing up to stay out of the way and to follow again. “Thanks for showing me the pictures, Ms. Ellis.”

     “Oh what a shame. You know? She was a wonderful girl. She went to church and she was such a good girl, until that disease and they had to, you know, take out all her blood and that.” Patricia tried to imagine why they would do a transfusion for bi-polar disorder, and couldn't. “Such a good Christian girl. Are you Christian?”

     Patricia paused, “Sort of. I guess.” They had reached the living room by now, the entire apartment having been visited now, between the kitchen and the bedroom and the living and dining combined space. Patricia came across yet another picture that struck her vision and paused. This was a photo of two kids kneeling on a back step, facing each other. The bottom two thirds of a screen door behind them.

     “I have to tell you that story.” She was beside Patricia now, pointing at the photograph, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. Patricia smiled as she glanced toward this senior citizen. “Harry bought that house for ten thousand dollars after the war. He took that money bless his heart, and bought me a little house.” Ms. Ellis's voice had rose to a little girl's squeak by now and Patty found it adorable. “That day, the day we took that picture I won't forget it. That's my boy and that's my daughter and look you see me and Harry in the reflection.” And sure enough, having missed it earlier, you could see two adults smiling in the screen door. Patty imagined it as something similar to that mirror in Harry Potter, when he saw his parent's reflection in it with his own. Because it did not seem to be there moments before, and even now, studying it, Patricia was not sure if they were inside the house looking out through the screen, or reflected images from the photographer's point of view, onto the glass door in front of the screen. Patricia wondered as well where was the photographer.

    

     "That day, I know you have to leave but let me tell you the story, dear.”

     “It's fine, Ms. Ellis. Tell me your story.” And it was fine and it was at this point when Patty had that first feeling. And it wasn't a voice that said Listen and it wasn't that it was not a voice that said that. It wasn't something she heard but it was something she felt.

     “You are such a sweet heart let me tell you. They are all so, into themselves downstairs. Or their partners. And there's nobody like me here to talk to. But anyway the day that photograph was taken I had just come home, it was from the grocery store, and I left Chris alone there and I had just put down my groceries when we took that picture and he was crying! Only a minute before he was crying” And Ms. Ellis put her knuckle up to her eyelid and twisted it to demonstrate crying for Patricia, “And I said what's wrong baby. And you know, all the kids they would tease him and push him around because he waited for the special bus and they couldn't go on the special bus and the other boys were jealous. And they pushed him around and he was crying. He was six in this picture. And his sister was four, I think.

     “And I said to him, I said, Christopher, maybe you just have to hit them back. You know?” The last question was directed at Patricia, who only nodded. And Patricia, meanwhile, was taking baby steps toward the front door while listening to the story. “And you know what he said to me?” Ms. Nettie Ellis took a gentle hold of Patricia's arm. “He said I can't do that. They're my fwends. And he said it just like that, too They're my fwends.” Tears were beginning to well up in Ms. Ellis's eyes and maybe even trying to form in Patricia's own eyes. “Can you believe that? He was such a good Christian boy. Are you Christian, Patricia? You are, I can see it in your eyes.” Patricia, not being denominational at all and not even completely spiritual anyway, remained silent. “I ask because I have to tell you this story.” And again, Patricia couldn't help herself but she really wanted to get out now. And again, more gently than last time, the idea of Listen came into her head. And she wondered now for the first time if this was some god thing, or some message from her mom. “My pastor told me When you have a remarkable story, you have to share it. And it was later when that boy, and his momma was dying, you remember I told you, what was that disease? I don't know, but they replaced all her blood and they gave her all that medicine but she wasn't going to live. So I had to go to the hospital and that little boy said he would wait there for his mommy. So I saw my sister at the hospital and I saw her die. I was there, I had to be there for her, you know.” As she paused, only briefly mind you, in her story, Patricia, meanwhile, was trying to establish, continuity number one, as this was getting confusing even for someone in their nineties, and what lesson she was supposed to be listening for, number two.

     “And I wasn't supposed to have him, you know. They said my hips were too small and they wouldn't be able to deliver him. And you know what they did? Because I was in there and I saw the bright light and I felt that peace, and that serenity, and I woke up and there was my baby boy. And they brought him to me and they said it was like magic, because I wasn't supposed to be able to deliver him, and that nurse, she came in and she was crying and she said to me I don't know what to say. But you weren't supposed to live, and the baby wasn't supposed to live and all of a sudden, he was through, Ms. Ellis. And they brought my boy into me and There's my sweet little boy.” And again, Ms. Ellis had dry tears in her eyes as she took another small breath and continued.

     “So let me tell you I am there in the hospital and I see the bright light and when I wake up all of a sudden he is there again, and how wonderful. I am at peace with the world and I have to share that with the world, and his momma is dying in the other room, and she was my twin you know?”

     “You had a twin?” Patricia did not know why she felt the need to finally interject herself into this story, but that thought struck her for some reason.

     “I had a twin. And she died when she was twenty six, and I was there with her and when she died I went to the other room, and her little boy was there, my little boy, who was not supposed to be born and he says I know momma and I say how do you know? I just left there and she just died and he says to me momma told me she died and she was all in white and she was beautiful. And we went down the hall and he keeps pointing and saying there's momma. There's momma and there are angels in the world, and you are one of them. And I had to share that with you.” Ms. Ellis, surprisingly, ended with a gentle smile, and her eyes, peaceful as they were, still seemed to be screaming at Patricia to Listen to me.

     “Ms. Ellis, Thank you for sharing with me.”

     “You are such a sweetheart. You know that and I will see you later dear.”

Patricia left and did not promptly forget all of this, but just could not comprehend enough of it to keep pondering it. Even later, now in fact, after again running into Ms. Ellis unexpectedly, being forced again to confront the thoughts, she hadn't a clue what to make of any of it. It seemed unfair for god to come give her a message that was indistinguishable from background noise. If you want my attention, god, she thought, just tell me straight out. Or her mother, for that matter. Whoever it was trying to get her attention from beyond, using the elderly like that as a conduit, should have done a better job at it. That, in any case, was the thought that Patricia carried into sleep with her that night.

Chapter five

Sesame Street

     It was in this frame of mind, at this particular moment, that Patricia Hollins Kraft decided to search out her earliest memory. Sitting alone, outside, for another twenty minutes, she guessed, and she wanted to know where she came from exactly. She knew of memories that were told to her; falling asleep on her first birthday cake, the sugar rush going immediately to her brain, she supposed. But her memories did not include that. Her memories did not include her first day of school, nor her first tooth coming in or any of the other memories that people, family, used to relate to her. She did remember school of course, and she was sure it was kindergarten, which meant what, child garden? Patricia ruminated on that a bit, wondering if she would remember to look it up later. Kindergarten had no particular memories for her by itself.

      Her memories of kindergarten were always accompanied by other memories; a TV show that she watched after returning home from school one day, something with a big talking owl, and a Christmas ornament made from a tuna can, not because she remembered making it in class but she did have the memory of hanging it on the tree. It was full of blue glitter and had drawings of cats on it. Patricia remembered these facts only because the ornament hung on the tree until maybe three years ago. Patricia assumed there was still a box of childhood treasures hidden in the house somewhere, even after her parents had moved so often since the kids had grown and left the neighborhood.

     Patricia remembered walking to school. Alone. It has become a completely different world, she realized. Nobody walks alone at six or seven years of age, yet there is no question in her mind that she walked it. She remembers a neighbor, distinctly, who was out there working in her garden, a much older lady, a grandmother most likely, leaned over some vegetables along the sidewalk, a four foot white picket fence the only barrier to the outside world. The actual conversations were long gone from Patricia's thoughts, but the act of standing there, on her way to school in the morning, stuck out in her mind as if it were a horn protruding from her scalp. This was the sixties, she added up mentally. Nineteen sixty eight or nine, she was first starting school. Still, she tried to picture her hometown, small in size in New England proper, and tried to imagine a child alone, at six, walking the six or seven blocks to where the school was (since burned down, Patricia discovered about ten years ago. The lot was sold to some housing authority and there were now projects built at the sight), and could not fathom it. Something always seemed off when she thought way back in her life. Even if it were an innocent time and even though the town was literally a one horse town, there never seemed to be proper connections to her thought.

     Her second earliest memory must belong a year later, moving out of that house, or apartment or whatever it was, and into a bigger town. Not a city, mind you, but a real town at least. Patricia remembered driving away from the parking lot of her building and seeing her plastic tricycle sitting against the rose bushes on the side of the house. She had not ridden it in a year now, at least, but it still hurt her to leave it behind. She wanted to say something about it, to make her parents stop the car, but then the memory was gone and Patricia, her butt getting cold from the concrete in current twenty first century Florida, lost the rest of the memory.

“I blocked out a lot of my childhood” Patricia stated aloud, perhaps to the birds over head, digging through the crooks of the tree branches for any nuts or berries that may have been hidden there.

     “I remember Nixon resigning.” Patricia and Mary Hollins, mother and daughter, were now sitting on the patio, mother in her donated wheelchair from Hospice and daughter in the cushioned wicker two seater beside her.

     “Well that isn't such a strange thing to remember now, is it?” her mother asked.

     “Yeah but I was in second grade, wasn't I?”

     “I suppose.”

     “Seems awful young for a political memory, That's all I'm saying.”

     “You remember the war, then?”

     “Nah. I just remember coming home from school, and Nixon resigned. I don't even think I knew who he was or anything. I just remember the speech. And the face.”

     “That would've been fifth grade, Trish.” When he resigned. He ended the war, you know.”

     “Fifth grade? Really?”

     “uh huh. You and your cousin Connie took that trip to Washington, remember?”

     “We didn't go to Washington Ma. Not until we moved. We drove through there, remember?” Patricia Hollins felt like this was the onset of dementia. Except her mom was too young for that. This was the cancer somehow. But cancer doesn't do that, she thought. Chemo could? She wondered.

     “You and Connie. Not Washington, where was that? Johnny took you to the protests. And all you talked about was the fireworks.”

     “That was New York?”

     “New York. You remember? You and Connie were still in fifth grade. You got a credit in middle school for that trip. Before you went to middle school.”

     “My god ma. How do you remember this stuff and I don't?”

     “It's cancer. Not Old timers.”

     “Alzheimer.” Connie felt like her ma could read her mind somehow. “I remember that trip. You know, I look back now and think there was a lot of drugs around.”

     “Yeah well I wasn't the best mother. We've already established that haven't we?”

     “Ma. I'm just saying. Jesus, I didn't mean anything by it.”

     “Well, what did you mean then? That I let you go off with your uncle, wasted?'

     “No ma.” I mean, was he? All of them, I mean. Jesus Christ you get me confused.”

     “Well, I don't know what he was doing. I didn't know what that crap was until you guys brought it home. How should I know what Johnny was on.”

     “It was just the times ma. That's all I meant. I mean, I didn't realize it then, but I can look back now and think they look like hippies. You know what I mean? Our whole family.

     “yeah well, we weren't all a bunch of drunken losers, Patricia.” 

     Mary Hollins was angry now. Patricia was sorry to have brought it up. Then again, her mom turned angry sometimes at the drop of a hat, it seemed. It was maybe the disease. Or the inability to change the disease. Some kind of coping mechanism maybe. In any case, Patricia decided to drop it and see if that helped to calm her mum down. “your father and I took a lot of effort to keep you away from that garbage. And look at you. All of you.” Her voice trailed off at the end, and Patricia realized that her plan to drop it wasn't working. Maybe yelling ti out would clear the air.

     “Ma. Come on. Do I smoke? Do I drink?”

     “Not any more.”

     “There you go. Do I believe in god?”
     “I don't know what you believe in. How should I know. You just come here and throw it all in my face.”

     “What did I throw in your face?”

     “All of it. You're like all of them. Even now.” Her mother was crying. To Patricia it seemed not a healthy cry, not even a particularly decent cry. She would not accuse her mother of crying for attention, but she thought in all seriousness that it was something similar to that. Some need that her mom had to be noticed maybe, validated. It was not something that Patricia, even to this day, could fully describe to somebody else.

     “Ma. Look I'm sorry. Okay? I didn't mean anything like that. You know it.”

     “It just upsets me, Trishy. You know it does.”

     “What does ma? We're talking about the past.”

     “just. The dope. All the drugs. All that horrible crap you put in your body and it was all my fault.”

     “You know if we hadn't had this conversation, I don't know, a thousand times already, I would maybe respond to that.”

     “You know what I mean though. I didn't know. None of us know. We just wanted the best for you kids.”

     “Ma. You have to stop it!”

     “Patricia, I'm tired. Can we stop arguing now, I can nap?”

     “I love you ma. Get some rest. I have to go to the store anyway.”

     “Ice cream?”

     “I will get you some more ice cream.” Her mother was already drifting off to sleep as the daughter finished the sentence.

     Nineteen seventy six defined a generation of kids much in the way the summer of love defined their older cousins seven years earlier. Patricia had a poster of Shaun Cassidy on her wall just like all the other eighth graders. Judy Blume had already taught her about the birds and the bees and her cousin Connie, three years her senior and almost ready to drive herself to school, had shown her how to put a roach on the alligator clip and hold it to her lips without burning them. Connie went around with roach clips in her hair, flowers protruding from each of them so the family thought it was for show only, not functionality. She had given one to Patricia, who considered the idea of trying to smoke pot without her cousin a bit ludicrous. 

     Nevertheless Patricia wore it, blue and purple feathers flowing down the side of her braid, with a certain sense of pride. She felt grown up, a real teenager, in school knowing that nobody understood what it was, except ,maybe for Miss Martin, who looked a lot like the people you saw after school, hanging out in the park instead of working, playing guitar and spacing out. Hippies, Patricia knew, but her parents always said that word with so much animosity that Patricia was ashamed to even call them by that name. Earth people, she sometimes might have thought to call them.

     They were from the mother earth, and she supposed they kinda smelled that way too. They all knew what the clip was for of course, as did Miss Martin, Patricia was pretty sure.

     That summer before eighth grade, the year when everything would change and Patricia would finally feel like she belonged there, in that school she had inhabited, quietly and shyly, for the past six years, she and Connie and Connie's father Johnny had taken a week long trip to New York city. The democratic convention was there. The Spirit of Seventy six was there, some airplane or such foolishness. And there were fireworks. And boys, Patricia was repeatedly assured of by Connie. “A ton of boys!” Connie had gleefully screamed to her when they first discussed the trip. “Of course you'll come. Please come! I want you to come with us Patty!” Connie was the only one who called her Patty. She was Trishy, or Trish, to everyone else, when circumstances were less formal than Patricia. But going on thirteen now, Patty felt perfect to her; grown up but still able to play. “Patty” she had told herself in front of the mirror many times the past year. “I'm Patty, how do you do?” So of course Patty went with her cousin and her uncle and the summer of seventy six defined who she was much more forcefully than changing her name or wearing a roach clip in her hair.

     The trip up from Boston was fine. About a three hour drive from where they were and the two girls, preteen and teen, were as giddy as imaginable. They sang non stop and even uncle Johnny carried a tune or two with them, being much more aligned, at twenty nine, with the youth of that age than most of their other uncles and aunts and parents. Patricia always felt that Connie had gotten the cool dad, and guessed it was compensation for having lost her mother so young in a car accident. “You might think your dad is half as cool,” Connie had said to her once, “But he combines with your mom, and that makes it even, Patty”. It was not necessarily fair, but in a way it was balanced.

     As that first day wore on into the evening and as Johnny continued to 'nurse' his beer, the dynamics seemed to change. It was nothing that Patty could put her finger on at the time, although in hindsight thirty years after the fact it seemed like every thing should have been totally obvious to her, even back then. The evening wore into night and her uncle grew angry and the anger passed out but woke up in rage so that the next day, when they were supposed to be on Coney Island, they were stuck attending to the hangover instead. And Monday turned into Tuesday this way and Wednesday saw no change on the surface. But there was drastic change underneath because Connie slipped deeper and deeper into herself and Patty became scared because it seemed that her cousin was scared. And if your invincible totally rad and bitchin pot smoking high school attending cousin was scared then something must be wrong. Patricia found no real need for fear, she supposed. Nothing happened, per se, but it was all different anyway. In hindsight Patty knew what it was but back then, during that summer, she just knew she was uncomfortable all the time. Her uncle looked at her and even though it seemed harmless, and even though he didn't say the words, it made Patty feel wrong. Violated was the grown up word, but dirty was the word she would have used back then.

     Patricia was just grabbing her keys to head out for ice cream. She thought about getting her neighbor, her mom's neighbor, Jeannie, to come sit for her but she knew that her mother hated that. Still, if her mom did try to get up on her own she would probably fall. It was back and forth for a full minute before Patricia gave up and decided to just let her mom sleep. She would get ice cream later. She did not want to leave her mom alone. That seemed to be the bottom line. She could pretend it was so that her mom did not fall. She could blame the disease for making her come and live down here with her mom. But in all honestly, Patricia wanted to be here. With her mom. And it would be all lovely if her reasons were valid. For love or for service, two of the nicer answers that came to mind. But truth be told, Patricia was afraid of the world out there anyway. She was scared and wanted her mommy, and she was okay with that. All indications seemed to be that the family, and her mother, were okay with that as well.

     So Patricia sat back down on the couch, the TV on but muted, so that Patricia could do something while sitting there. She thought back to that summer, and to her mom's reactions to that summer. It was as if she knew. And Patricia knew full well that she never told anybody about that trip. She rarely spoke of it at all, and Connie even less about it. And maybe that was enough to raise suspicions, Patricia gathered, because there was no way in the world that her mom would have known directly about what was going on. One more proposition that occurred to Patricia, that perhaps she was a victim herself, her mom being looked at or god forbid even touched by that man. He was on the wrong side of the family though, so that didn't make sense either. And way too young, of course. Still, Patricia felt there must be something aside from intuition at play there.

     Of course nothing actually occurred to Patricia that week in New York. Nothing tangible that would make it into her memoirs some day. It was all just innuendo and suggestion. What bothered Patricia more than anything else, especially now, is that she was so young, so impressionable. When she thought back to that weekend there were a thousand things she understood that she had not at thirteen years old. Things like the way in which Connie reacted to her the entire trip. Where preteen Patty felt anger at her cousin ignoring her, this mid life Patricia saw her cousin's reactions as the only possible defense mechanism available to a teenager. What it came down to, Patricia was still sure in her heart about it, was that Johnny Hallohan must have abused his daughter. Connie would never have talked openly about it while she was alive, but all of the signs were there. And they maybe would have gone on unnoticed if Patricia had not taken the trip to New York with them during that defining summer of nineteen seventy six.

     “Bierre Pauling.”

     “Well that's an unusual name, isn't it, Charlotte?” Connie bumped her elbow against her cousin's arm as she spoke. “This is Charlotte, my younger sister.” Patricia stared up at her cousin trying to figure out what exactly was going on. They were in the elevator of a nice hotel. Patricia figured it wasn't super expensive, but it was nice compared to the part of town they had grown up in. It had an elevator anyway, and five floor. And somebody to help them carry their luggage up, which to Patricia brought this quaint little hotel up three stars by itself. Connie was talking now to this boy assigned to their luggage, the boy who introduced himself as Bierre Pauling.

     “And I'm Nancy. Butler.”

     “Imagine that” the boy, who, Patty thought, must have been younger than her cousin was. He was young looking in any case, but there was also baby fat, slightly puffy cheeks in his face, and just a general feeling of youth. But when he smiled he did so with his eyes and in that smile was something that seemed grown beyond the teenage days the rest of the boy's appearance let on. “From Boston? Your dad's got quite the Southie accent to him.”

     “You know Boston then?”

     “Been there. Yeah.” He was talking to Connie but looking at Charlotte. Patty did not always know what the game was but with Connie, or Nancy in this case, catching on to the rules was always easily enough handled. She tried to look down at her feet, short white socks in buckle shoes. That made her feel self conscious so she tried to lift her eyes, and when they met his she smiled and this whole scene made her feel like she was older and more mature than she really was and that made her blush.

     Which in turn made her again feel self conscious so she returned to staring at her shoes again, thinking she muddled this situation up completely. All the while Connie kept talking and Bierre kept watching and Connie kept bowing her head and the entire seventy five second elevator ride to the third floor seemed to take hours.

Johnny was already in the bar at this point, yelling “Look, this joints got a bar” like some East end Mick gangster, which he may well have been, but winked at the girls as he strolled over to it as if he knew the gag was on him and he was fine with that. So Connie, Nancy, spent what would seem a safe amount of continued flirting at their door, suddenly feeling shy or perhaps vulnerable, now that Bierre would see where they slept tonight, would even possibly have a key available to him, just enough to cool off but not to freeze the potential of more, and Bierre went back to his duties, the girls almost instantaneously giggling as soon as the door was shut and they realized what they were up to.

     The conversation between the two girls was still going fairly strong as they wondered down an hour later looking for Connie's dad and a meal of some sort and Patricia's uncle, much less jovial any way now that the liquor was settling in, found himself annoyed at his daughter's new friend. Scenes that would come to Patricia only years later to give her a clue as to what was going on when she was younger. Tension between the three of them mounted quickly in these situations, Patricia feeling it and reacting to it but not knowing why and at the time assuming, incorrectly, that Connie must have understood and wasn't bothering to let her in on the secret.

      Looking back over the week as an adult, Patricia often wondered if she imagined it all at some point in her life. But as she matured and understood the world as it was, as she looked deeper at her cousin's feelings and reactions since those days, it seemed obvious to her that she was not mistaken. Patricia would notice a hand on her cousin's thigh, a slap on the bum that was meant neither as a punishment nor as a joke. Anger would make it's way into her uncle's reactions, and jealousy into her cousins, as Johnny would ignore his daughter and come close to his niece, the unshaven whiskers brushing her cheek as he spoke and the smell of whiskey and beer coming off of his clothing. And what should have been a great summer trip for two growing girls turned into uncomfortable silences and confused reactions.

     “Icky” Patricia said aloud.

     “What's that baby?” Her mom, stirring from slumber, asked her daughter what was she saying.

     “Just still thinking of things ma.” Patricia stirred the cobwebs from her mind quickly.

     “hmm.” There was a deep smile on her mother's face. “We are getting old if we are reminiscing about our past, Trishy.”

     “Maybe we are ma. Seems we already passed another day behind us now.”

     “Must be why I'm starving. Will you make me soup?”

     “I would love to make you soup, mum.”

     “Thank you Trishy. I'm gonna look for the trial now.”

Patricia got up to go into the kitchen. “You know they might find her innocent?”

     “Hush, you. She lost her baby for a month. How can you say that?”

     “Dunno ma. Just saying.” Trishy was smiling, not for making her ma angry, just because they were talking the same as if it were twenty years earlier and there was a lifetime still between them before the disease separated them for good.

NaNo Chapter 4

 Chapter four

Cereal Bowls

     Patricia Hollins Kraft woke up before the alarm again. She fluttered her eyes open and took a guess at the time of morning based on the light creeping in through the mini blinds. The guest room was on the street side of the house, which was also east facing and after being here about a week now she knew the schedule of the street lights out front and the time of morning when the sun peered over the neighbor's house. At the moment it was dark enough to guess that it was about 5:30 in the morning, darker than when she went to sleep at midnight with the street lights glaring in through the gaps in the window blinds. A look at her cell phone reaffirmed that her guess was fairly accurate, and she turned down the volume on her phone so that the alarm, set for six thirty a.m. Would not wake anybody else in the house when it went off in about forty minutes.

     Patricia found herself really enjoying this morning time lately. Not to be one who typically turned to meditation or to praying to any god, but she did find this early morning routine that she recently started helped balance her throughout the day. She was still laying on the bed, the quilt bed covering thrown mercilessly onto the floor some time during the evening, and the bed sheets left her half covered, her legs below the knees and her body above the waist exposed to the breeze of the ceiling fan. She was comfortable and she stretched her body in the same manner that she had grown up watching Sophie, her tabby that she had grown up with, do, during those warm afternoons when Patricia returned from school, and Sophie would reluctantly awake to be petted. She rolled over onto her stomach and continued the barrel roll until her feet were on the ground and her body was swung around and sitting up.

     Slightly dizzy from the roll, she sat a moment and slowed down, then got out of bed. She opened her bedroom door, trying to be quiet and wishing yet again that she would remember to oil the hinges in this door, and the bathroom door, because every morning it was the same screeching sound to greet her and it was highly annoying. After her morning pee she went back into her room to put on a pair of sweat pants and went out toward the back of the house. In the living room was her mother's recliner, where she spent most of her time these days, when she got out of bed in the morning, which Patricia gathered took her longer and longer to do as the weeks went by. She looked around the corner and saw no light coming from under her parent's bedroom door and gathered that she probably had a solid hour of alone time. Walking quietly into the still dark kitchen she started the coffee going, wondering why she did not just set up the timer the night before and figured there must be something psychological about that and the door hinges, possibly she wanted to be caught by somebody. In any case she scooped the grounds into the filter and poured the water in and turned the coffee maker on before walking out to the back porch.

     Patricia grew up waking up early, and even started drinking coffee in high school. So this was so far a typical morning ritual for her. In college she learned to finally get going a bit quicker in the morning, heading to class with some foundation on and a small amount of make up, depending on how important the class she was attending was and how much they had to drink the night before. Most of the early morning classes back then were spent arguing the qualifications of Disney princesses and the merits of their clothing. The newest part of her morning routine, the quiet time communing with nature, as it were, was still some what surprising to her though, even though it had been occurring the past two months. Surprising to her was the idea that she did not really know when or why the ritual started. She supposed that it had something to do with her mom's deteriorating health. In any case she found herself already on a sort of auto pilot in the mornings, heading outside to sit on the small block of concrete, cross legged, and was happy like all the past mornings, that even now, creeping quickly toward fifty years of age, she was still reasonably able to sit cross legged on the ground and be comfortable enough as well.

     Patricia cleared her mind now. Again, this was one of the still surprising moments to her, that her mind would clear so easily considering this was something she did not grow up doing. Of course, she also realized that sitting here, on the cool concrete patio, thinking about how your mind was clear was not exactly clearing your mind, but even at that her breathing became automatically more regulated, more peaceful. Years ago of course she would have come out here to smoke a cigarette and this type of regulated breathing was much more peaceful. She did seriously clear her mind now, letting the thoughts flow out while she concentrated on the feel of her breath, the actual in and the out of each breath, the weight of it against her lips, the coolness of it inside of her nose. This was a process that brought her directly into the here and the now, completely in the moment, and from there she stopped concentrating on anything and let any remaining thoughts she had to come in and out of her mind as they wished.

     Patricia prayed. And again, she did not understand why this was a part of her process, and whether or not it actually worked. But it was still something she did every day, for the past few months anyway, and she supposed, later in the day as she thought about it, she did it to find a center, or to find a sense of peace, and in that sense it worked exactly as it was supposed to. She did not pray to receive things. And she did not think that she prayed in order to satisfy some need in herself, some reaching for a god. It was just something she did. If she imagined the words that went with her feelings, Patricia Hollins Kraft imagined it was along the lines of becoming whoever it was she was supposed to become. If she attached words at all to what she was breathing it was only a sense of being, not only in the moment, not just zen, as the new age spiritualists in Hollywood were fond of saying, but in the past and the future as well, that from here she would approach the world more in tune with the world around her.

     In any case, Patricia found a sense of belonging during this quiet reflection. It was not an indication of a belief in a god, or non belief, for that matter. She sat quietly and she emptied her head and she opened her soul and she did this every morning because it brought everything out into the open and onto the surface; her life and decisions, her mom's illness, her family dynamics. It was all brought up not with bitterness nor joy, and not attached to any resentment or atonement. It just was and Patricia Hollins Kraft found herself at one with the universe.

Nano Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Prognosis

     It was only three months earlier that Mrs. Hollins began her chemotherapy treatments. In this case the results were more damaging than the actual disease. Roger loved his wife and would have stood by her side no matter what her decision was. He didn't remember anybody telling her yes or no to the treatments, save the doctor, who seemed disinterested in all aspects of the care of his patient. Roger Hollins spent more than a minute that summer wondering why he was an oncologist in the first place. But he was not one to hold a resentment. Roger Hollins was, if not a take it easy kind of guy, at least a take it as it comes type personality.

     If people were to describe him it would be about his eyes, first and foremost. They were an intense sort of green, deep and bright although in certain light they became a cross between charcoal and gray. The eyes were what people noted about Mr. Roger Hollins, and they were eyes that tended to be passed down to his children, as well as the peculiar family nose and the way that the toes turned inward when any body from the Hollins family gene pool walked. Some people would possibly say that they noticed the smile first but in all honesty that smile generated from the eyes first anyway. When you got to know Mr. Roger Hollins, however, you quickly ascertained that he was first and foremost a balanced person; a man whom was not disagreeable simply because you did not want to disagree with him. You shook his hand and there was an immediate bonding between the two of you and a forge of trust established. So this man, although often upset at Dr. Jumari, an Indian born oncologist in charge of his wife's care, it would not sit there and ferment into a true anger. And rather than be pushed around or walked over by the doctor due to some inability to communicate his needs, Dr. Jumari often would find himself back to talk to The Hollins patriarch, taking time to be pleasant and well versed in the particulars of Mrs. Hollins condition.

     By the time that Roger Hollins saw the tumor attached to the liver through an ultrasound scan, the entire family had been notified. Tough as it was to admit to people, it was done nevertheless as rapidly as possible. With children across the states, even one outside of its borders, brothers and sisters and in laws running the gambit from stockbroker to midnight drug trafficker and back again to international design specialist, word spread quicker than you could imagine and before you could say “six months to a year” there was a big family reunion being organized and attended in Northern Florida.

     “Six months to a year.” is what the doctor told them. Fifty two years of a life together and the bottom line came down to that. “of course, you have to understand that there would be no quality to life that way” the good doctor had continued.

     “But it will get the cancer? Won't it?”

     “I'm sorry.” and everybody understands what that means when you hear it from a doctor. And when he continued with “It's all in God's hands now” you know you are in trouble because rarely is there a doctor who strongly believes that. So Mrs. Hollins decided to extend her life by a few months. Mrs. Hollins is a fighter no matter the odds or the expectations. Outsiders who knew what was happening tried their best to not seem like vultures. Friends came out of the woodwork to say goodbye. Not a single person who offered a prayer thought that they would cure Mrs. Hollins but that never stopped them from trying. The family understood, however. Cancer runs in stages and it grabs in bunches. Every one of the Hollins family members had been on the other side of this disease offering hope to the hopeless and comfort to those who needed it yet understood how to receive it even less than one knew how to offer it.

     One of the best things Mr. Hollins heard came over the phone from an old neighbor. “Life is nothing if not fatal.” The bluntness was the perfect amount of honesty to make the sentiment genuine. He loved Mary Hollins no less than the other hundreds of people praying and crying and offering to their gods anything they could, if not for a few more moments than at least for a sense of peace and comfort. Those prayers more than anything helped Roger to cope with the impending loss of his wife, and those thoughts in particular carried Mary Hollins through the end stages of her disease with the conviction of leaving her family in peace. That is not to imply that she hid her feelings or her pain. On the contrary it merely helped her adjust to them, to account for them. If anything Mary Hollins owned her pains and her discomforts as if she had bought them new a generation ago and recently spent the weekend cleaning them up for display in the china cabinet.

     And with the Spring equinox a week behind them the Hollins family took their turn in the barrel, as it were, and went through with the chemotherapy. The wait time, the testing rounds and the third degree from the insurance companies all took longer than the chemo treatments. The kids who had held out hope that the chemo would cure their mother went crazy with the waiting game, thinking if they would only start they could fight the cells. And the children who understood the hopelessness of that thought but held on to the idea that chemo would help alleviate the pain went nuts staving off thoughts of “more treatments. Now.”

     All the while the doctor asking her “Is this really what you want?” The hospital time and the recovery trials and the downtime and exhaustion coming her way and the mother of the family, the bread toaster if not the bread winner of the family, stated yes, she wanted this. She was ready to fight the cancer. Of course we know how this story ends already. But it was a scary period of time, for her husband Roger as well as the children. And Richard came home from St. Paul and Jessica came back from Peru (but left again for Cancun to return yet once more before setting off to Europe with her church) and James taking the drive every week from the hills of Tennessee. The chemo not only wiped her out it put her in the hospital. The diabetes thrived from the chemo while the immune system suffered. There was a stroke. There was angina, and three separate week long stays at the hospital and before you knew it the two bonus months everyone planned on from the therapy had been used up and Mrs. Hollins was just now starting to move out of the recliner and just barely holding down food and it was time once again to contemplate a second round of chemo and everyone looked at the other and thought that was only one round?

     This was the month of tears. This was the month where you were glad that everyone came out before the treatment started because now you knew, and now you understood that this was the beginning of the end or maybe even the middle of the end. And in early summer there were three cousins and two surviving aunts and the brothers and sisters and even a couple of in laws parading through the house and twelve people, all of them over sixty, laughing and jumping on the bed until the box spring sprung and the group toppled onto the carpet. And in July it was now the family and it was more intimate and there was the sole grandchild, a child of eleven who knew what death meant but was still unable to process it, unable or unwilling to let any feelings through other than how it affected his day and his ability to do things if he spent all his time here.

     But even that was good, because when Gramama shaved her head and there was fuzz on her dome her grandchild came over to rub it with a hint of shock and a mouthful of smile. And when the cribbage championships were occurring at the dining room table little Joey was there beside his grandmother playing online games with his laptop and explaining the rules to her. And that was how June was spent and July, as was stated, was spent in the hospital and in real fear of real death from the chemo, and now into August it finally calmed down and the family closed in tighter together and they were always there together, it seemed, and except for the acquired wrinkles it was not so much different than the household thirty years earlier when the oldest was just getting out of high school. And as the prayers came in and there were no signs of pain in their mom's liver the children quietly wondered if god had heard them, and they secretly prayed harder than ever. At least James did. Little Jimmy, now grown up and responsible for more than himself, who did believe in a god but still unable to comprehend why he would be listening, began to pray more frequently, not to have his mother gone but at least to ease her pain. And it seemed to be working and it seemed she was fine.

     Except for the appetite and he felt he could blame the diabetes for that. Otherwise she almost seemed fine and even Richard, the cynical one, and the, dare we say it, selfish one, the one who felt affected by his mother's death not through love but through a disruption of his plans. At least it seemed to be that way to others in the family. And August was a quiet month and a hopeful month and maybe the family thought she might get better and maybe we can do another round of chemo, but they also understood the reality, and they also were grateful for their time together, and so much so that young Jessica got called again to be of service and little Jimmy went back to his priorities, his vacation being saved for the bad days, those days in the near future when she would need more steady care.

     And the new rounds of chemo were turned down, and most of the family members were thankful and at least now we all knew what was to come, some day in the future and the month went on as expected and it was not until August turned to September when the family finally figured out about what hospice was about and the gratitude they felt and expressed to those nurses was tremendous. Rosario came and helped walk her around and did exercises for her hands and made Mrs. Hollins feel human again. And Nancy came by with the hospital bed and the medications and the living will, of course and was a life saver to the father for all he was trying to learn and to manage. And Chris came by to bathe and to shower her. “Yeah, he's a guy” Mrs. Hollins had told her son over the phone, “But he's super gay, so it's okay.” and the son wondering how exactly one became “super” gay.

     To say it was the happy month would certainly be misleading. But there was tremendous joy for the family, the wit of the family matriarch outshining the horror of the disease, and there was not a moment you could recall that was far removed from a joke or a friendly flip if the middle finger. In all honesty there was a large amount of freedom for the family as the month turned over and fall quickly approached, and if they imagined running in a meadow on a clear day, perhaps you could not blame them. They all knew the reality and when one chooses to obscure it, only slightly, through a tinted rose monocle rather than a layer of depressive dust, who can be the one to deny them.

     And in another two weeks it was over, of course. The call came on a Wednesday and trips were made in haste and planes were waited on and the family barely had time to enjoy that last week and wasn't it only a day ago that she was diagnosed? And there was the slightest of pain involved, which everybody found comforting. And there would never have been enough time or enough warning and no matter how much you wanted to tell yourself that one more day was all you needed, you knew it was horse crap and a thousand more days would have been fine and dandy as well. And in a week it would have been her seventieth birthday party and after the holidays was the fiftieth anniversary of her wedding and regardless of how the neighbors cried and no matter what the children thought they felt, there was nobody in the world who would ever understood what Roger Hollins, husband to the late Mrs. Mary December Hollins, nee Parker, had lost.