In response to Prompt #66--1-3-5--I've penned 3 stories: a 1-minute read, a 3-minute read, and a 5- minute read (times are approximate). This was a challenging and fun exercise that I may just play more with!
The Power of 5
She could read their moods before they even made it halfway down the long hallway to her door--the last stop before the parking lot. They wore their emotions on their faces, carried them in their bodies--shoulders slumped or rolled back, heads hung low or held high, feet that dragged like concrete blocks or skipped lightly above the ground, eyes that either shot daggers or sparkled with light, downturned lips or toothy smiles--all these things ready to be read and interpreted by anyone who paid attention.
Regardless of her mood, she smiled warmly at each and every one of them as she greeted them with a "Good morning!" or a "Great to see you!" or a "How are you today?" She wasn't being disingenuous but knew her approach--or reproach--would make or break the day. Instead of barking down the hall to move faster or spit out gum or take hats off or put phones away, she gave directions with her eyes and subtle hand signals. She often got eye rolls, but the students generally complied without incident. No one lost face, no gauntlet was thrown, no battles ensued.
At times, they would brush by her with nary a grunt, but sometimes they smiled and returned the greeting. Other times, they asked to be left alone for the day. She honored all those reactions and used that information to make on-the-cuff decisions about who would partner with whom, what to add to the day's lesson, and what to leave out.
Those 5-minute stints several times a day were sacred moments for her, moments that she knew had immediate effects--and hoped had lasting impact.
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Dead Silence
Time seemed to stop in that moment. The voice on the other end was barely discernible. She knew it was one of her parents by the number that flashed on her caller ID, but the croaks coming through the line were not her father's normal steady speech.
"Dad, take a deep breath." She waited to hear the sharp sucking in of air and the shaky release. "What is it? What's happened?"
"She's dead," he finally managed.
There was no need to ask who "she" was. It was her mother, a woman with whom she had a close bond as a child but had increasingly pulled apart from thanks to her incessant complaining and judging. A woman who had suffered at the hands of multiple immune disorders, pinched up with pain for years and years. A woman who had suffered with severe depression for more years than that. A woman who chose the bottle and pills to ease that suffering over the sweeping lifestyle changes her doctors recommended. A woman who chose to wallow in her misery instead of trying to find joy.
She let the silence hang for a while, not quite sure what to say to him. He had played caretaker for decades, all while being barked at and berated and unappreciated, his retirement dream of mountain cabin dwelling in North Carolina nixed by his wife's situation. He too relied on pills to ease his anxiety and the crushing weight of a life he never wanted.
"I killed her," he finally choked out.
"Dad, you didn't kill her. You did the best you could for her. It's a miracle she lived as long as she did."
"No, you don't understand." Once again, the silence hung, heavier this time. So heavy it felt as if hands were clenching her throat. "I shot her."
Her throat closed so tightly that if she had words, they wouldn't have been able to escape.
"She begged me to," he bawled. "Said that if I really loved her, I would put her out of her misery, save her from having to do it herself."
"Dad, why didn't you call for help?"
"They would have Baker Acted her, treated her like a crazy person. She would have never forgiven me."
More silence.
"I don't expect you to understand. I just wanted to tell you goodbye, that I love you, that none of this is your fault."
The shot rang out, piercing her ears, her heart, her soul. She had feared this day for so long--a dangerous mix of alcohol, pills, guns, and misery. She had tried to stop it, but no amount of urging and offers to help could have fixed any of this.
Yet she would be the one to carry the burden of it all.
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Doll Face
Finally--the baby was down for his long afternoon nap, and her 2-year-old daughter was tucked safely in her room for a shorter nap. Any amount of time she could grab during the day to take care of herself was like winning the Golden Ticket.
She was almost giddy as she popped her Denise Austin exercise tape into the VCR. The overly enthusiastic fitness guru is just what she needed--quick hit fitness with a side of inspiration.
As the music started thumping at its fat-burning pace, she began the warm-up, mimicking the moves of the tan Denise with an impossibly white smile. "If you rest, you rust!" the host reminded her followers.
She felt that was an accurate observation as her extra-baby-weight body fought her just 5 minutes into the tape. Keeping up with a toddler and an infant seemed like enough movement, but she knew that was different from this body-toning activity. Denise looked fantastic, and she had had two kids. She also had a similar build as the tired mom used to have--larger hips but a small bust and little waist.
Denise kept up her encouragement at predictable intervals. "You deserve this! You are worth it!"
I do deserve this! I am worth it!
Just as the real workout began, she heard it. The jiggle of a door handle. She kept working out, doing her best to ignore the possible interruption to her precious half-hour of self-care.
She heard it again and turned the volume as loud as she dared without waking the baby in the next room.
Another jiggle.
"Mooooooooomy! I stuck!" squeaked a little voice.
"Just give Mommy 20 minutes! You need to rest," thinking to herself little girls can't rust--only big ones.
She wondered how that child had managed to lock herself in, but she was also grateful she did.
"I want oooooout!"
"No! Just give Mommy 20 minutes, and I will unlock the door."
It got quiet, and she thought, that was easy. She shrugged it off and kept pace with the energetic instructor. "Keep it up! You're doing great!"
The workout ended--20 minutes later--and, as promised, she went to spring her big blue-eyed, sassy daughter from her room. A room, by the way, that held every comfort and toy to keep a 2-year-old occupied for hours.
As she popped open the lock with the emergency key, she was greeted with her daughter, sitting on her bed, covered in pink Barbie lip balm, with a I'll show you scowl on her chubby little face.
She looked around and also saw the pink balm smeared all over the comforter, embedded deeply into the wicker hamper, and painted on the walls.
She back slowly out of the room, shut the door, and began laughing.
Then, she called her own mother. "Mom, I am about to kill your granddaughter." She relayed the story quietly, looking for some piece of wisdom, some momvice if you will.
"I don't know what to tell you, honey. You got your sister's child. You would have never done anything like that."
She cursed her rebel middle sister as she said, "Well, she's about to inherit a 2-year-old."
She hung up, plotting her next step as she re-entered the room. Her daughter sat in the same position, holding the empty tube like a weapon of war.
"I wanted out."
She bit her lip--hard--to keep from busting out into laughter and told her precious hellion to gather up her other Barbie toiletries, the lotion, the powder--who buys this stuff for a 2-year-old anyway? Oh yeah, her grandmother--and held out the trash basket.
"Throw it all away. If you can't use things appropriately, you don't get to have them."
Her daughter's little lip quivered, but she did as told. Then, she got a super-soapy mid-day bath to coax the oily balm from her hair.
Since the baby miraculously slept through the commotion, she settled her daughter in front of a Barnie video and took to washing the sheets and comforter and scrubbing what she could. The hamper was a lost cause.
It dawned on her that she hadn't heard her daughter sing along with the Barnie "I love you" song. She hurried into the great room--worried about what she might be up to now--to find her sound asleep, her little face scrunched up against her Barnie stuffed toy.
She sighed, "Of course, now she sleeps."
And, just then, she heard the screech of a baby boy who didn't get a long enough nap.
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