Journals of Journeys

It’s strange how friendships can change over the course of time.  I’d like to think I’m not the kind of person that would haunt an acquaintance to the point of going and looking me up.  I am, after all, the five-finger type person, a good friend for each finger, no more, no less.  I don’t tend to have a lot of people who are “social butterflies” and therefore pop up randomly to say “hello.” 

But friends do come and go, much like the tides, or so it seems.  Some without reason, or at least that which I can figure out (and believe me, I do practically fry my brain trying to make sense once one leaves the radar zone) and others with reasons so big and loud I almost cringe as my ears ring so badly from their departure.  

The real question I’ve started to ponder, the grand daddy of them all, is whether I’m content with the comings and goings of my friends.  I wish I had an answer for that.  In some ways I’m okay with the tides and the way things - people - ebb in and out of my life.  In other ways, I’m almost to the point of being distraught.  What did I do?  What could I have done?  Did the welcoming of (or back) a friend somehow push another away?  If they’re a true friend, they’re still there, right?  Just waiting in the wings, living their lives, I’m not a needed constant at the moment and maybe that’s a good thing.  But if they’re not that good of a friend, or at least the type I thought was a good friend, then, well, maybe things should stand. 

Yeah, I suppose there’s a lot of mulling on this topic I need to do.  It is quite the quandary.

A guy I dated many moons ago had some sort of aversion for bikers. He’d honk the horn, veer into their lane and do all sorts of nasty things which freaked me out in a big way.  We stopped dating shortly thereafter, part of my reason was his bizarre behavior. 

I, myself, don’t care for motorcycles but only as a passenger.  I was twelve when I rode on the back of one and came frightfully close to having my life pass in front of my eyes.  That was enough to cause me to swear off being on one ever again in my life.

A childhood friend of mine rode one for a year while going to college.  It was a cheap mode of transportation.  I’m sure he was a very safe driver, he’s always been cautious in most everything he’s done in his life.  Adventurous wouldn’t fit the bill if describing him.  He said that every day he came close to seeing that flash of his life passing by at least four times.  People were rude, careless and easily distracted. 

I have another friend who rides along with her boyfriend.  I was there to help her pick up the pieces when her bike fell over on her a few years ago and crushed her femur and had to have pins put in.  She just sent me this and I think it’s worth reading regardless of what you believe about “bikers.”

JUST A BIKER

I saw you hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line. But you didn’t see me put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.

I saw you pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk. But you didn’t see me playing Santa at the local Mall.

I saw you change your mind about going into the restaurant when you saw my bike parked out front . But you didn’t see me attending a meeting to raise more money for the hurricane relief.

I saw you roll up your window and shake your head when I rode by. But you didn’t see me riding behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.

I saw you frown at me when I smiled at your children. But you didn’t see me when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.

I saw you stare at my long hair. But you didn’t see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.

I saw you roll your eyes at our Leather jackets and gloves. But you didn’t see me and my brothers donate our old ones to those that had none.

I saw you look in fright at my tattoos. But you didn’t see me cry as my children where born or have their name written over and in my heart.

I saw you change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere. But you didn’t see me going home to be with my family.

I saw you complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be. But you didn’t see me when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.

I saw you yelling at your kids in the car. But you didn’t see me pat my child’s hands knowing she was safe behind me.

I saw you reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road. But you didn’t see me squeeze my wife’s leg when she told me to take the next turn.

I saw you race down the road in the rain. But you didn’t see me get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.

I saw you run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time. But you didn’t see me trying to turn right.

I saw you cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in. But you didn’t see me leave the road.

I saw you waiting impatiently for my friends to pass. But you didn’t see me. I wasn’t there.

I saw you go home to your family. But you didn’t see me. Because I died that day you cut me off.

I was just a biker, a person with friends and a family. But you didn’t see me.

EVEN IF YOU DON’T LIKE US, RESPECT OUR RIGHTS TO RIDE WHAT WE CHOOSE AND TAKE A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO BE SURE WE ARE NOT IN ‘YOUR’ WAY.

‘Tis the season to start seeing stop smoking, lose weight and manage your money better commercials.  They’re coming at us with a vengeance.  Thus ends the era of gluttony.  The fall of the stock market, the tightening of the purse strings and back to working your fingers to the bone and never really getting anywhere. The wallet on a treadmill economy.

As a writer - oh wait, an author, I’m nervous about the year ahead.  News reports show a dramatic downfall in the sales of books.  Long live the Internet and eBay, I say.  But from an author’s perspective, the changes we’re seeing is daunting. 

I’m a bit amazed at the popularity of Amazon’s Kindle.  Seriously, $400 for an electronic gadget that you can download and read books on?  In my mind, separate from the author, that’s downright frivolous.  Oh sure, we might be saving a few trees, but are we really being financially responsible and eco-friendly by doing this?  It still costs money to get the books once you have the gadget.  There’s a bit of a cost savings and it might appeal to the “get it now” mentality, but I’m not convinced this is the way to go.  We do have recycled paper and paper itself is far more biodegradable than those electronic gadgets.  For that matter, have we stopped to consider the amount of pollution and toxicity we are going to be subscribing our planet to within the next decade as a result of these gadgets? 

No doubt the nuclear wasteland won’t come from bombs, it’ll come from these supposed “environmentally friendly” gadgets. 

Frankly, I think the publishing industry is shooting themselves in the foot.  And I don’t just say this from the angst of a writer, er, author.  I say this as a child raised to believe the world was doomed to come to an end if we didn’t start getting proactive about recycling.  Who went along with the tide and didn’t take the warnings seriously and now watch my own children come home with that same look of desperate panic plastered across their face as they wield flyers (printed on bright, colorful pieces of paper three sizes bigger than it need be) in my face announcing that we must all become very serious about our endeavors in saving the planet.   I say this as an avid reader who still cringes when I think about all the books that have been thrown away over the years by my parents when I didn’t come collect them before they got an itch to “clean things up.”  I say this as we look ahead and take inventory of our future because it’s the new year and that’s just what we do.

Look for an announcement of my debut novel soon.  Just don’t be looking for it as a Kindle ready book.  To me kindle is something that’s used to start a fire, you know, kindling.  Do you suppose it’s some sick person’s idea that we should be burning books?

Peace out, and oh yeah, happy new year.  Now go buy books!

Murphy certainly has a law about this.  I’m quite certain about it.  We weren’t even through the first 12-hours of the 72-hour shift my husband was pulling in an effort to make some headway with the mound of bills that’s grown, when I discovered the geyser. 

Okay, maybe a geyser isn’t the correct word, but a very big spray of water was spewing from water faucet out back.  Yeah, the very same one that had the automatic timer and hose connected. The same set-up  that we used during the (much) warmer months to water the newly seeded far back quadrant of our lawn and a nifty little jerry-rigged drip system for our tomatoes.  The same one that I’m pretty sure I mentioned to my husband needed to be disconnected before the frost set in. 

And he has the nerve to tease me about procrastinating.

Now, I’m not a complete “girl” when it comes to fixing things around the house.  I can change a complete deadlock system and tumbler within five minutes flat, install a faucet, re-hang a door and much more.  And I knew right away not only that the water had to be turned off, but even where to turn it off.  I tried the exterior shut-off valve that supposedly shuts off just the exterior valves, but that didn’t work.  I suppose that has to do with the addition that was done ten years before we even bought the house about four years ago.  The same remodel job that overlooked having to put in a clean-out and proper lids over the septic, but I digress. 

I raced up front and had the valve off in a matter of minutes.  It looked like I could just tighten the faucet to the hose bib.  Alas, no such luck.  The damn thing moved and moved and moved.  Apparently the threading was stripped.  I’m not sure how, but that was my guess.  An uneducated guess. We attempted to dry off the hose bib thoroughly and wrapped some plumbing tape around it to see if that would encourage it to tighten, but that was about as useful as yanking a tooth out of a rabid coyote’s mouth.

“Hey, Mom, can’t we use some of that molding clay that loud mouth on TV advertises?” Ry-guy suggested.

“Oh please,” Z-dude retorted.  “That junk won’t do anything more than make a mess.”

“Actually, it just might work,” I said hopefully.  I had bought it initially to repair a hole in a water bucket and that seemed to hold well. 

Armed with flashlights, towels, wrench, gloves and Mighty Magic Putty we applied the first glob of goo then waited for an hour.  When the time came, we set up an elaborate relay between the front of the property at the water shut-off valve, a mid-point and the faucet.   The plan was to have one kid turn the water on while I was standing with a flashlight aimed at the faucet, looking for any signs of leakage.  The second kid was there to relay to the first if there was a need to shut the water off.  Problem was, kid #1 didn’t know how to turn it on.  And the second problem?  The water still poured out.  Note that it poured, it didn’t spray. 

At least we were making progress.

Having scooped all of the ice out of the fridge so we’d have drinking water for the night, the faucet dried again and another glob of goo wrapped into place, I sent the kids off to bed.  The next plan was to turn on the water shortly before I went to bed and at least long enough to shower before hitting the hay. 

Again, it was unsuccessful and I worried that by turning off the water overnight we could run the risk of bigger problems, yet leaving it on, I also worried that more damage would come to the side of the house.  I called the 24-hour-service number for a plumber at 2:56 a.m.  She was very cheerful and said she’d page the on-duty plumber who’d call me back in a few minutes. 

Eyelids drooping as I held the phone in my hand, thumb poised over the “talk” button, time marched on and no phone call.  I finally called back at 3:30 and informed the still cheerful woman that I would prefer the plumber call me in the morning so as not to disturb my sleeping children.  She said she would pass that along and someone would be calling between 8 and 9 a.m. 

I woke to my alarm at 7 and quickly got around and ready so that when the plumber called, I would be ready.  Eight came and went.  Nine was there a few moments later and still, nothing.  By 9:10 I was calling other plumbers.  When one service said they’d have someone over during normal business hours (I was calling on a Saturday) and I said thanks, but I needed it taken care of now and next time I’d keep that in mind and insist the pipes burst during business hours.  Sure, she might not have deserved that, but at that point I figured that had to have been on the requirements for the job position: able to withstand terse responses from customers.

At 9:20 as I was getting ready to call a plumber I was referred to, my phone rang.  It was the service calling that I had called earlier that morning.  They’d have someone over right away. 

By 9:45 when still no one was here, I called the referral and was halfway through my conversation when the doorbell rang.  You guessed it, it was the plumber, the same one that was supposed to have been calling me back at 3:10 a.m.  Apparently the service dropped the ball and I got a “discount” out of the deal (saved me over $75) as well as a lot of apologies from him and his boss who called me shortly afterwards.  It took the plumber a lousy 15 minutes to repair the leak, another 3 minutes to peel the crappy goop I’d put on the night before, all at the cost of $10 a minute. 

Less than 24 hours later, our furnace stopped working.

So how do you fix a burst water pipe?  Simple.  Break the furnace and you break the cycle.  Still not enough?  Well then, prevention.  Remove all hoses before the frost comes. 

YOUR BRAIN FLOODS THE DESK BLOTTER
    SPILLS PARTICIPLES OF PROFOUND THOUGHT
INTO A CACOPHONY OF ILLITERATE CONJECTURE.
    NOTHING A GOOD PAPER TOWEL CAN’T HANDLE.

HE GRUNTS AND YOU GROAN
    YOU PUSH
        HE PULLS
THE WALLS WOBBLE AND FALL
    CONSTANT CONSONANTS
        SPARSE VOWEL.

                                THEN RISE                              
                                    OF BRICK AND MORTAR.

THE TEETH OF THE MONSTER SINK
    IN THE THIRD ROUND,
YOU REALIZE THIS ISN’T SPARRING
    AS THE BLOOD DRIBBLES FROM

                                CHIN.

THERE IS NO BELL
    THERE IS NO CORNER
ALL OR NOTHING.

                                DEFINE NOTHING.

DINING OF FLY TRACKS
CHEWING GRAY MATTER
VENETIAN BLINDS
SKEWER SLEEP.

NOTHING WAS BETTER THAN ALL.

By Kathie Leung
(c) 2007-2009
All Rights Reserved

“Hey,” my husband says out of the blue.  I look up from my work, mildly irritated with the distraction.  It’s the third time within the hour since he’s been up and moving that he’s stopped me from doing my work.  We seriously need to rethink my workspace.  Having an open office directly across from the sprawling and equally open kitchen is just not good.  Especially for my diet, but that’s an entirely different topic.

“Yeah?”

“Are you doing a holiday newsletter this year?”

“Meh,” I grunt.  I let him read my lips which are snarled into a mildly threatening canine-type expression.  “Why?”

“Oh because I was just thinking…”  This usually means “well, I think you should.”

Note to self: Post a “No thinking out loud” sign where it can be seen from all angles.

Apparently he still isn’t grasping what I now do to help out with the expenses.  I doubt he can afford my freelance rate of five-cents a word especially since I can be so, um, wordy.  So no, there won’t be a holiday newsletter from us this year.

The irony here is, not more than an hour earlier I was talking to my buddy, Anne, (she called to say she’s snowed in!) and she expressed her disgust with campy, self-touting, ego-maniacal holiday newsletters.  No, she didn’t exactly say it that way, but I’m sure she’d confirm that was the gist of what she was saying. 

[Part One]  [Part Two]  [Part Three]

It all happens so fast I can barely keep my thoughts together.  First, a woman a good ten years older than me - her face looks haggard, her clothes are rumpled as if she’s been in them for several days and has slept in them, her hair is a wreck - comes out with the girl I’d seen earlier and assumed was with the woman I left inside with my daughter.

“Come on, Beth, we need to get home before Daddy gets back,” the woman urges the young girl trapped in the teen’s awkward body.

On their heels, the girl that checked me out dodges past the woman and “child” with another girl the same age, another employee.  I only catch a snatch of their conversation when my head begins spinning like a top.

“I know, wild, huh?”

“So this woman just slaps down a hundred and asks to have Yolanda put a tag on it for the difference?”

“Yep and asks her not to mention it to anyone.”

The clerks don’t see me and I’m left sitting here in shock.

Nothing makes sense anymore.  Why would that woman do this?  Why would she pay a hundred dollars on a jacket she’s not even sure I would buy and for a complete stranger?  What was her motivation if that poor disabled girl I assumed was hers, clearly isn’t?

Unsteadily I push myself off the bench.  It’s time to find out what’s gong on.  How could I be so naive to leave my daughter with a complete stranger?  The door opens again and out spills my daughter.  She clutches a small bag, her face wide and bright. I ignore her for a moment, straining to find the woman.  I need answers.  I need a better description to alert the police.

“Mom?  Mom?”  Courtney shakes my arm.  I blink at her.  “Did you hear me?”

“What, Courtney?”

“Look at this necklace and earring set.  Isn’t it perfect?” She holds up the plastic case.

“You need to take it back,” I say, barely looking as my hand clutches around her forearm. 

“Why?”  She struggles free.  “I bought this myself!”  Her voice goes up an octave.

“With money she gave you,” I accuse.  I’m half out of my mind with rage.

“No, Mom, from the money I’ve been saving.”

Her statement takes me by surprise.  The rage leaves my head and I’m left staring at her. 

“It’s so sad,” she says as she links her arm with mine and gently steers me to the parking lot.

“What is, Courtney?”

“That woman.  She had a daughter who would be sixteen today.  But her daughter died before she was even born.”

My foot falters but Courtney steadies me as we continue on to the car.

“She said that she has more kids, but they’re boys.  And although most of the time she’s happy and content, there are days like today when she misses her daughter the most.”

Tears roll down my face and it’s not until one falls off my chin that I even realize I’m crying.  “So that’s why,” I say.

“Why what?”

“She bought that jacket for you.”

“She did?”  Courtney’s own step wobbles.

I nod, forcing a smile as I look to my baby girl through my tears.  I brush my fingers over her face. I look back hoping to see the woman.  She never does appear.

“Bittersweet,” I say and unlock the door.

“No, Mom,” my daughter says in a soft, gentle, older and wiser voice.  “I think we just gave her a bigger gift than she gave us.”

As I stand looking at my daughter, she smiles.  “Happy sweet sixteen, baby girl.”

The End

By Kathie Leung
(c) 2008 - 2009
All Rights Reserved

In Loving Memory of
Sarah Elizabeth  
              December 10, 1992
Sweet Sixteen   

[Part One]  [Part Two]

“Well, here you are,” she hands the jacket to me.  There’s a tag tacked onto the label just inside the collar.  My fingers position it right and I look.  Sure enough it is labeled $9.98.

“Well I’ll be…” I say in surprise.  She smiles.  “Thank you.”

“You bet.”

“Now if I could just convince her she has shoes at home that will go with this outfit,” I say as I look reproachfully at Courtney.  “We might be able to get out of here without dipping into the emergency savings.”

The woman looks to Courtney then waves me down to the end of the shoe aisle.  I shrug - what do I have to lose? - and follow her.

“Here’s an idea,” she says in a low voice.  My back is to Courtney and she glances over my shoulder at my daughter, probably to make certain Courtney can’t hear her.  “I know that girls her age - she’s what, sixteen?” I nod, she continues. “Don’t listen to their parents so well but will heed the advice, the very same that their parents are giving - when given by someone else.”

I see where this is going and am now convinced God did answer my prayers and has sent some help.

“Why don’t you go and pay for the dress and jacket, then wait outside for us?  I’ll talk to her, get her to understand and bring her out once she does.”  The woman’s green eyes catch under the lights and twinkle.

“That’s a good idea,” I say as I shift the clothes to my other arm and already am making my purse available for a quick check out.  I turn and look at Courtney who now has three boxes by her feet and is putting on a rather ridiculous pair.  I roll my eyes and let out a slight puff of exasperation.  “Yes, that would be fine.”

“Good.  I’ll try not to be too long,” she says.  I hesitate.  Should I say something to Courtney or just go?  As if the woman can read my mind, she waves me away.  I mouth ‘thank you’ and she grins and then I go.

At the register, a girl not much older than Courtney rings up my purchase.  As she does, she stares at the display on the machine.  “Something’s not right,” she says although her lips barely move.

“What’s wrong?”  My fingers nervously work over the clasp of my wallet. I knew it wasn’t possible that jacket’s been marked down to under ten dollars.  Why would they leave the security tag on if that was the case?   Even if they marked it down to, say, half off, I couldn’t imagine them going lower than that - that would mean the jacket was only twenty and who’s ever heard of putting a tag on an item less than a hundred?

My heart pounds, my ears ring and I can feel myself breaking into a cold sweat.  I feel like a criminal on the brink of being busted. 

The girl at the register waves over another woman much older but still much younger than me.  “Is this right?”  She points at the register.  The woman looks past her at the jacket and dress then up at me and never does look at the register.  Odd.

“Yes, I tagged that myself just a little bit ago,” the other woman says.

“Oh!”  The girl responds as if that statement triggers the glitch in her short term memory banks and releases the images of the recent activity.  “Was that the wom…”

“Just finish up the transaction, Julienne,” the other says tersely then changes into a lighter, almost apologetic tone as she goes on.  “We have customers waiting.”

“Oh, right,” the girl says and fires into a rapid chain of movements.

“Don’t forget the security tag,” I remind them.  The older one steps in and helps by removing the tag.

“Sixty-seven dollars and twenty-four cents, please,” the girl says.  I swipe my card through the machine and in less than three minutes am walking out the door in a daze.  Every part of my being knows something isn’t right.  While I doubt my daughter is in any danger, she can hold her own thanks to the self defense classes, I can’t help wondering what the deal is with this woman. 

It’s all I can do to keep from returning to the bad habit I just recently broke, chewing my nails, as I sit on the bench outside the front door waiting for them to return.  Every time the doors open and someone walks out, my body jumps just a bit.  

To be continued …

By Kathie Leung
(c) 2008-2009
All Rights Reserved

[Part One]

It’s a perfect match and, as odd as it seems to even think this way, it does fit the mother approved criteria.  Oh sure, there’s a possibility she’ll wiggle out of the jacket at the dance, but my guess is that she wouldn’t even dream of it.  It’s just too beautiful to leave over the back of a chair.  I don’t even want to think about the schoolgirl popularity factor.

“Can we get it?” she asks excitedly, just two shakes away from popping out of her skin.  Both Courtney and the woman look to me expectantly.

“I… I’m not sure,” I say.  My lips are numb.  God I hope I’m not stroking out.

Courtney’s face collapses.

“Tell you what,” the woman says abruptly.  “I’ll go get a clerk to look up the jacket and get it tagged for you.”

Courtney looks to her as if she were her only ally in the world and would protect her from the wicked witch of a mother she has.  I’m vexed.  If this woman is my daughter’s ally, would that mean she’s no longer mine?  A bitter taste tugs at the insides of my cheeks.

“Why?” Courtney looks at the woman.

“Because there isn’t a price tag and your mother is concerned about whether she can afford it,” she softly explains.

My shoulders twitch.  Even my body doesn’t know how to respond!  Should I tense up because she’s clearly mothering my daughter or should I relax, be thankful that someone with her endless patience has been sent to me?

I drag my fingers across the crown of my head, my nails parting my own two-day dirty hair that hangs limply and probably looks like crap because I haven’t colored it for some time.  I look like she should look despite the smart tailored suit I have on, my knock-off designer outfit I picked up off the clearance rack six, maybe seven years ago.  I know I look, altogether, a bit worn down.

“Mom?” Courtney asks, looking at me like I’m some weirdo starring as the main attraction at the freak show.

“I’m thinking,” I say a bit sharply.

“Go ahead and get dressed,” the woman nudges Courtney.  It’s all I can do to keep from lunging at her to protect my baby girl from her. 

The door closes and I hear Courtney working out of the ensemble.  The woman glides past me and after she moves past my periphery, I turn and follow.

“I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.  “I didn’t mean to overstep your boundaries.  It’s just that…”

Oh dear Lord, what have I become?  How could I be so mean to this woman?  “No, you’ve done nothing wrong.  It’s me who should be apologizing.  Here I was about to reach the end of my rope and you come along as if sent in answer to my prayers.  And then what do I do?  Please accept my most humble apology for my inexcusable behavior.”

“You don’t need to apologize.  I understand completely.”  She smiles so graciously.  Her eyes move down the row of dressing stalls.  “I hope it all works out.  I’m sorry to have interfered.”

She starts to move away.  A vision of the “slow” girl comes into my head.  What I am doing is just mean.  I reach out after her.  “Please don’t go.”

She stops and turns back but stays just beyond my reach.  For a moment she looks at me, then back towards where Courtney is.  I follow her gaze as my daughter, cheeks flushed, carefully carries the outfit over her arm.

“Here you go.” Courtney hands her the jacket.  She looks to me and I nod, then accepts it.

“We’ll be over looking at shoes,” I say as I give her another nod. 

“I’ll be there just as soon as I can,” she says.

“Who is that woman?” Courtney asks once we are out of earshot.  “Does she work here?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I say as we cut through the sportswear department. 

“Well, do you know her?”

“No.”

“Strange,” Courtney says, identifying my most basic take on the whole situation. 

Thankfully she ditches the interrogation as she starts picking up shoes.  There’s a wide selection to chose from and my little shoe princess is itching to try them all on.  As she begins, I mentally run through her shoe rack at home, certain she has a pair already that will go with the dress.  The only problem I seem to be having is coming up with the most appropriate suggestion so that I can persuade her not to buy anything new. 

She’s tried on at least five pairs and has two she’s considering when the woman returns. 

To be continued…

By Kathie Leung
(c) 2008-2009
All Rights Reserved.

Seriously, has it only been an hour?  I consult my watch, tapping the face to make sure it’s still working.  “Courtney, I’m sorry, but absolutely not,” I say, pointing my finger past her to the entrance under the sign that says ‘dressing rooms.’

“But Mom,” she pleads, tilting her head and giving me doe eyes.  I can hear my teeth grating.  I don’t say a thing.  This is the hill I am prepared to die on.  My baby girl is not going to the Holiday Ball looking like a twenty-something-year-old in heat.

Instantly her body distorts.  She turns away and stomps off, the fabric swaying seductively behind her.  Jesus, she’s not even trying to look sexy and yet…

“Holiday Ball?” A woman nearby asks.  I glance her way but keep my focus on the opening my baby girl has disappeared back into.  I know my daughter well enough that I wouldn’t put it past her to sneak out and put the dress on hold then come back during lunch and buy it with the money she’s been saving from her babysitting jobs.  I nod.

“She’s stunning.”

“Thank you.”  I give her a bit more of my attention.  “You have one going, too?”

“Um,” her lip quivers, her green eyes glisten.  “Not exactly.”

Oh, the poor thing.  I’ll bet that girl I saw earlier, the one who looked a bit - slow - is hers.  Jesus, Mary, you and your big fat mouth.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was wrong with the dress?” Her voice is a bit steadier, stronger.  She looks tired though.  It must be exhausting to have a child like that.  But she seems to have gone through the trouble of making herself presentable.  Her shoulder length reddish-blond hair sweeps over her shoulders, catching the light so I’m pretty sure she’s getting at least a shower a day in.  She doesn’t wear much makeup but it’s not been hastily applied either.  Her skin tone is a bit sallow, but whose isn’t in these God awful fluorescent lights?

“It’s too revealing,” I say and look away before she thinks I’m a little off for staring like that. 

“There’s a cute beaded Bolero half-jacket that would go with that dress,” she says.  “Not that I’m…”

“There is?”  I get that she’s not trying to butt in.  Maybe she needs to live vicariously if even for a bit.  So what?  Frankly I could use a little help.  Hell, Courtney’s normal, or so the doctors say, and she wears me out.  I can’t imagine how it must be for this poor woman.

She nods and smiles.  “Shall I go get it?”

Without even thinking, I nod.

“Okay.  You go tell her to put the dress back on and I’ll bring it in.”  She spins away and disappears, leaving me gaping like an idiot.  It takes a moment before my body responds and I walk into the back room. 

“Courtney?” I call out.

“What?”  Her voice is angst ridden. I suck in my breath.

“Put the dress back on, please.”  I practically cringe as the words tumble out of my mouth.  What have I gotten myself into?

Door number five opens and Courtney’s auburn hair falls out before I see her peaches-and-cream complected oval face pop out.  Her hazel eyes shine.  “Serious?”

My throat catches and I nod dumbly.

The stall door clicks shut.  “Okay!” she practically squeals.

“Here you are.”  The woman appears at my elbow.  The plastic arm of the hanger brushes my arm.  I look down and take in the lovely jacket.  I touch it hesitantly.  It is beautiful.

She passes it to me and my fingers automatically search for the tag - we are on a very tight budget - I can’t seem to find one, but it has to be expensive.  There’s a security tag on the back.

“I don’t know,” I say as I push it back to the woman.  “How much is it?”

“Nine ninety-eight,” she says, not even bothering to take it back. 

“Hundred?” I gasp.  The hanger pokes into her as I unsteadily jab it at her.  She takes a step back and laughs.

“No.  Ten dollars and change once tax is added.”

“That can’t be possible.” My mouth tugs downward.  “There’s a …”

“Okay, Mom,” Courtney says as she opens the door.  We both turn our attention to her.  She practically glows.

“Here.”  The woman lifts the jacket off the hanger and holds it out.  “Try this on.”

Courtney’s breath catches.  “Wow, that’s amazing!  It’s so beautiful.” Her hand runs gently over the beaded fabric. 

Again, I’m left nodding dumbly, absolutely speechless as I watch Courtney turn around and the woman helps her into the jacket.

To be continued…

by Kathie Leung
(c) 2008 - 2009
All Rights Reserved