Mrs. Wilson wore sunglasses and a sleeveless blouse with small flowers on it. The blouse was tucked carefully into a maroon skirt. She held her purse in one hand, and Sammy’s hand in the other. Sammy was wearing the blue shorts he had told Sima were his favorites, the ones he only wore on Sundays when he went to the natural history museum with his grandmother. Because of Mrs. Sampson’s pain, they hadn’t been able to go to the museum in many months now.
“Sima!” Sammy yelled. He let go of Mrs. Wilson’s hand, ran to Sima’s side, and took her hand. Mrs. Sampson had told him not to talk to strangers but that it was OK to hold Sima’s hand.
Sima had the bag of beads in her pocket. Silky soft on the outside, and the hard, round beads clicking against each other on the inside.
Sammy was scuffing the toes of his sneakers on the linoleum floor. He looked up from the floor with his big eyes.
“Now, Sammy,” Mrs. Wilson called, her voice low and serious. “Don’t you be bothering Sima. I’m sure she’s got a lot to do today.”
“That’s OK, Mrs. Wilson,” Sima said. “I’ve got some special time for Sammy today.”
Mrs. Wilson removed her sunglasses, and Sima could see that her eyes were swollen. Mindy had called her in the middle of the night when Mrs. Sampson stopped breathing. Mindy told her there was no need to rush to the hospital, and since there was no one to watch him, she could bring Sammy with her in the morning.
Mindy tipped her post-call ‘do Sammy’s way. “Sammy, your aunt and I have to talk,” she said. She turned to Mrs. Wilson. “Is it OK if Sima gets him a donut?” she asked, her voice quiet and serious.
Mrs. Wilson nodded. She sat down on one of the chairs chained against the wall. Mindy sat down in the seat next to her and put her arm around Mrs. Wilson’s shoulders.
Sima guided Sammy around so that his back was to them.
“What do you say we go get a donut?” Sima asked him, and he nodded his head yes. She led him out the side door toward the Greek truck, where, besides Danish and bagels and coffee, they sold donuts, sometimes still warm this early in the morning. There was a patch of grass there, where Sima would take Sammy to sit and eat in the sun. And then she would give him the silky bag, and they would play with the shiny beads, yellow and blue and gold and green.
Acknowledgments
So many have stood with me as teachers, friends, and loving support on the long journey from inspiration to publication. My deepest thanks to:
Dennis Johnson and Valerie Merians, co-publishers of Melville House, who chose The Care of Strangers as winner of the Miami Book Fair/de Groot Foundation Prize, announced with an extraordinary phone call from Clydette de Groot, and launched by the wonderful Melville House staff including Tim McCall, Selihah White, Marina Drukman, Amelia Stymacks, and Simon Reichley. Special thanks to Dennis, who called early in the COVID crisis, bunkered for two weeks in his Brooklyn garden apartment, to share his appreciation and support, and his pick for the re-envisioned title.
Alyea Canada, my remarkable editor who advocated for a title that would “identify the multiple layers of the narrative” and challenged me with big picture questions, pushing the “winning manuscript” to a deeper, more cohesive place. It was wonderful to appreciate the story through her eyes.
Tom Spanbauer, who first called me a writer when we both lived in 500 square foot walk-ups in NYC and changed my life, and the first generation of his Dangerous Writers—Joanna Rose, Carolyn Altman, Suzy Vitello, Stevan Allred, Diane Ponte, Cori-Ann Woodard, Chuck Palahniuk, among others, who listened to the very first draft ten pages a week.
Shelley Washburn, director, MFA, Pacific University, who was endlessly there, and her loving flock of faculty—Mary Helen Stefaniak, who saw the whole book in conflicts I barely recognized first semester; Claire Davis who suggested third person to tone down my borderline unreliable narrator; Bonnie Jo Campbell, thesis advisor and cycling buddy, who said I might have a novella and handed me off after graduation to her editor pal, Heidi Bell.
Natalie Serber, in her intimate Fiction Loft, who suggested the chapter title “Death Note,” which became the source of the rising crisis in Sima’s story.
Erin Celello, The 5th Semester mentor, who prodded me to build that crisis for Sima’s change.
Deborah Reed, prolific MFA friend, who said, “You are so close. Rearrange, elevate, focus, triangulate. Then you’re home free!”
Heather Sappenfield, trusted MFA friend, who admired early descriptions and scenes when there was yet no payoff for the reader, and impelled me several years later to enter a novella contest when the manuscript was 6500 words too long.
Sue Staats, my dearest MFA friend and unending supporter, who marveled how after the lessons finally learned to release a winning manuscript that there was still more work to be done.
Tom Durkin, my loving partner and cycling companion on all roads flat or steep, short or long, for support on this project for the longest time, and my family, artists and writers among them. And my father, the first writer in my life, who cautioned, “No money in poetry,” and so I finished medical school and then went on to write.
About the Author
Ellen Michaelson is a physician in Portland, Oregon and has an MFA from Pacific University. She is an assistant professor of Medicine at OHSU and vice president of the board of the Northwest Narrative Medicine Collaborative. She was an NEH Fellow in Medical Humanities and attended Breadloaf Writers Conference. Her work has appeared in Creative Nonfiction, Portland Monthly, Literature in Medicine, and Women in Solitude (SUNY Press). This is her first book.
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