Chasing ghosts

We spent most of the day pulling weeds from the tiny gravesite.

The child buried there was only three when he died, and only this first name, and birth and death dates were etched on the crude stone.

His very existance seemed to be a secret, and I was determined to shine a light on the secret, to make sure people rememebered him.

“Things had been much better when he had been hidden.”

Rising from his spot near the small headstone, Mason brushed the dirt off his hands.

“You can’t honestly believe that,” I stayed on the ground, my hands full of weeds. “He wasn’t an orphan. He had family who wondered what happened to him.”

“He was a bastard,” Mason’s vehemence was unexpected.

“That certainly wasn’t his fault,” I stuffed the offending dandelions in a trash bag. “Why are you so angry?”

Mason shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He caused a lot of problems in my family.”

I stood, picking up the full bag. The grave site, once obscured by weeds and underbrush, was now cleared. The stone was free of lichen, and the name finally visible.

“He didn’t do anything, he was little more than a baby when he died.” I stepped close to Mason, forcing him to look at me. “If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at the right person.”

He just shook his head again.

“Seems to me that you can’t bring yourself to place blame where it belongs.” I handed him the bag of weeds. “Just say it. Say that your mother had an affair, had a baby, and that baby died.”

“You’re out of line.” He grabbed the bag, and tossed it across the lawn.

“You can’t be mad at a little kid for being born, you can’t blame him for your parent’s divorce, and you can’t blame him for anything that came from that break up.” I jabbed a finger in his chest with each bullet point. “He had grandparents who loved him, aunts and uncles who mourned him, and a half-brother  - you – who should have been allowed to know him.”

He grabbed my hand to stop any continued stabbing.

“You don’t know anything.”

“I think you have that wrong,” I pulled my hand out of his grasp. “I know that he also had a half-sister. A sister who remembers him, and loved him.”

Mason stepped away from me, as if slapped.

“He was my brother too, and for a few short years, he lived with my family,” I was enjoying too much the wash of emotions playing across Mason’s face. “When he died, my dad and I moved away. We lost track of his grave site. Now, I’ve found him, with your help. I guess I should thank you.”

Mason stumbled back, tripping over the stone.

“Oh, relax, Mason.” I smiled down at him, lying on the ground in shock. “We share a brother, but we aren’t related in any way. We’ve done nothing… inappropriate.”

Inspired by Douglas Adam’s “The Long Dark Tea-time of the Soul” – “Things had been much better when he had been hidden.“

Week 20: Inspired by “orphan“

A father’s right

He sat on the curb, legs bent so he could rest his elbows on his knees. A freshly fired pistol, now unloaded and its clip removed, lay on the sidewalk beside him, but out of reach.

Dressed in clean jeans, his most comfortable pair of running shoes and the red plaid button-down his wife always complimented him on, he looked like an average, middle-aged man. Except for the blood spatter hidden in the pattern of his shirt, and flecks of crimson dotting his face, he could be the guy next door.

His cell phone buzzed, but he ignored the noise. The last number he called was showing on the caller ID, but he had nothing left to say to the person on the other end. He said it all minutes before:

“I need a police officer and ambulance at 1212 Caster Street. I just shot someone.”

He was sure his target was dead, but he requested the ambulance just in case. He wanted the other man dead, hoped he was, but another bullet would only make the situation worse. He made his point already, anything more was unnecessary.

This was his last act of hopelessness. All his complaints, all the emails and voice messages, the notes left on her windshield, even hospital photos of ghastly injuries weren’t enough to get anyone to help. If the legal system wouldn’t stop the abuse, then there was only one option left.

When he finally came to trial for the murder of the man he claimed was physically and psychologically tormenting his daughter, neighbors and friends asked the inevitable questions about why he did what he did.

What gave him the right to take the law into his own hands, to act as judge, jury, and executioner.

In her opening statement, his attorney answered:

“Desperation had given him authority.”

Inspired by T.H. White’s “Once and Future King”
“Desperation had given him authority”

Pocket full of pebbles

I’m not sure what it is about me, but I often feel that I am some sort of confessional magnet. Maybe it’s my perceived zen-esque attitude, or how I talk about my family, or… who knows what, but people tend to tell me things like I’m an Internet bartender.

Deep things, ‘this shit is getting real’ things, things where I want to put my fingers in my ears and sing “lalalalalalala lalala lalala,” until they stop talking, but I can’t seem to do that.

I can’t just say, “sorry, can’t help you,” even if I should, even if I know I’m getting sucked into a wormhole of crazy.

And let me tell ya, I know crazy – from everyday crazy, to highly medicated crazy, to “she should be wrapped in a net and put in a padded room” crazy. It could be that because I am intimately familiar with many levels of dysfunction, that I can listen to these confessions and honestly say “I’m not judging.”

Unless I have first-hand knowledge of continuing abuse – physical, sexual, emotional, psychological – I also know there are always two sides to every story, and I may only hear one side. I may be told a crock of shit, I don’t know, so I can’t, won’t judge anyone coming to me for help.

Take a situation like Rihanna and Chris Brown. The majority of what is known about their relationship has played out through the media. It’s pretty much a given that Brown did beat her, and now four years later, they appear to be together again. What we can’t know is what was said and done between them in private. We don’t know and most likely never will.

I know a woman who reconciled with a man who abused her as a child. If you were looking at this relationship from the outside and knew their history, how would you judge it? What we can’t know are the conversations they had that lead to their reunion.

After one rather onerous confession, I consulted my son. You may think that odd, but the confession involved someone who was having an extramarital affair, and who was also coping with a serious mental illness. While he doesn’t have the same illness, my son deals with his own thought disorders. I thought he could offer some valuable insight.

The person having the affair blamed his illness for his carnal straying. I asked The Boy his opinion… without giving him all the sordid details.

His answer was perfect – “Having (a thought disorder) doesn’t give you a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, you still know what you’re doing.”

In essence, you can’t blame your crazy for doing stupid things, especially if you have your sort of crazy in check.

Numerous other friends have confessed affairs to me. I don’t know if they sought my blessing to cheat on their spouses, if they wanted me to absolve them of their sin, or if they merely felt a need to unburden themselves, but I’m left with this secret that I don’t know what to do with.

I won’t stop being friends with a person just because of an affair, but I try very hard to not get involved. I’ve gotten invested in that sort of drama before and it came back to bite me on the ass. I’m done with that. I won’t take sides, I won’t be a go-between, and I don’t feel it’s my place to tell the other spouse about the affair.

Okay, I may judge you for being a douche(tte) if you try denying culpability in an affair. I will taunt you for your sophistry, just ‘man-up’ and accept your full share of the blame.

It comes down to this… none of us are perfect. We all make mistakes and hope for redemption, but we need to own those mistakes. I won’t judge you for being human, I have far too much garbage in my life to criticize someone else. I simply don’t have a stone small enough to throw at anyone.

Sisterhood

I can’t say the phone call surprised me. I half expected I would get it one day, but even with that trepidation, it still unnerved me.

It started out like any other afternoon telemarketing interruption. I wonder if I could have ended the encounter before it started by simply letting that initial call go straight to voice mail. I go weeks without checking my messages, it could have easily been among the casualties of a bulk ‘delete all.” Instead, I answered. The area code was familiar, I assumed it was someone I knew.

When she asked for me, she butchered my first name. One of the perks of having an odd name is strangers always mispronounce it. Keeping with the telemarketer assumption, I was about to hang up when she said those four fateful words, “I am your sister.”

Good ol’ dad, you horn-dog. Your lecherous ways are haunting me still.

I couldn’t even stammer an answer. I would rather have stabbed myself in the eye with the fork in that road than pick the wrong path. I should have listened to the Jiminy Cricket voice in my head, the one that sounds remarkably like my husband, that kept saying… nay… screaming, “Disengage! Disengage!”

“You must have the wrong number,” as if a noncommittal response would’ve worked.

For the next 15 minutes, without taking a breath, my caller went through her ‘begats,” listing off facts, dates and historical characters in a wholly believable tale that was Lifetime Movie worthy.

When she finally paused, I jumped in with a single question that could settle the matter.

“When were you born?”

My chance at having a baby sister was dashed when she gave a date some 12 years after my birth.

“My father had a vasectomy when I was 10, two years before you were born,” I said.

The click on the other end of my phone was deafening.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Path [noun \ˈpath, ˈpäth\] 3a: course, route; b: a way of life, conduct, or thought

Proof

Dried leaves, filtering through the collapsing roof, crunched under her feet. Walking from room to room, flashbacks from her childhood twisted through her memory.

The door long gone, she stepped over the threshold of the closet where she slept. A metal chest sat forlorn in the corner. Inside, she was shocked to find the remains of long forgotten toys and storybooks. When she picked them up, a photo fell out and floated to the floor. She picked it up and gasped, crumbling to the floor.

Her tears, soundless and bitter, fell. She had her proof. He couldn’t deny his sins.

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Diane Trujillo gave me this prompt: When she picked them up, a photo fell out and floated to the floor. She picked it up and gasped.

I gave Major Bedhead this prompt: You buy an old camera at a thrift store, when you get it home you discover there is still film inside. Do you get it developed? If you do, what is on the film?

The 100 Word Challenge, theme this week is ‘Soundless’

An indecent proposal

I wanted to do this right, to make the moment special, make her feel special. I had a whole different outcome in mind when I began.

We sat together on the couch after dinner. Holding her close, she was tucked under my arm, her cheek resting against my chest.

With my free hand, I squeezed the tiny, blue velvet box in my pocket to make sure it was still there. Gently pushing her up, I muted the television.

“I found your dad, and I went to see him today,” the words I rehearsed for hours tumbled out. “I told him of my intention to marry you, and I asked him for your hand.”

Sliding off the couch, I was on one knee, the box open in my hands, offering it up to her along with my heart.

She shrank away from me, her eyes wide in terror. All I could see were black pupils, dilated beyond the emerald ring of her irises. Her voice tiny and far away.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” she stood trembling. “What have you done!”

Pacing around the room like a caged animal, she couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with her hands. Mumbling incoherently, she fluttered her fingers like a frightened bird trying to take flight.

Her panic forced her into the farthest corner of the room. Fingers tips covering her mouth, she slid down the wall until she was sitting in a crouch.

Speaking in a soft voice, I tried to approach her, to find out what was wrong. When I reached out to touch her, she pulled back with a startled squeak.

“He wasn’t supposed to know where I am.” I could barely hear her. “You have to leave, NOW!”

I could only do what she demanded. The next morning when I stopped by to check on her, everything was gone, except for a note addressed to me.

“Don’t try to find me!”

The Trifecta challenge for this week is: Intention [noun \in-ten-shuh\] 3a : what one intends to do or bring about

My familiar

I knew one day we’d be together again. Something as intangible as dying couldn’t keep us apart.

Remember all those nights we’d stay up late watching old movies? You’d lay your head on my chest, and I would stroke your face, and run my fingers through your jet hair. We wouldn’t have to say a word, merely be content, head to heart.

I didn’t recognize you at first. You were just a muddy, throw-away we found abandoned in the woods – so small, so helpless.

I would wrap you up in towels, and let you sleep on my chest to keep you safe and warm. When you’d nestle under my chin, it felt familiar… but not. Do you know what I mean?

When you were older, you’d never sit with me when anyone else was around. Only brushing against me in passing, making it look like an accident. It was like before, when we couldn’t let our families know about us. But, at night when the house was quiet, you’d come lie with me, curling around my neck, purring loudly in my ear.

Still, it wasn’t until I looked into your eyes, sitting face to face, that I finally knew. You had come back to me.

No car crash, no brain injury, not even death could separate us.

It took a very long time for you to return, but you’re here now.

The wonder of it is that you were incarnated in the guise of a sensuous black cat. It’s so very fitting. You always were a little dangerous, and a little magical.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Wonder [noun \ˈwən-dər\] 3a: rapt attention or astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one’s experience