It happened when she was thirteen-years-old. Just out of the blue, with no warning or building of tension or anything like that. She had just come home from school and was in her bedroom sorting through her homework, trying to decide where to start. For once, she didn’t hear the familiar drone of the television from the living room, which was odd, since it was always on. From the moment everyone got out of bed in the morning until late at night, long after she fell asleep, the soft murmur of the television underscored everything that happened in the house. She had just turned from her pile of books on the bed to go in search of her mother when she heard their voices coming from the kitchen.

She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she knew the voices belonged to her mother and father. What is he doing home now? she wondered, with no small measure of irritation. Kimberly treasured the few stress-free hours between the time she got home from school and when her dad arrived home from work, always with a six-pack or two under his arm. The fireworks always started soon after. Either that or the frozen stillness that was louder than any sonic boom ever could be.

Tossing aside the idea of leaving the safety of her room, she settled on the bed with books strewn about her. She was deep into a math equation, when her father walked into the room. A quick assessment revealed he had probably already downed a few beers, but was nowhere near the incoherent drunk he would be later in the evening.

“Hi, Dad,” she muttered, quickly focusing back on her homework, hoping to discourage further conversation. The springs on her bed screeched against his weight as he sat down near the footboard. Crap, what now? she thought, with equal parts irritation and trepidation.

“So, how was school today?”

“Fine.” Not looking up, no eye contact. Go away.

“Fine? That’s all? Jus’ fine?” Slurring his words a little. Maybe more than a few beers. Great.

“Dad, I have to do my homework, okay?” She pushed by him as she made her way to the door and took hold of the doorknob as an indication for him to leave so she could close the door. He sat there on the bed for a minute, looking defeated, head hanging down, quiet. Emotions swirled about in her heart and she was torn between giving him a hug and standing her ground. His next action made up her mind.

He swayed a little as he stood up, tried to get his balance, almost made it, then stumbled over to the doorway, where he stood, unmoving, between her and freedom. They stood like that, motionless, for what seemed like a very long time, just staring at each other, each of them separately heading toward a point of no return.

He reached out a hand to touch her – on the arm, the shoulder, the face – she didn’t know and it didn’t matter. Her decision was made. Before his hand could cross the space between them, Kimberly opened her mouth and screamed.

“DON’T TOUCH ME. DON’T EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN! JUST GET OUT, GET OUT NOW!” She put both hands on his chest and started pushing him out of her room. He reached for her, to balance himself, and she twisted away from his grasp.

Still screaming, “MOM! HELP ME! GET HIM OUT OF MY ROOM! I DON’T WANT HIM IN HERE! GET OUT, DAD, GET OUT!” He fell against the wall in the hallway, his back making a loud thud just as her mother came flying around the corner with a shocked look on her face. She looked at her dad and saw the same shock on his face as he leaned heavily against the wall. Something else, too, though. Behind the shock, beneath the affects of the beer, she saw a crushing sadness in his eyes. So much sorrow, it almost broke her. For the briefest moment, she wanted to run to him, put her arms around him and comfort him. Time slowed to a crawl as father and daughter locked eyes. In that instant, a devastating knowledge passed between them, the truth floating silently in the dead air; the truth of what had been lost to both of them, of what could have been but never would, of a loss so immeasurable as to be lethal.

Kimberly stepped back and closed the door, locked it. She stood there, listening, heard nothing. Finally, her mother’s voice. “What happened?” Then her father’s heavy footsteps trailing away down the hall. “What happened?” her mother cried after him.

“Nothing. Leave it alone.” She heard the front door slam. Then, nothing.

She waited for her mother to come to her, to ask her about what had happened, what had caused the explosion. She never came. Kimberly crawled onto her bed, curling up in the middle of it, pushing books out of her way. She pulled a pillow to her, cradled it close to her and cried. She cried for the knowledge she didn’t want to have, the murky memory of those times when she was a very small girl, the realization of the brief, scary flashes that haunted her, the ones she tried to push from her mind. But most of all, she cried for what she never had; the one thing she wanted more than anything—a daddy who would love her the way daddies are supposed to love little girls.

There weren’t enough tears that night. There never would be.
 

The years passed, time went forward and life in Kimberly’s family became a mixture of hope deferred and turmoil. Some days were better than others; some days were filled with simply survival. Kimberly and Michael learned to be as invisible as possible. It wasn’t a foolproof plan. Sometimes, the house wasn’t big enough for both of them to avoid the cloud of anger and disappointment that filled the rooms and seeped under the doors to envelope them.



Kimberly never knew which Daddy would show up at the end of the day. At times, he was the good daddy who would sit with her as she proudly showed him her schoolwork or read to him from one of her many library books. The good daddy would even play football or softball with her and Michael, and he laughed at their jokes. Those were the times when Kimberly would convince herself that this daddy was the real daddy; she could almost believe that his good heart would grow big enough and strong enough to blot out the meanness that exploded from him without warning. Eventually, though, the bad daddy walked through the door at the end of the day and all hopes were dashed. The man who walked through the door on those days was scary and angry. His presence sent Kimberly and Michael scurrying in search of a place to disappear.



Kimberly’s mother seemed to have perfected the art of disappearing. Every day she faded away a little more. Occasionally though, without any warning, the heavy clouds surrounding her would lift and she would become the mother of Kimberly’s dreams. During those times, when their mommy was happy, Kimberly and Michael were happy, too. Happy Mommy took them to the library, taught them to play Scrabble and even arranged for picnics at the beach with their cousins. But, the best part of all was Happy Mommy’s laugh. Kimberly lived for that laugh and knew that if there was just some way to make her mommy laugh like that more often, their lives would be very different. The best times in her life were when she could make her mommy laugh. Happy Mommy’s laugh could even make the cloud of anger disappear from their house for a while.



But, Happy Mommy always went away, disappearing back into the cloud of anger, fading away as unexpectedly as Happy Mommy had appeared. As Kimberly and her brother got older, their daddy got angrier and their mommy faded away more and more. By the time they were both teenagers, both Kimberly and Michael had learned it was too painful to hope that their lives would ever be any different. They took solace in knowing they had each other, like survivors of a war.



………to be continued………..

 

The little girl named Kimberly was very smart so she quickly learned all the rules of her new family. She also learned to keep all of the secrets, even from Gommy and Bert, although this made her sad. She didn’t remember very much about being happy, now. But she was so busy taking care of her brother, Michael, that she didn’t have time to think about much else. It wasn’t so hard to take care of Michael, but Kimberly wished her mommy and daddy would stop buying him toys that were dangerous. Like the chemistry set they bought him one Christmas. She spent all morning reading the warnings on the box and didn’t even get to play with her new Barbies. Then her mommy and daddy went out and the first thing Michael did was get his chemistry set out and open all the little plastic containers at one time. He lined all of them up on the coffee table and started pouring some of them together in the little plastic bowl that was for mixing.

Kimberly kept telling him to be careful, be careful; but Michael was never careful. She was in the kitchen looking for breakfast for both of them when she heard a big sneeze and then Michael started wailing. She ran to the living room and there sat Michael with a face full of powdered chemicals and powder dust all over his clothes, the table and the couch. He was crying and rubbing his eyes with powder-covered fists and he kept licking his lips and spitting. Kimberly grabbed him by the shoulders, guided him into the bathroom and splashed gallons of water all over his face until he finally wouldn’t let her keep doing it. She made him sit in a chair while she cleaned all the powder from the table and the couch and carefully put the lids back on every container. She made Michael sit beside her on the couch while she read the lid of the box, panicking every time she read something that said do not get chemicals in eyes, nose or mouth.

After a while, Michael stopped crying and wanted to go play, but she made him sit there with her because she was scared of what the chemicals might do to him. She kept asking him if his eyes hurt, if he could see, if he felt dizzy, until finally he told her to stop asking so many questions and he went to find his Mr. Magoo doll. Kimberly was sitting on the couch crying when her mommy and daddy finally came home. When she told them what happened, her mommy ran to Michael’s bedroom and her daddy started reading the box. She could have told him what it said, but she was mad at both of them, so she let him read it for himself.

A few months later, for his birthday, they bought Michael a wood-burning set. Michael was very happy. He went in to his bedroom with his new toy and made burn marks on his headboard, and his dresser. Then he started burning the plastic off his toy box. That filled the house with a terrible-smelling smoke and made Kimberly’s mommy and daddy take the new toy away from Michael and put it away. Kimberly didn’t like hearing her brother cry, but she was glad he wouldn’t have the wood-burning tool anymore.

It was about then that Kimberly knew she would never be able to go back to live with Gommy and Bert. Even if her mommy and daddy would let her, she couldn’t do it, because someone had to be there to take care of her brother. It made her sad to think about never living at the farm with Gommy and Bert again, but she tried to think about the fun she had with her brother instead of about that. She really liked having a brother, and at least they did get to see Gommy and Bert at Christmas. Maybe it will be okay, she told herself.



What Kimberly didn’t know was that everything was about to change.



…to be continued…



 

And so it was that the little girl called Kimberly found herself living a life entirely different from the one she had grown accustomed to during the first three years of her existence. Where there had been peace, there was now tension; where there had been security, there was now fear; and where there had been love, there was now anger. She wanted to go back to the farm, to her Gommy and Bert. She knew not to ask for that, though, because the child-woman kept saying to her, “Do you like living here with your new brother? Mommy and Daddy are so happy you are here with us.”

At least she did get to play with the baby boy whenever she wanted and that made her happy. Since her new mommy liked to sleep a lot, Kimberly learned quickly about taking care of her brother. After a while, she stopped wishing she could go back to Gommy and Bert, because if she did, who would take care of the baby boy? Kimberly liked to push her brother in his walker; it always made him laugh. She would push him faster and faster, screeching around the corner into the hall as he squealed louder and louder. When she reached the end of the hall, she always turned around and went back the way she had come. Even when she was tired, she didn’t quit, because when she did, the baby boy would start to cry. Then the child-woman (“I know you can say mommy, you say Gommy, that’s practically the same. Say ‘mommy’, Kimberly, say it.”) would come out of her room and ask her what she did to make the baby cry. She was smart; she knew it was her job to make the baby happy.

One day she had the idea to push her brother very fast in his walker and then let go. Her legs were tired, that was all; she didn’t know he would crash into the corner of the wall. When she ran to him, he had blood on his forehead and coming out of his mouth. She tried to pick him up, but he was too heavy for her, so she pushed him in his walker into her mommy’s room. That was the day she learned the best way to wake up her mommy. She tried shaking her and begging and pleading with her to wake up. Her mommy just kept sleeping. When Kimberly looked at the baby, he was crying even harder and now the blood was all over his face and on his fists as he banged them on the tray of the walker. She was so scared; she didn’t know what to do. She just stood beside her mommy and leaned over her to stare at her eyes, hoping she would wake up. She was thinking to herself, “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” when, suddenly, her mommy’s eyes popped open wide and she jumped like she was scared. Then her mommy heard the baby and saw the blood and she flew out of the bed. Kimberly followed her mommy into the bathroom and watched her clean the blood from the baby’s face. Her mommy kept asking her, “What did you do, what did you do?” Kimberly didn’t want to tell her that she pushed the walker and let go. Finally, the baby quit crying and her mommy stopped asking.

Later, she heard her mommy telling her daddy that she had pushed the baby into the wall. It scared her when her daddy looked mean at her, but then her mommy put her hand on his arm and said, “It was an accident.”

“Where were you?”

"Oh, I was in the other room for a minute,” her mommy said, “they were playing, weren’t you, honey?” Kimberly nodded her head. She was smart; she had already learned that secrets were very important in her new family.



…to be continued…


 

Once upon a time, there were two little girls. The first little girl was born to an overwhelmed eighteen-year-old who only thought she was ready to grow up. So the first little girl went to live with her grandparents, while her childlike mother set about trying to find the path to sure happiness for herself. The first little girl was happy. She felt loved and safe and when the child-woman came to visit her, she felt special. She liked the visits, but she was happiest when it was just the three of them – her grandparents and her.



The second little girl was born only thirteen months after the first one, to the same mother, only this time, the child-mother wasn’t just overwhelmed. This time, she was scared and confused. “What about me?” she kept asking herself. “How will I ever find my happiness with two little girls already. No one will want me. How will I ever be happy?”



So the child-mother convinced herself that she could only keep one of the little girls. She moved to another town in another state, she signed some papers and in a short time, she came back home without her second little girl. The second little girl grew up with a mother and a father and another sister in a town not so very far away. She always knew she had another mother somewhere; and she always wondered why that mother didn’t want her. She didn’t know she had another sister. Or that she had a brother, too. She only knew she felt sad because her mother didn’t want her and she couldn’t figure out why.



The child-woman married a man she thought could make her happy. She had another baby, this time, a boy. She didn’t know if she was happy or not; she just tried not to think about it too much. Finally, the boy’s father said to the child-woman, “Your little girl should live with us. Three years is long enough for her to live with her grandparents.” The child-woman just nodded her head.

When the first little girl saw the child-woman come through the door at her home, she was happy at first, because she always felt special when the child-woman came to visit her. The child-woman brought the boy’s father with her, too, and the little girl was happy to see the man she had learned to call Daddy. The child-woman was holding the baby boy. The little girl hoped she would be allowed to hold the baby like last time. She liked to pretend that he was her baby. She was so excited, she ran to the couch to sit down and held out her arms for the baby. She put on her biggest smile and waited. But something was wrong. This time wasn’t like the other times. No one was smiling and the man she called Daddy was talking to her Gommy and Bert (this was what she called her mommy and daddy, because that was what the child-woman had taught her.) Gommy was crying and Bert’s face was red. The little girl got up from the couch to hug her Gommy, but as she crossed the room, she heard the child-woman tell her, “You are going to come live with us now, Sweetie.”



The little girl was scared; her Gommy and Bert were crying and she didn’t know what to do. So, she ran to the bedroom and hid in the back of the closet, way in the back, behind the clothes where no one could find her. She tried not to cry because she didn’t want them to hear her. If they heard her, they would find her. It was hot in the closet, and dark, too; but she didn’t care. She could hear them calling her name, coming closer and closer; but she didn’t make a sound. She was quiet as a mouse.



The closet door opened and the little girl watched as Bert’s hand reached in toward her. “Come here, Doll,” he said, “everything will be alright.” The little girl reached out and placed her tiny hand in her grandfather’s big, warm hand. As she stepped out of the closet, she barely had time to notice everyone standing around in the room before he pulled her close to him in a tight bear-hug. He hugged her for so long that she started to squirm. “Bert, you’re squishing me,” she told him, and when he let her go, she saw the tears on his face as she stepped away from him.



The little girl started to cry then because she knew that Bert was wrong. Everything wasn’t going to be okay. It would never be okay again…



to be continued…




 

I've been a bit out of touch lately, although I have popped in on occasion to read a few blogs and post a comment or two. I've missed being here, but I am on a long-delayed and eagerly anticipated week long escape to my sister's house in New Mexico. Kathy's house is where I go when I need to regain my sanity or when I need to recharge or - and this is the best part of all - when I just want to be completely ME. There is no other place in this world that I can relax the way I can when I'm here with my sister. (This statement will take on much more import in a few paragraphs, trust me.) Everyone should be so lucky to have a sister like mine.You'd love her - I promise.

We laugh - A LOT. We shop. We talk, and talk, and talk. And then we talk some more. I don't know how she does it, but somehow Kathy always helps me remember who I am. I can be lost as a goose, crazy as a bedbug, and a week with my sister will set me back on course. If I could bottle her, I could make a fortune curing all the ills of the world. I'm crazy about her, in case you haven't figured that out.

We've spent some time this week letting our creativity flow. We made some extremely funny refrigerator magnets (I'll post pictures of some of them later on) and went bead shopping, because Kathy makes incredible jewelry. We sat in the middle of the square in Old Town Albuquerque taking pictures of ourselves and cracking up over the really bad shots. And then there was the RANDOM ACT OF CUPPING.

It was really just an innocent accident. Really. Kathy, my niece Alyssa, and I stopped to grab some lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Old Town Albuquerque. They have great chips and salsa at this particular restaurant and Kathy and I both like lots of salt on our chips. So, our table top kept getting covered with runaway salt, which I kept brushing off at random intervals.

At one point, I carefully brushed all the spilled salt into a pile. It was a little hill of salt - not quite a pillar, just a little hill. Since my purse was sitting on the floor beside me, I didn't want to brush the salt off the table only to have it fall into my purse, so I cupped my hand around it and brushed the hill of salt off the table with enough force to send it far, far away. At that precise moment, unbeknownst to me, a waiter was walking up behind me, making his way to the patio to the left of where we were seated. I swear to you, I couldn't have timed it any better if I had tried. Just as my cupped hand left the table and swung down and away, the lucky waiter walked right into my cupped hand. I don't know who was more surprised - me or the waiter - but my perfectly cupped hand came up and under his perfectly positioned right testicle and rested there for the briefest of moments. Alyssa called it right when she said that my arm had the perfect momentum to cause my cupped hand to lift and gently weigh, as it were, the waiter's testicle.

He never broke stride. Just kept walking, uttered a quick, "excuse me" (as in, 'oh, how terribly rude of me to hit you with my testicle') as I jerked my arm back and practically shouted to his receding back, "OH! I'm sorry." Of course, all three of us immediately dissolved into giggles which continued unabated for the entirety of our lunch. I don't know how any of us managed to choke down any of our food; we were so damn busy laughing.

The first few times the sexually-assaulted waiter had to pass our table again, he stayed far to the left and moved quickly. But, finally he stopped by our table, stood there and laughed. It was all a little surreal (is that an understatement, or what?) because none of us made eye contact when he did that. He just paused, laughed and then walked on.

We finally finished our meal and made ready to leave. Kathy told me that she wasn't sure of the protocol when a testicle cupping has occured - should she leave an extra tip? I told her, hell no - he already got his tip. He wasn't our waiter, anyway. Although, I did notice that there was a steady stream of waiters passing our table after a while.

I'll be here for two more days. I'm hoping to make it back by the Mexican food restaurant before I leave. I just have to make sure they seat me where I can get a good swing at the LEFT one this time.


 

Well, I finally did it. I went to see my doctor and .... DISCLAIMER**** Any men who may be reading this might want to avert your eyes. I'm going to talk about the dreaded and mysterious Wimmin Stuff. ****END OF DISCLAIMER

Okay, now where was I? Oh yes, I remember. (mmm hmmm, see, it's helping already!) I went to the doctor and grabbed her by the lapels on her cute little doctor's coat and growled in my best imitation-of-Satan voice, "Give me hormones and give them to me NOW! She was a bit taken aback by my approach, although I have to say that if she expects me to believe that's the first time that has happened, I'm not buying it. No way. But, I digress.

So, Dr. MissPriss adjusted her prissy doctor coat and looked me square in the eyes and said, "Well, we don't really like to do hormone therapy here." Streams of fire shot from my eyes and lit her hair on fire (as this was not a "weepy" day, it was a "murderous rage" day.) As she set about dousing her head in the sink to put the fire out, I told her, "Look, I've already suffered through almost three years of hot flashes and my husband sleeps in a bullet-proof vest. Unless you've got some hormone-sprinkling fairy up your sleeve, "we" need to rethink that policy."

I have to give her credit. It had to be hard for her to try to salvage her dignity as she sat there with smoking hair and a crumpled lab coat with permanent creases in the lapels, but she gave it a shot. Studying my chart, she officiously said, "Let me check your chart. Hmmm, Mmm-hmm. Okay, we'll do it. Give me a minute." She scurried out of the room, never turning her back on me once.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. The door stayed closed.

"I'll just stay out here," Dr. MissPriss shouted through the closed door. "Now, is there any history of breast cancer, ovarian cancer, or uterine cancer in your family?" I answered a quick "no, no and no," and heard a shuffling sound by the door. I glanced in that direction to see pieces of paper being pushed under the door. More shouting from the other side, "Okay, here is your prescription, an order for a mammogram and bone density test, and one for some blood work."

"You can come in," I tried again. "Really, it's okay."

"No, no, that's fine. Just give me two minutes to clear the hall and you can find your way to the front. Oh, and if you need anything else, just call - really, no need for you to come back in."

I gathered my papers and the precious prescription for hormones from the floor, waited the allotted time and then made my way out into the hall. There was no one in sight. I knew Dr. MissPriss was lurking somewhere nearby, though, because I could smell burnt hair.

That was six days ago. Maybe it's psychosomatic, but I swear I'm feeling better already.


***NO DOCTORS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BLOG***
 

Hi, Honey! I'm home!

What a BIZARRE summer this has been. I feel like I wandered off into an alternate universe and got separated from the pack. Something like that. In actuality, I sort of did exactly that. I wandered over to Open Salon for a while and created a blog there, with every intention of posting there and here, as well. Yeah, so much for "the best laid plans of mice and men." I kinda, sorta got stuck over there, due in part to my stubborn nature (more on that later.)

However, recently I've been completely wordless when I try posting to my blog at OS. More often than not, I find myself drifting back to WDC and wistfully reading the blogs of my friends here. I've been trying to write a new post for the last couple of weeks and ... NOTHING. It's been like a log jam of words and thoughts when I sit down to write. I HATE that. And maybe I really don't have a lot to say right now, but at least I've been able to get a few words down today, so that's progress.

I found a couple of very nice, "where are you?" emails when I came back here on occasion and I want to say thank you to those of you who wrote to me. (You know who you are - and you're the best!) I kind of feel like I've been on a long journey and finally made it back home. And - ahhhhhh - it's so peaceful here. Just what I was missing.

I have a lot of catching up to do with a bunch of you. And that's what I'll be doing over the next few weeks. It's been a rocky few months all the way around. I need a warm, welcoming place where I can write about it. I'm sorry for just disappearing without so much as a "fare-thee-well." Good friends deserve better than that. I hope you'll all forgive my lapse in thoughtfulness.

I think that's enough for today. I must read - lots to catch up on. I'll be back.
 

While Charles and I were gone on vacation, Eli took over the job of taking applications and screening potential tenants for the house in LaPorte. I'm happy to report that he did an excellent job and our new tenants signed a lease last night. They move in August 1. YAY!!!

That's the good news. The bad news is that now we start on the next house. Can you hear the excitement in my voice?
 

Sooo, it's been a while. I have been working on "building a platform" to give my book some credibility when I query agents. Let me tell you, it has been a full-time job. But, I'm happy to report that it is beginning to pay off. I have submitted story after story to magazine after magazine, e-zine after e-zine; I have entered contest after contest; and I have read everything I can find on building a platform as a step toward getting published. I'm very well-versed on this subject now, thanks to all my research.

I got an email on Thursday night from one of the e-zines I submitted to that they have accepted one of the short stories I submitted for publication. It will appear in one of the fall issues (not sure which one yet, but they said they will notify me of the exact one soon.) I also uploaded my novel on to authonomy.com and have been tirelessly monitoring its progress and networking like crazy to get my novel to rise up in the ratings. So far, it has gone from number 3786 when submitted to number 1384 since June 25th. The goal is to get you novel into the top 5 (which is the HarperCollins review shelf) and keep it there for a certain amount of time in hopes of it being selected by HarperCollins for an editor review.

I also went on that much-ballyhooed white-water rafting trip that I impulsively bid on at an auction last year and won. I HAD A BLAST! It was in Idaho on the Salmon River - five days, four nights - class 3 and class 4 rapids - camping at night - the whole nine yards. The company we went with - Action Whitewater Adventures - is first class, all the way. I can't say enough good about them. It was a wonderful vacation and I'm so glad we did it. The group we went with was very interesting and Charles and I had a great time getting to know everyone. Oddly, there were five doctors in our group - a kidney doctor, a PCP with Kaiser, and 3 internists (is that the correct term? I think it is.) There were people from New York, Washington, Colorado, California and Pennsylvania (and of course, Texas!) The youngest person in our group was 10 years and the oldest one was a 73-year-old retired high school English teacher.

I'm ready to go on another trip now. It was way out of my comfort zone and I had such a great time. Just goes to show you, you never know!

So, that's where I've been. Now I need to go read and comment and try to catch up with everyone.