My father Could Always Find Me: Short Story

My father could always, always find me. I would look at the clock and wait for the Coo Coo bird to pop out, signaling 5:45 when I knew he would be close. Over the months, he had become used to my hiding inside my mom's long black dress jacket in the closet. The first time I hid there, he screamed and fell against the wall, making my mom say, "One of these days you are going to give him cardiac arrest." From that moment on, I moved around daily, from under his desk, to behind the bathroom door, to inside the kitchen cleaning cabinet, each time hoping to recreate that moment.

The last spot I found was under the train set table in the basement. I lay watching a spider slowly build circles of invisible floss, while my fingers worked red paint chipping above my head. I heard the front door open, felt the weight of his shoes, then feet along the floor and watched the ceiling to anticipate his every step. I imagined the basement door opening, his socks pressing on each step with tiny creaks as he moved closer and closer, till I could hear him breath just above my head. Then the moment I would grab his foot from the dark shadow and here him cry out.

All went quiet and I shivered in the dark, feeling the hard cement against the back of my head. Not knowing the time, I started counting to sixty over and over. Then I heard the door and one creak on the step before my mom's voice sounded with, "Dad's too tired tonight. Come wash your hands for dinner."

"No thanks," is whispered, "I will wait." The noises grew fainter and then I heard the voices of strangers on the television. I flipped to my stomach, pillowed my arm under my head and closed my eyes.

Is Art Frivolous?

I am hoping my artist friends will respond to this blog, because I am struggling with the question, "Is Art Frivolous?" In college I could have "just" majored in Art, but decided to double major, to cover my behind. Why?

When I finished college, I applied for a job doing the installations for the Field Museum in Chicago, but I did not show up for the physical test, when I would have to build something, because I didn't believe I could do it. Instead I walked into a temping agency and asked them to help me find a desk job. They sent me to Enterprise Rent a Car, Tech companies, Volkswagen and eventually Citigroup, where I stayed for seven years.

I feel like I am faking my way into art, while my real job is, "homemaker." I tell people I am writing, but I don't want to show them my work. My words often read exposure, embarrassment and humiliation. My art is about sitting in front of my truth and manipulating it into an image, a choice and letting go of being beautiful. I am afraid I might be wasting time focusing on me. The stack of survival work like groceries, helping others, doing my jobs for the neighborhood, blogging, reading, my family are all sitting over my shoulders demanding attention. My guilt in writing feels like I am pulling on a choke collar, where to get relief I must focus on the survival work and move away from my creative space.

Do I pretend art until I am legitimate? Is it a game where I try to convince people of my worth through a label? Is art life-giving or life-taking? Are children life-giving or life-taking? The question that haunts me even more is, Is time with God legitimate? Is God life-giving or life-taking? I jump to want to say, of course Jesus is living water and worth my attention, but when I sit down to write, I don't want to "waste time" with God.

My guilt at these questions is extreme and lead me to an internal question of, Am I life-taking or life-receiving? Am I open to God? Open to his art? Can I settle into his deeper work that is demanding my attention, exposing me deeper truth so that I can openly express both faith and doubt.

The Bargain

Today I ventured to Borders because I kept seeing emails about how everything is practically free. The irony is that it has always been a good deal to go there, since they send out 33% to 40% off coupons and give members the extra %10 almost every day. Now that they are "Going Out of Business," I wondered all morning if I was missing out on something great, so at 2 pm I drove downtown with the kids to find out.

I started in the Children's section, optimistic that the toys, books and games would provide a weeks worth of fun. We picked up a bionical robot and a sticker book cluing my three year old into the fact that I was ready to buy. He then began saying things like, "look at this Spiderman Puzzle" and Do you think we can get Little MR Grumble?" As he clutched the items, my answer was, "Sure" and his eyes lit up.

We moved to the magazines, all left-overs with piles of calendars, and romance novels filling the Politics, Art and Lit Review sections. Then we headed upstairs to discover walls of cookbooks, like the many I have bought and never look at again along with bath kits and shopping bags and walls of greeting cards. I moved from Fiction to Biography to DVD's hoping for anything I could justify adding to my pile for the "Buy 8, get an extra 15% off." Andrew said get kids movies and maybe "The Social Network," but the prices started at $29.99 and went up from there. I stood calculating what 30% off would add up to, it was hardly a bargain, especially given there were none I wanted to see.

So you might assume that I walked out in a huff, but no, I was intent on buying eight items. Do I need Little Miss Curious or Burst bees tinted chapstick or a Transformer sticker books? No, but somehow I felt compelled to cheat the system and make a killing in savings. I just wanted to buy things and I honestly believed that when they rang me up, the check-out man would say, "Your total is five dollars and you saved $75," or something like that. In the end I spent $35 and saved $30. The problem is that now I have all this stuff and am out $35. The moment I set foot on the sidewalk and for the rest of the afternoon I lamented that there are no returns and that now I am stuck with more stuff.

I am not sure the lesson. I want to say I shouldn't have bought the things, or that they will come in handy when I need to give someone a gift. I could even say I was the martyr in this debacle, allowing me to spread the message to you and your friends to avoid the place, but really I think I need to just say, what is done is done. I made a mistake. That despite the unknown authors who lined the shelves looking to be made legitimate through a sale, that David, Isaac and I got out of the house for a few hours. That now I don't need to wonder what I am missing. That next time I have can opt for the park instead.

The Itch in my Throat

I have had a cough for over a month now. It started with a horse throat and now the act of responding to the tickle in my throat has caused me to have pains in my back and sides.  When talking, I sometimes end up doubled over in a fit of hacking. People stare and ask if I am ok. My kids imitate it like it is funny and now my sides hurt so badly I am taking meds for the pain. I even went to the doctor on Tuesday to try and find some miracle cure. He was very thoughtful about it, but could not give me a diagnosis. 

Over this fight in my body, I survived a wedding, a reunion, cramming in a The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lack’s for book club, helping my sister with her newborn, community responsibilities and attending events every night this week. 

This morning after my husband woke up, I told him I needed to go out for a while and write.  In this moment I am sitting at my coffee shop drinking dark hot cocoa and all I can think is that I want to be alone. If only I could call in sick from life for the day, but my kids need attention and people are coming to our house for lunch and dinner.

In my dreams I watch family members and friends desperately need things and wake up with the stress of trying to understand my role in responding to them. I wonder if I can give myself permission to say that I come first.

My writing coach and I have had a repeat conversation, where I tell her I am not making time to write. We have analyzed reasons, made schedules, put together ways for me to ask for time and the bottom line for me is that I have to believe it matters enough to say no to everything else for a few hours a week. Oh and of course to practice asking for help to so I can get those hours.

My phobia is in troubling others with: “can you watch my kids?” To overcome it I need to do it a lot and accept “no” from one person and then moving on to ask another and another and another. I have to know that sometimes it will mean others don’t get my attention. The ultimate truth for me is that it is a sacrifice and act of love to listen to my life so I can show up in relationships. 

Laboring

My sister is in labor right now. Hearing her voice from the hospital room, I sense that this is a defining moment full of fear, pain and anticipation. A small and helpless little person lurking in the waters of unknowns. I want to tell her all the moments that are coming, but my advice sounds flat. I stop talking as I realize she must experience them to understand.

Classic me, I missed all the pre-labor texts and calls and when I did pick up the phone, it was because I thought she wanted to go blueberry picking. A week overdue, I somehow thought the baby might hang out in her womb forever, because our prior conversation was about the responsibilities lingering on a longish to do list.

Today is a first for everyone. Lights and screams and tearing and reaching through emotional and physical exhaustion to the hope beyond. Relying on the magic of the first hour of breath to carry life to a new space. Knowing that God has not given up on humanity.

Breathe in God's bounty little one!     

I do

My beautiful 22 year old sister-in-law is married. The day was perfection, from her purple eye shadow, to her side feather hair accessory, with white wire netting to her chin. I met her at age six and over the years she has blossomed, figuring out who she is, what she wants and now journeying forward to a new city, med school and a man who loves her for her (and vice versa).

At the event I got to walk the isle and meet my husband waiting as an attendant at the front. I caught his eye from the entrance and he twinkled, slim and chiseled. I wanted to run to him, my eyes light. We held hands through the seven prayers and sermon, the heat of the day drenching our fingers in sweat. Vows were spoken and in my head I to was saying, "I do, I do, I do." At the reception, as he sat clicking buttons for a twenty-five minute slide show of the couples story, my chest burst watching him masterfully painting their story and every so often glancing over at me and smiling.