Break From Reality. Daily.
“You start, Candace,” Mom said.
Everyone looked at me. I hesitated, trying to decide whether to tell them my news
“Come on, Candace!” seven-year-old Tyson called. “That turkey’s going to grow wings and fly away. I’m starving.”
When the laughter died down, I took the plunge. “I’ve written a short story and it’s going to be published.”
I could have killed my little sister. People say that sort of thing as a joke, or hyperbole or metaphor. They don’t usually mean it.
I thought I was ready for the glowing accounts of Bella’s first week, sophomore year. Would it be as wonderful as her freshman year? Would the stars align? Would my little sister be the first person admitted to Harvard or Stanford from Reagan High School? I pushed the beef casserole around my plate and waited for her to launch. Oh yes, here is comes. Big breathless sigh. Bingo!
“They agreed to let me take pre-calc,” she said, smiling so her dimples showed. “It looks challenging but this way I can take three AP math classes before the end of high school? That’ll look good on my college applications.”
Pretty standard Bella move making her statements sound like questions to seem less vain. Stupid twit, I thought, even though I knew she wasn’t stupid. No, if there was anyone in this family who could be called stupid, it was me. Miss Mediocrity. Yes, Bella was planning for Stanford, and Candace would make do with community college. Ha, ha, ha. I looked around the table at my earnest mother, my sad, grey father, and my silly grandmother, and I thought I might just shock the snot out of them all one day. One day in the not too distant —
“Candace!”
Click, hiss, click, hiss. The toaster clicks and clutches the cinnamon toast, and the kettle hisses. I warm the pot and find the linen cloth for the tray.
Thud, thud. A tennis ball striking the wall on the old tennis court in the backyard. My son Jacob is practicing his backhand. A dozen or more thuds. I smile. A long rally will make him happy.
Tick, tick. The clock warns me that I have three minutes before I’m due upstairs. My father, Isaac Stephens, retired thespian, is a stickler for punctuality. If you miss your cue, you lose your audience and lose the part. Being late for tea will hardly ruin his career. Not now. But given our common knowledge of how lateness jangles his nerves, any dawdling of mine will be interpreted as a lack of care, a desire to rub his nose in his weakness.
Dear Imogene,
Your letter caught me off guard. I was surprised that you were apologizing again and asking for forgiveness for what you did when we were girls. The incident must have weighed on you for forty years.
I’ve heard it said that forgiveness benefits the giver as much as the recipient—unclenching her heart and letting her breathe easy. But not in my case. I’m not doubled over with rage and resentment. Memories of your cruelty don’t haunt me. In fact, several years have passed since I’ve thought of you.
Does that mean I’ve already forgiven you? I don’t think so.
The night is as bright as day. I’m going to shine like the full moon.
I’ve tied my hair in a French braid, applied smoky dusty rose eyeshadow, and a second coat of mascara. I try the coral lip gloss. The color is a little overpowering with my pale skin and dress that is a soft cloud pink with hints of pastel green, the dress that cost me $257, wiping out my savings. My mother lent me the extra I needed, although she grumbled about the price, especially for a long dress I’ll never wear again—unless I shorten it and wear it for Aunt Cecilia’s wedding. I didn’t say anything. If I had, I’d have told her the expense was like a peasant going hungry to pay for gold paint on the Virgin Mary’s statue, religious somehow, sacrificial, a way of showing you love something more than food. Cutting it short would be sacrilege.
When Cade asked me to the prom I was ecstatic, like one of those saints transported out of her own skin with the intense joy of encountering God.
I, Omega, ruler of Tuzrat, and of kingdoms as far as away as the tundra of Quondonia, the fevered heat of Rargan, and the mild, fruit-plains of Westchire, I who have a palace full of fawning minions, thirty obedient wives, and one hundred and three obedient children, am cursed. Cursed by my disobedient daughter.
First in the matter of marriage. Unlike her sisters, Iota has never been fair. Whey-faced with dark, oily hair, an oversized nose and crooked teeth, she wasn’t equipped by nature to find a husband. Given her lineage, however, one would have expected she’d have suitors enough. But she drove them off—with her foul breath and her carping complaints about their own imperfections. None will have her, even if she is the daughter of a king.
Instead she will remain in the palace. She is determined to work in the library, in the scriptorium, recording the history of our dynasty. “This is a job for old men,” I tell her. “Not for young girls.”
She frowns and the lines between her eyes are as deep as any ancient scholar’s. “But it’s what I want,” she insists and pushes out her chin.
Roasting garlic from the cooked meat section irritated my nose. I’d stopped at Haggen after lunch. Grocery shopping on a full stomach was supposed to be a good idea. Even the blueberries and strawberries, gleaming like naked jewels, evoked a slight revulsion. How was I going to buy avocadoes and parmesan and pumpkin seeds and all the other rich indigestible foods on my list? My pants felt tight—no room for more. Why had I eaten so much? My mouth tasted foul. Why hadn’t I told the waiter to hold the onions?
I squinted at my list. Sliced chicken for my kids’ sandwiches. Better head to the deli.
That’s when I saw her, Julia, my friend, old friend, ex-friend, leaning on the deli counter conversing with the Hispanic woman serving her. Her curly red hair was short and stylishly cut, her hips lean in loose jeans. She’d lost weight.
Larry ushered the anxious woman into his office and noted with satisfaction the calming effect its caramel walls, photos of ocean and mountain scapes, fake orchids, and soft music had on her. He sat behind the wide desk. “Now, Mrs. Smith, it looks from my paperwork here that you have missed three, no four,…
Come in. Follow me into my sitting room. Ha! It’s only four feet from the door. Not much chance of getting lost. Sorry about the heavy pine scent. They don’t allow us to open the windows. Yes, I do have a lot of photographs. That’s me and my late husband on our wedding day; that’s…
“Get up, Lily!” I heard a voice in my dreams. A monster? “Get up, for Christ’s sake. We don’t have much time.” I pulled myself out of my sleep. The voice belonged to my father. I could see his shape in the half dark but not his face. “Get Tommy and Dougie up and dressed,…
All around me is a sea of satin, black ties, well-kept flesh, champagne, and flash bulbs. I’m the center of attention, not an uncommon experience for me, but this time it’s especially gratifying. All these people have gathered for the launch of my new device, the culmination of my life’s work. And my…
Painting by Mary Howard Ashland, Oregon, September, 2011 This story is a chapter from my novel Less than Kind, and depicts my second main character, Emma Fielding. The kitchen sink was clogged again. In the past, Emma had left this sort of thing to Michael. She’d ask for his help and he would…
When the alarm woke me at five, my first instinct was to leap out of bed; but then I remembered that this day was different. So I turned off the clock and snuggled deeper under the blankets. This day was to be an experiment. I’d finally decided to follow the advice I’d encountered three times:…
The following story is an extract from my novel, Less than Kind. It was late Friday afternoon, the very beginning of the weekend. Sixteen year old Jess and her father were sitting reading together. A brief island of calm. He looked up from his magazine. “A banana is a kind…
The cavernous ceilings and rows of statues in the foyer loomed dauntingly. The woman in charge, a volunteer apparently, from her dress and manner, was packed into layers of silk. Above the dress her flesh was well-fed zinc white warmed with a drop of rose madder. She could have been cut out of a painting…
“Descartes said, ‘I think. Therefore, I am.’ But he could have said, ‘I dive. Therefore, I am.’ Or, ‘I win. Therefore, I am.’ The grammatical subject of any true sentence must exist. QED.” Alice hit the final period with a satisfying thump. Mr. Thomson would have to give her an A, which was all…
