We had an old friend over recently. He’s moving to another part of the country, and we were glad to see him before he left. Who knows when we’ll see him again?

So, we were sitting on our candlelit back deck, talking and drinking whiskey – well, not me, I was drinking a good Cabernet – and he looked at me, his head slightly tilted. “Do you sing anymore?” He asked, a little wistfully.

“No,” I said without hesitation or remorse, and took a long sip from my glass. He looked sad. But I wasn’t. I wanted him to know that I was fine with it, that I didn’t need it, that it wasn’t necessarily me, anymore. That the person who came in at 3:00 in the morning, who subsisted on very little food, who held crazy parties, who cried late into the night, playing guitar and writing poetry – that person was here, but not here. Gone, but still abiding.

In my life, I’ve had so many different lives rolled up into it. I’ve traveled many miles, have been onstage in multiple theatrical productions and singing engagements, have lived by myself in near poverty, have ended unhealthy relationships only to start new unhealthy ones, have pushed myself to the limit morally and philosophically, have landed squarely at bottom and come up on top, somehow.

And, don’t we all do this? We all have many lives wrapped up in our one, many phases and elements and intricacies woven in our one life’s blanket. I’ve used the term “crazy quilt” before, because I think it succinctly defines the workings of a life and its components. I was that, then. I am this, now. I am a rough sketch of realism, I am a fluid dream that survives the morning. I am that stubborn wreck of a girl, I am that soft spot on the wall.  Crazy.

Surely the two don’t have to meet – but in a sense, they do. It’s a thread of time that is divided and shredded, but remains entangled. A life that moves from one stage to the next with no more thought than the humming wings of a mosquito, but with so much beauty and refinement that one might think it divine in its song, its carelessness taking my breath away. There’s no order to it. It’s chaos. But, it’s supremely choreographed.

I’m not sad that I don’t sing anymore. In all actuality, I do sing. Every day. But I don’t sing for people, on a stage. I sing in the small corners of my life, in the kitchen, by the front door, in the shadows of the trees at the edge of the lawn. My creation is there, and my emotional response. I’m present in myself there, and don’t need anything else. This is my possession, now – that impenetrable, insubstantial piece of myself that merely calls out to the world, without caring if anyone is there to hear.

It’s enough. At least, for now – in this moment, as it happens. The next space and time might turn with the wind, which I’ll ride in the heart and beauty of the storm, taking my place among both the extraordinary and the small things.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written, I haven’t written in awhile, and the words don’t come as gracefully as I’d like. In and out of a strange sort of haze, I’ve been – trying to keep a little above water but sometimes getting sucked down under by strange thoughts and ideas that push themselves on me.

It comes with the onset of change, I suppose.

You know, it’s funny how the universe kind of smacks you in the side of the face at times. Not always in a harsh way, but enough so that you’re inclined to turn and go in another direction entirely, unaware until that moment that this is your path, now. It’s good and bad and scary and not, and I’ve ruthlessly struggled but ultimately let go of myself and my confounded controls to just let it take me where it will, and to not force the issue.

And in the midst of the preparation for change, in the center of it all, I stop writing. My work suffers. I am paralyzed, in a sense, by the wall put in front of me. But then my work, the writing bit, opens me up again – puts a door in the wall, if you will – so that I can push through and become a little sane, again. Yes, there is a Way Out.

Whoever said that work is the panacea for all things was certainly correct. (Did anyone say that, actually? If not, I’m saying it, now). Plunging oneself into work shapes a great spirit, brings about an attitude of optimism and rebirth, and helps one to feel grounded and weightless, at once.

Actually, this connection to the core through work is a fabulous way for me to center myself right quick. Instead of sagging around, turning my mopey moony-face to the sky in unabashed self-pity, I’m involved in something quite outside myself. That is, gripping the creative forces with both hands and holding on steadily, as the world becomes affixed to my heat and holds onto me. Then I can forget who I think I am for awhile, and tune into the universal me – the me that is a human spirit, who is in it with all of you, and who is in it with all the other beautiful junk in the world.

In other words – because I’m certain I’m not making sense now, and I need to clarify – immersing myself into work becomes a way to connect with the vital energy that’s inside me, which is a part of all things, and then allows me to see what’s genuine, what’s significant, what’s the real deal. Not all the stuff that I lay awake at night and worry about – not the “What ifs” and the “But thens” and the “I’ll nevers” – but the source of lightness, of buoyancy, the part of me that maintains absolute resilience in the face of stormy weather.

If I’ve said this all before, I apologize. (I think I’ve said this all before, haven’t I? And countless others, really. I apologize for the redundancy). It’s not that much of an epiphany, truthfully. It’s not an original idea, certainly. But it’s enough of an insight to steady me right now, and to allow me the realization that despite all that goes on externally,  despite the smacking winds and the heavy-handed lurch of the unknown, I am still here, in this place. I am still here. I am here. I am.

On mornings like this, I sit at my computer and look through the housing listings  – specifically, I look at one particular town, where I’m hoping that someday we can live.

Why?

Because I’m not happy here. Not at all. I can’t connect to anyone. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work. I’m so out of place, I might as well go around wearing a huge sign on my back that says, “Person-who-doesn’t-fit-in-here,” or “Sticking-out-like-a-sore-thumb,” or “Kick me.” (Well, maybe not “Kick me,” but you get the idea).

What can I do? I’m stuck. We can’t move right now, for various reasons – so I’m making the best of it. But I’m driven to the point of tears, many times – at least once a week, on Sundays, when my chest feels heavy with the longing to be somewhere else.

I was speaking to an acquaintance about this the other day, and I told her that probably what I need to do is to just accept where I am, and make the best of it. Like my Grandmother used to say, I need to blossom where I am and see what happens. Sound advice, that – and actually something I’m striving to do. But my acquaintance said that it sounds like I need to find my tribe.

My tribe. I need to find my tribe.

I have found some tribal members – my dear, wonderful friends, without whom I’m not sure what I’d do. Probably go crazy and run around spray-painting mailboxes, or something.

Of course, they all live in another town.

The town, the place I want to live, is just perfect for our family. Every time I visit , I’m amazingly at home. I feel nostalgic for it when I’m not there, as if I’m homesick. And when I leave, I usually cry.

You know there’s something going on when you cry because you have to leave one place to go back home to another.

And then, there’s the whole tribal idea. Beyond the physical aspects of a place – a home – there’s also the community itself, and its members. And I think this is mostly what I’m missing. The connection that people make, which is genuine, and which makes a person feel as if they’re home, home again. Not only family – which in itself is, of course, important – but the grocer, the teachers, the farmers, the neighbors, the town council, the librarians, the people you meet on the sidewalk – everyone makes up the experience that we call “home.”

This is the tribe. All the people with whom you come in contact, every day. The people your children see and interact with. The people whom you see at town concerts, parades, stores, fairs. The people whom you meet in school, church, when you’re out for lunch.

Like everyone, I need to feel like I belong. I’d love to feel that people are interested in me, that we have a lot of things in common. I’d love to have a good discussion with someone, and then see that someone in the grocery store or at a block party.

I don’t have it here. And I’m aching for it. And slowly disintegrating into something that’s not me, but a lonely, solitary heart needing its connections, its core, so that I can honestly feel at home and comfortable.

Is it too much to ask? I don’t know. But as long there’s that place that exists, that place where the waters rise and the trees sway easily and people meet and exchange ideas and wave hello and scoot over to make room for one more at the table – as long as that place is in the world, I’m afraid I’ll be forever looking out from here with sorrow and yearning.

In fact, that place does exist – I’ve found it already. And perhaps, that place, too, is longing for, waiting for me. It waits for me in the breezes, and in the cool, soft places. It waits for me in the blackberry bushes, the wild meadow lush with lavender, and in the cracks of the huge oak at the edge of the field. It waits for me in all the places that I dream about. And, I’m ready.

Bird on the beach, East Grand Terre Island

Photo source: AP Photo/Charlie Riedel, Thursday, June 3, 2010

Writing! Of course. That was it – I had always written, always had some kind of thing going on with it on the side, whether I was working on a story or journal entry or poem – I was already a writer – I just needed to make it official. Whatever that meant, I hadn’t a clue.

I asked writing to marry me, and it agreed.

I went to writing school. In a graduate program – a la-dee-dah Master of Fine Arts program. I workshopped. I wrote. I workshopped some more. I wrote about workshopping. I wrote about graduate school. I wrote about writing in graduate school, in a workshop. I wrote about the moldy tile in the corner of the bathroom. I wrote about the existentialist moment when I lay down my penchant for monetary things, and survived primarily on rice and sliced tomatoes. I wrote about the monk’s life I inexplicably found myself living.

But then, I paused. Just for a second – a mere scrap of a pause, a blip in the universe. But it was a pause, make no mistake.

Was this it? Was this the thing, the thing that I had always been hoping for? That elusive, pain-in-the-ass thing that kept avoiding me, but was what seemed now to be the love affair of a lifetime – writing and me? Were we destined to be a match, all along?

I second guessed it. Just as I do everything – everything that relates to my impending success, that is.

Then I received a phone call from my Dad, on a Sunday, when I was sick with a nasty cold and everyone else in my family was going to dinner. He called, his voice a little weak, but steady. He wanted me to know a few things. He said, “Keep writing.” He said, “You’re a wonderful mother.” He said, “You are a gift.” He said, “Keep writing.”

After we hung up, I wept. It sounded like he was saying goodbye, really – as if he wanted to – had to – get in everything in, as if he needed to tell me everything that I would ever need to know in one fifteen minute phone call.

The next day, we lost him.

A year or two later, after his death, I remembered something. When Jack was just a baby, I came across a piece of paper stuck in a book, while cleaning out his room. It was a note, in my Grandmother’s writing. She wrote little notes to everyone, and was always sticking them in different places, here and there. We’d find them in books, taped underneath plates that had been hers, under the wooden footstool I inherited from her, in a pocket. They were small windows into her thoughts, as if she wanted everyone to hear and understand her, even though she had been gone for years.

I found this one, this note in an old book, and read it while kneeling on the floor amid the dirty clothes pile and hoards of stuffed animals. It said, “Dear Mary, You are a wonderful writer. Keep writing.”

Well. I did.

I believed them. Believed that they knew what was best. Believed that, even though they were my dear family, and even though they were somewhat-sort-of-mildly-okay-fine-totally-without-a-doubt-biased when it came to my writing and the intrinsic value of it, they might have been able to see inside me, and to tell that, yes – this is what Mary should be doing. This is what will propel her forward in life, and this is what might help her realize her creative potential – this just might be her bliss.

Blissfully speaking, they were correct. Very ecstatically speaking, I’ve never been so motivated, and so driven, and so happy, just to sit and work at my desk, just to create and submit and have the words float out of me like so many multi-colored balloons. If I’m lousy at it, this writing business, it just sits and wiggles its nose at me, and all is forgiven. If I let myself bend to the words, let them slide out easily, then the piece might be better, and then I’m totally unified with the experience – as if I’m so connected with it, I’m out of myself completely. And then I come back and look at the page, wondering who in the hell wrote that, and where was I when it all happened, and would someone please clue me in the next time my body is hijacked like that, thankyouverymuch.

I have to believe that this might just be the thing, the thing that has been with me all along. But I went years, never knowing it. Doesn’t that happen, though? Isn’t it crazy that, at times, all you ever needed or wanted has been right with you – from the very beginning? Some might call it awareness – when you break out of the boundaries that constrain you and see your true self inching forward, molecule by molecule. Others might call it contentment – that feeling of joy and relief in your circumstances and inner fulfillment. I might call it a late start; a late bloomage of the heart.

Whatever it is, it’s here. And I’m along in a sort of happy daze, right along with it, in the hopes that I might, oh please, might, be able to see it throughout my lifetime, this bliss. This absolute rapture, which causes hearts to freely gallop, and arms to embrace a universal consciousness. Yes, this. This is mine.

I so appreciated your comments on the other one, that I thought I’d share this, too.  Thanks so much for indulging me!

Pitch/Query:

Sophia can’t sleep. She isn’t interested in practicing her signature, and she finds chatting with eligible young men dull. She detests proving her expertise in the management and manipulation of the servants, or trying on gowns, or anything that has to do with the proper protocol. Instead, Sophia has a habit of pawing around in the dirt, staying awake until all hours of the night, and sneaking out of the palace into the nearby woods. And when her mother, Queen Nora, decides she is mad and locks her away in her bedroom chambers, Sophia vows never to speak again – until she is visited at her window by a gigantic owl, with whom she forms an intense friendship, and who takes her away from the castle each evening on its back

But, is it really an owl? After a terrifying altercation, Sophia discovers the truth and devises a secret plot that might possibly end her days of freedom forever. Disguised as a knight, she escapes from her room and soon finds herself in a precarious, and often dangerous adventure as she attempts to help her true love find his way back home. Sophia is forced to find the strength and insight she never knew existed within her, and ultimately recognizes that the only way to find her genuine nature and worth is by looking inside her unfulfilled heart – forever drawn to the natural world.

I – Of Meadowlands and Free Will
© 2010  Mary Germanotta Duquette

CHAPTER I

Sophia couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t anything new. She’d been having trouble for weeks, her thoughts eating away her slumber ravenously. The insomnia was like a great, monstrous crow, she imagined, swooping down to stab her peaceful rest – as if her rest were a plump acorn, freshly shucked. At times, she’d lie awake in a sort of half-dream state, and conger up ways to sneak out of her increasingly claustrophobic room and get herself into the heady smell of wet grass. She’d left undetected before, plenty of times. But her thoughts were always scrambled because of the sleep-stealing crow, and she couldn’t quite make it all work out the way she wanted it to. She was lonely. She was bored. She was damn tired.

It was early that morning when Sophia decided to sneak out again. She’d been tossing the pros and cons of it around in her head, while literally tossing herself around under the bedclothes – and after about an hour or so, she came to the conclusion that enough was enough. Her feet, clad in her soft padded outdoor slippers, looked small and nearly irresolute, and they made soft slaps on the cold marble floor, as much as she willed them to just shut up and behave themselves. She crept to the doorway of her room, and pulled the latch, opening it as slowly as she could manage. It creaked and snapped in her hand, the sound of the thing making her wince, and she peered out, genuinely surprised to find that there was no one there. The hallway was empty and dimly lit, and she somehow felt like a pawn stuck in an impossible move – but she stepped out into the hollow starkness of the palace.

She moved around the corner of the south stairs and into the front hall, stopping once in awhile to press her hands and back against the cool, smooth walls as she heard steps approach and then fade away, and she continued on. Of course, if anyone spotted her, it wouldn’t be difficult to explain. She could easily think of a number of reasons why she would be there. In fact, although Sophia normally detested lists, she found herself quietly making one, just the same.

Reason Number One For Being In The Hallway: She wanted to get a jump on breakfast – because she would, often times, amble down late in the morning only to discover that most of the butter biscuits and strawberries had been scarfed down by her perpetually hungry older brother.

Reason Number Two For Being In The Hallway: She thought she had heard strange voices in the front hall, which either meant that they had early company, or they were under siege – the latter not completely implausible, but still a little sketchy. In any case, she needed to find out, and if necessary, warn everyone.

Reason Number Three For Being In The Hallway: She’d woken up with stiff legs, and had to exercise them as much as possible by walking briskly down the stairs, through the hallway toward the front entrance, and then turning back again toward her bedroom chambers, up the stairway again, and so on, and etcetera, and blah, blah, blah.

Reason Number Four For Being In The Hallway: She was sleep-walking.

Sophia brightened at the thought of the four reasons, and could actually come up with a few more – which, if she really stopped to think about it, wasn’t all that strange. She’d walked here many times before – of course, she had. It was just that now she had ulterior motives. She was a fugitive. It was so charmingly…illicit. So, she kept quiet and as motionless as she could, periodically sliding into the comfort of the shadows and then walking quickly on as she approached the enormous front doors.

She finally reached them, and stood again with her back to the wall. One of the doors was half open to let in the light. The opened door led to the portico, and outside was a guard keeping watch, as he did every morning. She waited for the guard to turn. She knew he invariably would. In fact, she knew exactly what he’d do. He’d stand there for a few moments, his face turned to the sun. Close his eyes briefly, maybe. And then he’d move along past the windows facing south, looking straight ahead of him as he went. She peeked around the corner to watch him, and as he turned away from her, she took a hesitant step. She had to plan it right. If she didn’t plan it absolutely right, he would see her. She looked up again to see him moving, his back to her as he ambled across the hard floor of the portico. As soon as he reached the edge of the side terrace, she could make her move. It was almost time. Almost. She took another small step, her fingers curling in her hand with anticipation.

“Yer Highness?”

She jumped.

It was Emlyn, one of her maids-in-waiting. Emlyn, the timid. Emlyn, the groveling. Sophia could handle this.

“Yes. Hello, Emlyn. Well. Um. Hello,” she said, much too loudly. “You see, I was just waiting to see this particular angle of the sun, you see, because I wanted to paint it in a…in a painting I’m doing. You know, the new one? There, in…in the sitting room? Have you seen it? You must have seen it. It’s…you know. The one of the garden roses. The yellow ones, actually. Roses, I mean. The yellow roses.” Reason Number Five.

Emlyn quickly shrugged. Her curls bobbed meekly beneath her cap. “No’m, I haven’t seen yer paintin’ – no! I imagine it to be lovely, tho’. Thank ye fer sharin’ the thought of it with me. Blessed be both ye and yer paintin’, miss, if ye please.” Emlyn nodded reverentially a few times. She paused, and then slowly looked up into Sophia’s face. “I was meant to come and inform ye, Yer Highness, that yer tutor is bein’ a bit late this mornin’. He seems to be caught in a…in an unfortunate affair, the likes of which I don’t know the particulars of, ye see, but it has something to do with his mother and her basket. Or, his mother and her brisket. Unfortunately couldn’t quite get it all, miss.”

“Ah, well. He must attend to his mother, then. And her brick set,” Sophia said distractedly, wondering vaguely what the tutor’s mother was doing with building materials. She looked as surreptitiously as she could around Emlyn’s curly, bonneted head, trying to get a glimpse of the guard. “Yes,” she said. “All right. Excellent. Well. You may be excused, then, Emlyn. Thank you. You may go.”

“Oh, yer welcome, miss, I’m sure.” Emlyn breathed out as if in relief, curtsying and backing away a little, and then with a quick smile and a rustle, she was gone, away down the front hall.

Sophia stood a little longer, and when she could no longer hear Emlyn’s footsteps, she moved forward again until she was actually out on the portico floor. She crept behind the nearest column, and looked carefully around it to see where the guard had gone. He was there, facing the rising sun on the other end, away from her. His helmet shone yellow in the increasing light. She held her breath and inched toward the steps that led to the lawn, silently, silently. With each step she said the word to herself – “silently” – as if with this small mantra she would be invincible against any kind of accidental sound that might make the guard turn and see her. Her slipper caught a little on the wood panels, and she almost tripped. Hell! She thought heatedly, almost saying the word aloud. And another step. Watching her feet. Watching him. Watching her feet. Watching him. And then all at once he turned and disappeared from sight behind the far wall.

She leapt from the top step and ran.

Sophia was a princess who knew what she wanted. Was it a darkened study, filled with jewels, priceless artifacts, and Persian carpeting? No. A grand ballroom laden with guests, wrapped from head to toe in gowns and elaborately handsome jackets? Certainly not. A serene and spotless kitchen sink? Uh-uh.

No, what Sophia wanted was a patch of dirt, a grassy knoll, an endless mountaintop, a wide and mysterious ocean. She wanted a deep and lush forest, including all the multifarious life within it. She wanted a stream, rich with moss and stones, and the sweet taste of its clear water, wanted to see it turning in sparkling pirouettes over broken sticks and fallen leaves from the white birch.

At sixteen years old, Sophia had the look in her eyes of an old sage. Many who spoke to her for the first time almost always had to look twice, for they felt they couldn’t place the odd feeling they had simply from speaking to her. It was as though they had known her from long ago – or perhaps their whole lives. But of course (they would say to themselves), that’s ridiculous. She’s so young, and besides, I’ve only just met her. Or perhaps (they might continue on to themselves), perhaps it’s that she knows me, somehow, and all my secrets and dreams. And then they would look at her in a kind of perplexed agitation, as if she had somehow guessed something about them that was extremely personal and not at all her business. Sometimes they thought that she might have guessed that they knew she knew, and this disturbed them all the more. She’s a queer one, they would think with discomfort, peering at her inquisitively. That Sophia, she’s peculiar, all right.

Sophia herself never realized the impression she gave. Instead, she would smile and nod, as princesses were taught to do, but then she’d sometimes raise her face to the sun, as if completely taken by the heat of it. And then people would really stare at her and murmur to one another behind their hands, wondering why the princess Sophia was so affected by the light of the sun, and why was it she appeared to be so far removed from them, and maybe she did know something spectacular and transcendent, and wasn’t it amazing how at the same time she managed to convey a familiarity and trust, and wasn’t she remarkably clever, after all.

Her hair was long and the color of rich maple syrup, and most of the time was drawn into a braid that hung straight down her back like a thick coil of rope, as she liked it to be out of her way so that she could effectively pursue the activities that amused her. Her fingernails were often dirty due to the fact that she regularly scrounged around in the dirt planting seeds and finding worms and other insects – which was a sore spot with the Queen, who could never quite figure out the reason for, or accept, her daughter’s perpetually soiled hands. Sophia never spoke to her mother about her fondness of planting and digging, and when the subject of her dirty hands was brought up, she simply looked the other way and pretended not to hear, which seemed to work remarkably well.

Sophia was well aware of the dichotomous quality of the situation – being within the royal realm and wanting to go trek in the woods were completely disharmonious, and she couldn’t quite make the two things go together in a way that made any sense. Her perpetual insomnia didn’t help her to sort it out at all, and the problem buzzed around in her head until she swatted it out. The fact was there – and she couldn’t deny it, or reason it away. It just wouldn’t go. And, with her eyes burning and red, she resolutely listened to the voice in the pale of her sleep-deprived brain – the voice that told her to just, for God’s sake, just get out. And be sneaky about it.

And so, sneaky she was. She ran.

She ran, inhaling the fresh, succulent scents of sweet pea and honeysuckle, of green, green spring. She ran, stumbling on the lush grass under her damp slippers, her arms splaying a little wildly as she steadied herself before she continued on. She ran across the wet grass and gulped the air as if it were a delicious pastry, almost laughing out loud with every breath.

She ran, stopping to unlatch the black gate that separated Waywither palace and the woods – and stepped through it. She took a quick look behind her, and then hastily latched the gate back again.

She ran, until the palace was nothing more than a small, gleaming, silver rectangle, as big as her thumbnail when she stopped to hold up her thumb to it. She turned again and ran, holding her skirts up and about her, crossing over a large path with kicked-up dust, and eventually reached a smaller, narrower path with grass burrowing its way up through the soft, brown earth. She slowed to a vigorous walk along this narrower, less traveled path straight into the deep woods. She plodded up a large hill, stumbled down a smaller one, and came directly to a path so small that one would barely notice it, if one weren’t looking at the ground all that hard. Sophia hastily took this path, looking behind her every once in awhile to make sure no one was following her.

The path led to a vast meadow. This was the place – a place far removed from the palace, and actually even from the wood itself. So it was neither civilization, nor was it unreasonably wild. She imagined it as an intermediary – a sort of a sanctuary, suspended in empty space. She imagined that in this place there would be no one to find her – no one to tell her what she should be doing, or how she should behave. It was one of the only places in the world where Sophia knew she could be safe from any expectations, or duties, or intrusion.

As she tripped along among the wildflowers, brushing back floating spider’s webs and errant, swooping bumblebees, Sophia had the strangest thought that maybe the meadow had somehow disappeared, as if her absence from it had caused it to vanish. Really, she thought, I have to stop reading all those old folklore-ish stories. But she walked faster and a little more frantically.

And there it was. Not vanished. Not absent. She was the one who was absent from it, and she was happy to see that it hadn’t changed much since the last covert visit. She stood among the grasses bowing at her knees, and felt her throat bubble up like it was full of some sort of precious liquid, and her heart blissfully turned around on itself. She took off her purple morning cloak, and laid it on the ground. She pulled her skirts up around her knees, and lay on her cloak, feeling the warm earth behind her head, grass covering the back of her neck and sticking up to her ears, filling them with a soft, prickly sound that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She looked up into the sky that she’d waited for hours to see, and sighed, watching the clouds move and spiral and shift into industrious patterns.

As the clouds made their inconsistent and irregular shapes, Sophia imagined what she might look like from their perspective. She would just be a tiny dot among the mass of color in the meadow, a bizarre purple splotch, probably as mysterious and indefinable to a cloud as they were to her. “You see, clouds,” Sophia explained, her eyes closed now, “I could just be a regular girl, going for water, or to deliver a message to a friend, or to meet a lover. Or a drifter, maybe out to steal some sheep, or something. Or I could be one of these flowers down here. A big, ridiculous purple flower. With a large protruding head. Or, I might be a human princess. Incognito. An insomniac escapee from the palace gates. Of course, that’s an absolutely ludicrous idea, isn’t it?” Sophia felt her eyes twitch from the sun. Her closed eyelids were warm and jumpy, and the sun shining brilliantly upon them produced a luminous orangey-red hue.

“Sophia!”

She lay still, waiting, her heart in her ears.

“Sophia!”

Leonardo must have followed her. It was her brother’s voice – she was certain of it.

“Sophia, I know you’re here – come on!”

Leonardo’s voice was closer and Sophia knew it would only be a matter of time before he spotted her. She waited, not breathing – and then hearing nothing, she sprung up and quickly ran back toward the path to the woods.

“Ha!” she heard behind her, and she felt his hand grasp her arm. “Ha, ha!” He said, laughing, and they fell to the ground together.

“Let me go!”

“Why? I’ve already seen you. What – do you think that I’m just going to let you run away from me without any explanation?”

She sat up, and quickly pulled her arm out of Leonardo’s grasp. He was smiling his ear-eating smile, as she called it. So-called, because ever since he and she were small children, and whenever they were to have a roast pork for dinner, he’d always stand in the kitchen while Cook fried up pig’s ears, a large grin on his face, excitedly waiting for a bit. Sophia herself thought pig’s ears to be disgusting, and made faces as she watched her older brother greedily crunch them up. She suspected that Cook had adapted the recipe from the Middlelands, more specifically the mountainous region of Salawisa, (which Cook pronounced Sa-la-VEE-za), where she’d spent her earlier years, and had brought it to the Kingdom of Tor with her, touting it as a supreme delicacy. Sophia thought that it might only be considered a delicacy if one happened to be a dog, and couldn’t help but watch disgustedly as Leo gulped them down.

She stood, now, her face pink, and brushing herself off, glared at him.

“Why did you follow me here, anyway? I thought you were busy this morning, doing…doing… whatever it is that you do.” What does he do, anyway? She thought irritably.

“Ah, but I had so much more fun seeing exactly where my dearest, darling sister goes on her small trips. Is this it? What do you do here? Why would you traipse all this way, to this dirty, grassy…woodsy place? And what will our lady the Queen say, pray tell?” Leonardo grinned even more widely.

Sophia stepped back. “You wouldn’t tell her!”

“Hmm…wouldn’t I? I might. I might. And this is why.” Leonardo leaned an elbow against a sycamore tree and crossed his feet at the ankle. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away. His narrow face, strong chin, and wide-set dark eyes were empirically handsome, yet this small fact did not disguise a certain lack of wisdom. His lean form curved into a long bow as he stood against the tree.

“Mother is – quite rightly, I have to say – worried about her dear daughter,” he said, turning his head slightly to one side as he looked at her. “It seems she’s only just caught you talking to yourself. Or were you talking to a bird? Or was it an insect? Never mind. She’s ready to haul you off somewhere. Away from the trees and the… long-winded sparrows. Ah, ha ha ha!” Leonardo laughed affectedly, his “ha’s” emerging like bandit mosquitoes circling his head, and then he suddenly burst into a coughing fit that lasted a few minutes and had to leave his well-orchestrated pose to steady himself.

When he finally stopped coughing, he raised a free hand to casually inspect his fingernails. Leonardo was older than Sophia by almost three years, which made him practically nineteen – an immature nineteen, Sophia thought ungenerously. And he always found it his primary mission to rattle her whenever he had the opportunity. He’d always been the less moody, less anxious one of the two – the one who might not think twice of remarking about a relative, even when that relative might be near; or the one who would laugh hysterically at dinner so that every servant in the kitchen would wonder if they could find an excuse to run to the dining room door and push their ears up next to it, hoping to find out what was so goll-blasted funny. Usually it was simply Leonardo telling a story, or challenging a commonly-held thought, or theorizing about his life’s plan or an invention he had thought up. Leonardo was sincere in his insincerity – that is, he believed that what he said held some sort of lofty merit, of which everyone should be made aware. But Sophia knew that mostly, Leo spoke the truth only from his perspective, and often twisted it in order to corroborate whatever point he was trying to make. He could be charismatic, although he was tricky, and Sophia had learned to keep an eye on him – as well as an occasional elbow to the side.

Sophia glowered at him now in undisguised annoyance, and then turned without a word and strode toward the path through the woods. She walked with her nose as high in the air as she could while still being able to see where she was going, and soon came to the path, and the trudge-up and the stumble-down of the hill, and the smaller path through the woods, and the larger path toward the lawn, and there was the thumbnail-sized palace in the distance again, and as she angrily strode it was soon much closer. Finally she came to the gates and lifted the heavy black latch with a clank and entered the palace grounds, without so much as a look back or a flick of a worry of who might see her.

Leo came gasping behind her. “You do sprint about, don’t you?” he breathed, his words coming out in staccato-like reproach. Sophia sighed and stopped in front of the garden leading to the side terrace. She turned to look at him, lifting a hand and tapping his cheek a few times with her fingers. “You are rude and arrogant,” she said. “But, fortunately or not, you’re always my brother.” And she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his nose.

#

That night after dinner, Queen Nora quietly asked Sophia to meet her in her bower. The Queen sat holding her embroidery hoop, busy with her calligraphy letters and also some small pink flowers that were supposed to be roses – although they looked, at this point, more like small, misshapen, rather unappetizing pink mushrooms. Queen Nora squinted at them in distaste, sighed briefly, and then pushed her reading spectacles further up on her nose and resolutely pushed her needle through the hoop again, breathing through her mouth in quiet concentration as she worked.

Queen Nora had always been a no-nonsense kind of queen – the sort who wouldn’t take in light amusement. Instead, she spent her time focusing on the ways and means of proper royal behavior, such as where to seat whom at the dinner table, whom to engage in what particular topic of conversation, the proper greetings according to who it was one happened to be attending, and so forth and so on. Her slight size had given many people the incorrect assumption that she was weak and easy to manipulate. But the Queen was willful and, at times, downright ornery. She expected no less than what might be expected by most queens; and if she didn’t receive her due, she was infuriated and had been known to throw large tantrums, and to sometimes hurl brass candlesticks and other various objects against the nearest accommodating wall. Paradoxically, she also had the tendency to faint away at any given moment, particularly if she’d heard any sort of news that wasn’t to her liking. Her large mouth was often pinched, and she had the strange habit of picking at her left ear when she became flustered or upset.

Queen Nora had been shocked when she went around the gardens to inspect her prize rose bushes, only to find her daughter alone with what appeared to be a small red insect in her lap, chatting away to it as if it was an old friend.

“Sophia,” the Queen had exclaimed. “What are you doing there?” And she peered hard at the small red insect in Sophia’s lap as if hoping that, if she looked fixedly enough, somehow a spell would be broken and the insect would suddenly turn into a handsome prince, and then all would be neatly explained in one fell swoop.

Sophia stammered something incomprehensible, and after carefully placing the insect on the ground beneath the Queen’s most particularly beautiful apricot-pink Clytemnestra, had excused herself with a mumble and fled to the library, where she spent the rest of the afternoon.

Now, as Queen Nora waited patiently in her bower practicing her embroidery, Sophia paced back and forth in her own bedroom chambers, biting the side of her lip and rubbing her hands together before finally making her way down the candlelit stairs, and then up another set of stairs to the Queen’s private rooms. She wasn’t exactly sure what her mother was going to say, but she had a feeling that it had to do with the whole insect incident, and that it wouldn’t be pleasant. She wondered what she could say to explain it all away, but couldn’t quite come up with anything that sounded sensible, so she decided that it might be better just to keep her mouth shut about it. As she neared the doorway, she paused, and then taking a deep breath, entered the room.

The Queen was sitting on a purple divan facing the doorway. A fire was blazing in the marble fireplace, and yet the room felt oddly cold to Sophia. She shivered apprehensively.

Queen Nora looked at Sophia over her spectacles. “My dear, please sit down,” she commanded sweetly, carefully placing her embroidery hoop and needle on a tasseled pillow next to her. Sophia crossed the room and sat on an enormous wing chair with a pattern consisting of various birds and flowers. The chair was so big, it completely engulfed her – and the multitude of silk pillows arranged neatly on the seat certainly didn’t help the situation. She tried sitting up as straight as she could, and then gave up and let the pillows besiege her. She shifted uncomfortably until she more or less found a sufficient position in which to sit, and then looked questioningly into the Queen’s grand, royal face.

“I’m a bit concerned, Sophia,” Queen Nora began after a perfectly timed pause. “I realize that you’re alone most of the time, and are probably lacking in friends, social interaction, and…whatnot. Still, I won’t allow you to talk with bees, flies, spiders – whatever it is you’ve deemed reasonable enough to carry on a conversation. My darling girl,” the Queen said, repositioning herself on the divan, and fingering her left ear, “You must stop at once. What are people to think? Please focus on behaviors more befitting to a princess. Try on your ball gowns. Paint a pretty picture. Practice your harp. And for goodness sake, try not to speak out loud when there is so obviously no one present.”

“You see, I…” Sophia began, her voice somewhat muffled amid the mountain of pillows.

The Queen held up her hand sharply, then sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if she were weighing her words. “I do hope that this little issue can be resolved before your father arrives home from his visit to Montezola,” she said, sighing again, this time largely, as if the entire matter had worn her out. “He worries so much about you, and wants you to be content. I would very much dislike him to become aware of this… episode.”

Sophia looked down at her hands. She said nothing, but a translucent teardrop formed from the corner of her eye, and trickled slowly down her cheek.

Queen Nora rose, and walked to her, patting her gently on her hand. “There, there, child,” she said. “Chin up. Let’s turn in and leave the night to the spirits. And tomorrow we can begin again – a fresh, new start for a whole new princess. Yes?” And with that, and not waiting for an answer, the Queen walked to the door with a definitive swish of her long silk skirts.

Sophia rose and followed her slowly, not at all wanting to leave the sweet night behind – as the sky was so clear and there was a vast swell of stars and planets visible from the window – and certainly not persuaded that a different, well-rested princess would emerge, refreshed and changed, when the sun came up again.

#

Queen Nora promenaded down the stairway from her chambers and toward the grand stairway of the west wing, which would eventually lead to her study. She was tired, but had some last minute work that needed to be completed before she retired for the night. Since King Frederick was away, most of the matters of the palace, and of Tor itself, had been left to her – including the annoying task of having to sign a myriad of papers regarding certain issues of the nearby village of Candleton. There was a proposal for the addition of seven new wells – seven! – which were to be built in the area located adjacent to the town square. Queen Nora didn’t know what the villagers would do with seven new wells, except perhaps having more water available to drink than any normal human should ever need. Why can’t they simply go to a nearby brook? The Queen thought to herself irritably, her lack of sleep causing her to be unnecessarily grouchy and petulant. Certainly the horses and cows would prefer a clean sip of cold brook water, rather than some old sordid water sitting around in a stagnant, man-made hold in the ground.

Then there was the matter of the school. They wanted a new school – again, in Candleton. Queen Nora sighed, her sighing becoming a distinct part of her character. Nowadays, the servants, who were sprinkled throughout Waywither Palace at any given moment, could hear her coming even before she entered a room, her sighing preceding her on most occasions. She would sigh loudly and often, and it became the mark of the sort of mood she might be in, depending on how vehemently the sigh was emitted. The proposed new school project made her sigh with all she had inside her – a sigh that rose from her core. It was a project that Queen Nora believed to be a waste – not only of money and resources, but of her increasingly limited time. What on earth could be wrong with the old school? And why couldn’t they do some learning from home? And, more to the point, what did they need of learning, anyway? Most of the villagers were farmers, although there were still many who were candle makers, as had been when the village was first incorporated – thus, the name “Candleton.” Actually, the village had been well known for its beautifully colored, well-rendered tapers, and in fact Queen Nora herself had quite a few of them in various rooms of the palace. What does a candle maker need of a well-rounded education? Queen Nora thought grumblingly. Certainly, the only subject they might need to study would be wax-making – and, perhaps, a certain amount of aesthetics, in order to make the candles charming. And, no more. Queen Nora slowed her steps, dreading the inevitable organizing-and-prioritizing, and the looking-over-of-the-papers, and the oh-no-now-I-must-make-a-decision-ing.

Her lady-in-waiting attended her, walking a few steps behind. The Queen shook off her inner complaining, and quickened her step, striding with dignity and grace, reminding herself that a queen must always show proper regal attitude, especially when servants were about and watching. She didn’t want them to think they could take advantage of her, particularly with the King away. She was in charge, now, and must always be prepared to command respect in every way possible.

And now someone was coming toward her. Who was he again? Ah, yes. Pasquale – one of the watchmen.

Queen Nora paused. Pasquale? Was that right? Well, in any case, here he was in front of her. Whatever can he want? She thought, sighing heavily.

“Good evening.” She nodded.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Pasquale, as his name was, bowed before her, and then stepped toward her conspiratorially. He looked directly at her, his eyes an unusual color of cool yellow-green. His nose, which was long and thin, twitched a little as he spoke, and he wore a large, ubiquitous hat with a jaunty green feather poking out of the top, which hid most of his head so that his face peered out, giving him the disconcerting appearance of being inside a portrait within a frame. He was on the young side – probably no more than twenty-two, the Queen thought suspiciously, eyeing him as though his very youth was a mark against him.

And then she remembered him. He was the son of a friend of King Frederick’s, a nobleman in the township of Reichle, located further north. She didn’t know the family well at all, or the precise circumstances of how he’d been employed at Waywither, but she did remember it was something unusual. I must remember to ask Frederick, she thought, looking at  Pasquale with renewed interest, but his face gave away nothing – in fact, he smiled at her strangely, as if he knew something but would not tell, instead encouraging her to take a guess. He held his hands behind his back, which for some reason alarmed Queen Nora, just a little.

“Your Highness, I have a matter of some urgency that I wish to discuss,” he said, inching closer to her. “Shall we speak here or in another space, perhaps?”

Queen Nora was startled by his abruptness and clear lack of the proper etiquette, but held her composure and said sharply, “Must we speak at this moment? I have some matters to attend to, before turning in for the evening. Couldn’t it wait until morning?”

The watchman smiled only with his mouth. His eyes remained cool. “You may not want to wait, and I say so respectfully, Your Highness,” he said. “I have something to show you.” He pulled a deep purple cloth from behind him, as if he were a magician suddenly making the object appear with a smart flip, the cloth snapping open with a jerk. He leaned in closer toward Queen Nora, who had no choice but to take a small step backward. She gave him a well-rehearsed scowl. “Well?” she said, straightening herself up. “Go on.”

“This was found today beyond the woods, in the meadow above the hills,” he said, thrusting the cloth forward, as if to verify its existence. “If I’m not mistaken – and I hope I am, Your Grace – I believe that it belongs to Princess Sophia.”

Queen Nora stared blankly at the purple cloak in Pasquale’s hands for a few moments. She raised her eyes to look at him. “Let’s not stay here, then” she said lightly. “Follow me.”

She led him to the dining room, the closest room in proximity, which happened to be empty. “Wait for me here,” she commanded to her lady-in-waiting, who curtsied and folded her hands in front of her. Queen Nora entered the dining room, and Pasquale followed doggedly behind her, still holding the purple cloak out in front of him, as if it were a sacred offering of some kind. The Queen moved around him – (Why doesn’t he back off a bit? She thought crossly) – and closed the door quietly behind them. She took a deep breath, and turned to him with a raised chin. “Now,” she said. “What’s this all about? You say the object was found in a meadow? Hand it to me, please.”

Pasquale gave her the cloak, placing it gingerly in her open palms.

Queen Nora passed it from one hand to another, examining it inch by inch. She had immediately recognized it as Sophia’s morning cloak the minute she laid eyes on it out in the great hall, but she had to be sure. Now, as she held it, she knew. But…why? Why had the cloak been found there, in a meadow, of all places? How was it that it had traveled so far? What explanation could there be for such a thing? Queen Nora was beginning to have an extremely uneasy feeling, deep in her middle. She could not tell what might be coming, but she sensed that she would not like it. Not a bit of it.

“Who found it?”

Pasquale raised his head and looked directly at her, as was his way, the Queen now realized. “It was rescued by Emlyn, a hand maiden in your court. She saw the Princess leaving the palace gates, and so she followed her – only intending to make sure that she wasn’t going to come to any harm, of course. So, the Princess walked through the woods far beyond the palace, and up into the hills. Apparently, she came to a meadow and there she…she…” Pasquale paused as if searching for just the right words. “She arranged herself on the grass and spoke aloud to the sky. And, your Grace,” Pasquale’s voice became lower and more grave. “Prince Leonardo was there. He also followed her.”

Queen Nora closed her eyes and sighed – a sigh that was quite a bit more substantial than the school project one had ever hoped to be – and then opened her eyes again. The cloak she’d been holding fell to the floor. It stayed there, looking like a small, wayward animal huddled in a heap. The Queen stared at it warily, as if it were threatening her. “We shall have to take drastic measures, then,” she said to herself aloud, tugging at her ear. Then glancing at Pasquale, she said sharply, “Send Emlyn to me at once.”

Pasquale smiled his strange smile again. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said. “Of course.”

#

Sophia lay awake the next morning, usually restless and craving a certain something she couldn’t quite make sense of. She sprawled out in her large four-poster bed trying to figure out this feeling she had, watching the breeze move the sheer silken drapes that hung from each column, looking around at her sunlit room – the tall imposing wardrobe that held most of her robes, the thick carpets muted with subdued tones, the colorful tapestries, which she herself had chosen, depicting scenes of nature – trees, animals, flowers, plants, rivers – all of this. All of it was there when she opened her eyes in the morning, and all of it she would mull over again as she lay with the subtle darkness at night. All of these objects in her room weren’t enough to satisfy her, she realized, nor did they amuse her, much. They were simply things, and she found herself frustrated with them. They didn’t give her the completeness she felt while spending her time outdoors, in the gardens, in the woods, in the meadow. She was, in fact, resentful – and she didn’t know where the resentment would go. It might even eventually turn to full-out rebellion. Sophia wasn’t sure, but she could see it happening. She could very well see herself becoming rebellious.

She rose from her bed and walked to the open window, looking out on the southern terrace, to the courtyard and beyond, and then to the end of the gates and out past the expanse of green lawn to the forest. She tried to feel gratitude for her spot in life – she was fortunate. She had the opportunity to choose what she wanted to do, to some degree. And she knew that, as far as the world was concerned, she was in one of the greatest positions that existed. She was a princess, and as such, had a definite command of her life. She just had to suppress her sense of excitement and the sweet, quiet urgency, which she’d actually been feeling every morning for the past week – and which pressed on her, tackled her to the ground sometimes. I have to squash the rebellion, she thought wearily. But.

But.

She looked out on the green colors glistening, and heard a mourning dove call – its mate responding seconds later.

I’ll go today, she thought. Just one more time – one more time, to the meadow. For just a little while, anyway. Only to satisfy this…this urgent feeling. Then I won’t go at all. Not once.

She looked beyond at the woods, again.

“Well, let’s just say that I won’t go for quite some time,” she whispered lightly to herself.

She walked to her dressing room and quickly stepped into a morning gown – without the usual help from her chambermaid, who was remarkably absent, for whatever reason. Usually the maid could be counted on to turn up at the door when she heard Sophia stumbling around every morning, unless she was extremely quiet.

She turned to the white china ewer and basin on the washstand and splashed some cool water on her face, wiping herself dry with a small velveteen hand towel. Then she resolutely crossed to the door, and pulled the handle.

It was locked.

“Hmm?” She murmured aloud. And she tried again. Yes, locked. From the outside.

“Hello!” she said loudly, rattling the handle. “Please open the door. I’m in here.”

Not a sound. She thought she heard sudden steps, and then nothing.

“Hal-lo!” She called louder. “The door? Is locked? Please open it at once.”

Still nothing. She banged on the door with the palm of her hand. “I command you to open this door at once!”

Nothing.

Sophia rapped on the door loudly with both hands. “HELLO!” She bellowed. “I must exit this room at once! Kindly unlock the door and allow me to breakfast!”

Footsteps were unquestionably heard this time, coming closer and closer. Sophia waited, expecting at any moment to hear a key unlatching the door. But instead she heard a voice.

“Excuse me, Miss. Please, and don’t mind so much, but I can’t unlock, yet,” came a voice. A boy’s voice.

“What? I’m sorry. I thought I heard you say that you can’t unlock the door.”

“Yes Miss, you heard me correctly. I’m only following orders from the Queen, your mother. I’m not to unlock, but to ask what it is you’d like to eat, so I can slide a plate underneath for you.”

“Orders from the Queen? Not to unlock? Slide underneath?” Sophia’s head began to throb slightly. She looked down at the bottom of the door, not quite able to imagine how a plate could possibly fit under it.

“Yes, Miss. Please, Miss, don’t be angry. I’m only following the Queen’s – your mother’s – orders, you see.”

“Who are you?”

“Peter, Miss. I’m simply a kitchen hand.”

Peter. The young, skinny boy who sometimes cleared her plate after dinner. The one who always smiled at her. “I know you, Peter. Thank you, you may go.” Sophia slid down to the floor, and leaned her back against the door.

“Thank you, Miss. I’m bowing, Miss, just so you know.” Footsteps sounded down the hall at a frantic pace, and then all fell silent.

Trapped – without any warning or explanation, Sophia thought. But, why? Why? What had she done? What could possibly…?

She suddenly sat up.

“Leo!” She said aloud. He must have said something to the Queen about her going to the meadow – well, he had told her he was – and that, along with the insect incident, had led to this…imprisonment. “How could you, Leo?” she asked dejectedly. And then, realizing that she was speaking aloud to no one in particular again, she stopped speaking altogether.

And decided that it would always be so.

#

Leo strode quickly through the great hall, and then turned toward the south-facing wing, taking the steps two at a time to Sophia’s chambers. He knocked loudly on her door.

“Sophia!” he called, and pressed his ear to the door. Nothing.

“Sophia.” He said again. A shuffling sound came from within.

“Sophia,” he said, leaning against the door. “Listen. Please. I just want you to know that I said nothing. I promise. I swear. Nothing. I don’t know how she found out, but I can tell you this. She’s serious, Sophia. She’ll keep you here until you learn your lesson – when and how she decides when your lesson is learned, I don’t know. If I were you, I’d find a way to be pleasant and accommodating. Do whatever she asks. No questions.” He sighed and rested his head against the door. “What else can I say? I don’t know.” Leo scratched an ear, pursing his lips to one side as if he had eaten something particularly offensive and was trying to spit it out. “Can I get you anything? What can I do?”

He waited, listening, his arms folded. And then, exasperated, turned to leave when a small folded slip of parchment shot out from under the door and skidded across the hallway over the oriental carpet runner. He picked it up, unfolded it, and read:

Please bring me my harp.

I won’t speak again.

S

So I will stay here, and still have only two blogs on which to post – therefore solving my dilemma of time management.

Thanks for helping me re-think this! Your comments were sweet and lovely, and I appreciate you. xoxo

p.s. The sunflowers have no bearing whatsoever on my post, I know – but I love them, because they’re so sunny and sweet, and plus we’re going away to one of my favorite places this coming week, so I’m feeling happily sunny, too.

I will keep my other two blogs – A Map of Me and Green Apple – and will try to post on them regularly. So please visit me over there – I’d love to keep in touch. And of course, I’ll be visiting your lovely blogs, too, and commenting on them when I can.

It’s been wonderful being Ophelia Rising, and I will miss it.

Much, much love and peace to you.

Mary/Ophelia
xoxoxo

I thought I’d share a little bit of my second book, the NaNoWriMo one, which is only in draft phase – but which I thought, if I shared with you, it might encourage and motivate me to continue work on it.

If you’d kindly indulge me on this, I’ll be forever grateful. Remember – this is  only the second or third draft, so it’s really rough. If you care to comment, please be gentle with me.

Shaking Bridestone – (working title)

Charlotte Singer Brown’s midlife crisis came like a lightening bolt – one night she went to bed and the next morning when she awoke, there it was, crouching  like a great green goblin looking at her with soulful eyes. Or, soulless, as Charlotte – or Charlie, as most people called her – thought grimly. Her midlife crisis must have been lurking, hidden away for years, only waiting for this one moment, this one night into day, when it would come to her in a fit of blistering sun, shuddering and clawing its way into her psyche. Or so she liked to think. Charlie found it easier to deal with it all, if she imagined it to be a sort of life form of its own, almost a muse, in a sense – albeit a dubious and merciless one; in fact, Charlie rather hoped that it would be a muse, tempting her into some kind of rhythm or wisdom, bringing her some clarity.

For, Charlie needed clarity. She needed clarity more than anything else, especially these days, when on most mornings she would awaken already questioning her purpose. Not a particularly auspicious way to begin one’s morning, she thought drearily, as she looked out the window at the morning haze. Normally, she might get up, think about doing yoga, think about having tea, think about going for a good brisk walk, but instead would sit and do nothing at all, which actually suited her so much more. In fact, just the thinking about doing all the things that she might be doing lent her a satisfied, yet highly inappropriate feeling of actually doing them. And this made her happy.

Charlie lived in a massive Victorian house in Bridestone, a house that she and her husband had purchased back in the mid 1990’s. They had loved the layout – the rooms, each one like a different character in a beloved, newly-discovered book, spreading themselves out here and there, almost as if they were dropped there by some artistic giant building a doll’s house, who happened to like a multitude of corners, and secret passageways, and various architectural intricacies. Charlie and Max, her husband, stared at each room in an almost reverential silence, only occasionally remarking to the realtor about this or that beam, gently opening and closing cupboards and closets, feeling more of a relationship to the house with every step they took. They finally looked at one another in a sort of disbelief and at the same time, said “Yes!” – which took them by surprise even more, and they had laughed like manic hyenas until the realtor gently said that it was about time they should go and did they want to make an offer.

Charlie had loved the house; she loved the curve of the staircase, the molding with inlaid tile around the windows, the crown molding curving over every ceiling, the entrance with the skylight (an addition, to be sure, but still marvelous and simply charming in its own right), and the enormous, comfortable kitchen, which held all her baskets and dried herbs hanging gracefully from hooks, as well as all her colorful cast iron pots and pans. She just adored this hearty splash of color. Such a good idea it was, having pots and pans the colors of poppies and peaches and meadow grass, she had thought when she bought them. They brought a new dimension to making dinner, these splashes of color, giving her enormous happiness and joy whenever she cooked with them. In any case, the Romanian goulash and chicken fricassee looked absolutely stunning against a poppy-colored sauce pan. Charlie would stare into it, thinking it looked like a picture in a magazine – wanting to take its picture. Even though she never did.

But now the house was almost like an albatross. A conspicuous, hugely demanding albatross. She felt strangled by it. She walked through the now mostly empty rooms, debating whether she should sell off this piece of furniture or that one – did they really need that old footstool, what should she do with the baby grand, no one really played it much since Max died, did she really need that particular painting, oh, yes, maybe she did. They had bought it on their honeymoon. Well, not that painting, then – it could stay. But the other one, next to it – that one would go. She would pause at each object, studying it as if she were intending to purchase it, rather than mulling over its demise. Or, its re-purpose. Charlie would never throw anything away, of course. Simply give it a new home, complete with some fresh eyes, or a fresh backside, depending upon whether you were a painting or a divan. She had tried, of course, to purchase furniture in keeping with the whole Victorian theme, but had managed, instead, to create a kind of eclectic style – which suited her, apparently, for she had loved it. She had loved it all.

But now, she didn’t, so much. Now she was questioning. Now she re-thought her position, here. Now, she had this Mid-Life Crisis.

She imagined it to be in all capital letters – Mid Life Crisis, like an important pronouncement, a decree throughout the land. I order you, Charlie, to take this Mid-Life Crisis. Treat it well. Give it lots of water. Nurture it. In fact, take two Mid-Life-Crises, and call me in the morning.

Her head throbbed as she sat up in her bed on this morning, the tenth of April, gathering her wits and wishing, frankly, that she had taken two of something last night – maybe not two Mid-Life Crises, but something – for she was feeling a little ambiguous about things and not at all ready to open the bookstore today.

She placed two feet on the floor at once, and found it cold. But that was because she had turned the heat off last night, thinking that the warm weather of yesterday had managed to stick around all night long, and that the frigid air from last month had made its last appearance. Silly, she thought. It’s New England. It won’t really get warm enough to turn the heat off until mid-July. Ha, ha.

She looked out the large picture window, out on the birches and oak in the back. An absolutely gorgeous view, no doubt about it. She would miss this view.

She paused, somewhat startled at the thought. Why? Why would she miss it? Where was she going? She sighed, and stood, trudging to the bathroom, to splash water on her face, and wake up enough so that she might go down and make a cup of tea. The bookstore didn’t open until 10:00 this morning, so she had the time to sit with a warm cup for awhile. And make sure Cecelia was up and about, for school.

She flipped the light switch on, and walked to the sink, swishing the cold water around a bit, waiting for the warmth to take hold, and then flushed her night face off with the drips from the faucet. She looked at her wet hands warily. Where was she going? She hadn’t answered that question, the question that had popped up in her head. Was she going somewhere? She had made the assumption of herself, and now hadn’t the faintest idea where the thought came from. She measured the thought, weighed it in her dripping hands as if it were a juicy bit of fruit, played with it for awhile as she dried her face with a poppy-colored hand towel. (Why was she so drawn to the poppy? There was something about that color). She looked at her face in the mirror, but it wasn’t saying a word. The face’s mouth stayed closed, and would not divulge any more. “Fine,” she said to the face. “See if I care. I won’t tell you anything, either.”

She dressed quickly – a slouchy pair of yoga pants and a small-ish sweatshirt that she fancied made her look thinner, and opened the door to the hall. “Cee!” She called into it. “Are you awake?”

There was no answer, but a sort of a thud came from the general direction of Cecelia’s room. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Charlie said, and took the stairs, almost skipping, for whatever reason, down to the second level.

“Treacherous in the morning,” she muttered, as she took the second set of stairs to the bottom floor. The house was tall as much as it was wide, and she and Cecilia, her youngest daughter, being the only ones left in it, had taken up residence on the top floor. God only knows why, thought Charlie now, finally landing at the bottom. It would have been so much more practical to simply establish ourselves on this floor – the bottom. Everything within reach, so no need to wander off into the upper regions. Although, she supposed, that might have been the point. With no real reason to go upstairs, it would have remained untouched and probably extremely dusty, and she would have had to go up to clean, at least, and that would have been the most frustrating and time wasting approach. To clean something that one doesn’t at all use. What would have been the point? So, they used the space, as much as they could, and kept their complaints to themselves. Well, Charlie did, anyway. Cecelia might complain a time or two about the long haul upstairs, particularly when she had had a bad school day, and only wanted to come home and flop down.

Cecelia often ‘flopped down.’ It was her way, being a fifteen-year-old, and having had more boy and girl trouble than Charlie herself remembered having as a youth. Cecelia, or Cee, as she was known in her family, was a truly sensitive soul, which translated to being almost unapproachable as a teenager. If you looked at Cee the wrong way, she would say, her voice breaking into almost a weep, “Whaaat?” and then she would flop down –sometimes on the couch, sometimes on the large pillows that covered the family room floor, sometimes just on the floor itself. “Oh, please don’t worry, Cee,” Charlie would wheedle, but it would be of no use. Cee would piteously lay, face down, upon whatever surface she found most handy, and would stay until Charlie left the room – at which point she would stand again, her dramatization clearly unseen and consequently not at all necessary anymore.

Charlie put the kettle on, and opened the cabinet for tea. She thought she heard Cee rummaging around in the bathroom, and then heard the water turn on. “Good.” She said aloud. And then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth.

She’d been talking to herself lately, more than usual, and was trying to stop the habit. Last week, in the grocery store, she had been trying to decide whether she should get the strawberries (too early) or the rhubarb (and what was one supposed to do with that?), and had suddenly realized that she was talking aloud. “Rhubarb,’ she had said to herself. “Well, I guess I could make a pie. And with the strawberries, it might not be so bad. But will anyone eat it?” And then, glancing up, she saw that she was being watched by a lady with a child in the cart, both of them looking at her as if she were a sideshow. Well, perhaps she was. She had briefly nodded her head and then slunk off into the condiments section, humiliated and somewhat indignant. So, she talked to herself. So what? But she knew it came across as weird and that it came from being alone too much, and she was trying to just stop it, for God’s sake, once and for all.

Alone. She was alone, now, quite a bit. Which allowed her to think – perhaps too much. Yes, she thought now, stirring honey into her Earl Grey, too much thinking is dangerous. What was that pin I used to have? The one I used to wear in college…? Oh, yes. ‘I think. Therefore, I’m dangerous.’ She chuckled a little, remembering, and then thought that perhaps chuckling to oneself might be just as bad as talking to oneself – even worse, perhaps. More sideshowy. So. No chuckling. No smirking. No talking. “Oh, hell,” Charlie said as loudly as she could, taking a sip. “Maybe I’ll just start the whole damned thing tomorrow.”

***

Cee stood at the bus stop, her hair still wet from the shower. She shivered periodically, stamping her feet as if it were the dead of winter, rather than April, and she was shaking the snow off of her boots. She urgently peered down the road as if she were trying to will the bus to come. Charlie spotted her as she drove by, and honked, slowing down to a stop next to her. “Hey, peanut,” she said, rolling down the passenger window. “You look cold, actually. Want a ride?”

Cee paused, and pulled her backpack up further onto her shoulder. She shrugged briefly, and then opened the door and climbed in. She slammed the door – a little harder than necessary, Charlie thought – and then sank back in the seat. “Thanks,” she said, and looked out the window, hiding her face.

Charlie pulled out again into the road and they drove in silence for some minutes. “Is that girl still…bothering you…on the bus?” Charlie asked hesitantly, weighing her words. Cee had complained last week about some tough, bullying sort of girl, who apparently bothered a lot of people and happened to now be focused on her. Cee had only mentioned it once, but it stuck in Charlie’s mind as something semi-alarming. But she had to be careful bringing up the subject. There was certainly no place to flop here, so Cee would have to do what amounted to a semblance of a flop, in the event that Charlie said anything remotely unpleasant. But Cee just sighed and pulled her hat down over her face. “No,” she said, her voice muffled by the hat. “It’s fine.” She crossed her arms in front of her and fell into silence again, and Charlie felt somewhat cheated, after all. Why was it that sometimes her daughter divulged so much, and then at other times there was nothing? All a part of being a teenager, she supposed, but still. It was like she only saw her daughter in short snippets, like snapshots. Moments.

She tried again. “How did the set-up go for the exhibit?”

Cee slowly pulled her hat up so that only her mouth and nose were revealed. “Fine,” she said. “Mr. Gallagher thinks I should do the village one.”

Cee was quite a brilliant artist, with a talent that her teachers had described as “remarkable,” and “more than promising.” Despite all her angst, or perhaps because of it, Cee churned out paintings with the prolific sensibilities of Warhol – or Picasso. Cee was, in fact, so obviously meant to be an artist, that Charlie had designated a studio space for her daughter on the second floor of their house, in the south-facing room with the one round wall, which gave Cee an edge, especially because she could look out the windows that were filled with light at any given moment, and glean inspiration whenever she needed it. Cee’s painting happened to be the only topic that Charlie could talk to her about, without there being any rolling of the eyes, or exasperated exclamations, or fleeing to another room. Charlie used the subject as a wild card, when she could not think of anything else to say, and she wondered how long that would last before she was found out, before Cee realized that she was fishing for conversation – in which case, the gig would be up, and Charlie would need to come up with something else that would engage her daughter.

“Oh – the one you did of Rockport? That’s one of my favorites.” Charlie made the turn towards the high school and drove a little slower, now, hoping Cee would say more.

“Yeah. Mr. Gallagher said it was a good one. He knows the exact place, you know? He said I captured the…essence…of it. So. That’s what I thought I’d show.” She hunkered down again and turned her head toward the window, her hat still pulled over her eyes, so Charlie knew that the head turn was more about ending the conversation than actually looking out at the passing scenery.

“When’s the show again?” A last ditch attempt.

“Mmm…May 23rd? I don’t remember. I’ll tell you later.” More hunkering and looking out the window.

They pulled into the high school parking lot and Cee immediately clicked out of her seatbelt and opened the door, almost before the car had come to a complete stop. “Have a good day!” Charlie called, and Cee vaguely waved and then was gone – gone in an instant, like the impossibly sudden dip of the sun as it sets. And Charlie had to be alone again, alone in the car, driving to the bookstore – just like any other day that she’d drop off Cee, just like any other morning that she’d open up the bookstore, the key small and hard and cold in her hand as she wriggled it into the lock. Except that, on this morning, she had a Mid Life Crisis sitting there on her shoulder, nestling itself up into her neck, crooning and singing to her and leaving her hollow and restless, and as she drove, she wished, beyond words, for something, a thing, just anything else.

Whatever the anything else might be, she actually hadn’t a clue.

Copyright©2010 Mary Germanotta Duquette
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