by Barb Nobel
JUNE 18
Dear Diary: Caught Josie looking at this diary today. When I confronted her, she said she was worried about me. Who the hell does she think she is sticking her nose into my business?
JULY 3
Dear Diary: I took much today, and boy, didn’t fear a thing.
JULY 4
Dear Diary: Had to admit I’m having problems with memory and started on some pills yesterday. Spent most of the day on the toilet, or bending over it.
JULY18
Dear Diary: I gave those pills a good try. They make me sick and sure don’t cure me forgetfulness.
AUGUST 3
Can’t believe some of the things that’s been happening. Can’t beli
AUGUST 44
Dear don’t know whats happening to me
AUGUST 45
Dear Daar
SEPT
Dear Dairy I couldn’t figure out where I was when I woke up this am. Wandered around for a bit then i saw a phone # in big letters by the phone. As soon as I heard Josie’s voice, I came to myself. Josie coming over after work. Thank God.
Dear Daisy I’m so confused Didn’t know where I was today. Some wioman who was cleeening said I was in Safe Haven. When i went tot he door there were all these strange people walking up up the hallway i want josie. i think i kept calling for her but she didn’t
josie wher
The Writing Workshop
NIGHT SCHOOL DID NOT GO well for Ethan that evening.
This is what happened.
The beauteous Ms. Riley did not sit in her accustomed seat. Ms. Riley usually sat near the end of the table next to Mr. Gibaharldimaxima, but tonight she chose to sit beside Ethan. As soon as Mr. G. saw what was happening, he rose hastily and began to make his way around the side of the table. He intended to occupy the chair on the other side of Ms. Riley, where, seated by her side, his short stature would allow him to appreciate her bountiful nature. However, he was thwarted in his mission by the arrival of Miss Gertrude Peavy, who made her way to his end of the table, effectively blocking his passage. As The Instructor took his usual place at Mr. G’s immediate left, and several other class members hurried in, his route was cut off, and he sank grumpily into his chair. Ethan, in the meantime, was trying to deal with the unnerving presence of Ms. Riley and the overpowering fragrance of her Cinnamon Meadows perfume. His eyes began to itch.
Miss Peavy’s story was the first to be critiqued that evening. Mrs. Goodwind did the initial critique. The group usually afforded Mrs. Goodwind that particular right, as Mrs. Goodwind was a Published Author. A few years ago, while living in the village of Twood (population 800), Mrs. Goodwind had published several items in the local newspaper. Two articles were detailed descriptions of local Tupperware parties; the third was a wonderful description of a wedding shower that had been given for a rural couple. While the items were not strictly fiction, at the first meeting, Mrs. Goodwind had kindly provided copies for each group member as examples of “Show, don’t Tell.”
“Gertrude,” Mrs. Goodwind said, referring to her notes, “your story does not have a plot. This is the third chapter of this story that we have critiqued, and it still does not have a plot.”
“Ah, but Mrs. Goodwind,” interrupted Mr. Gibaharldimaxima, “the descriptions are wonderful. Listen to this. This is most certainly the ‘line of the week’. And Mr. Gibaharldimaxima read: ‘Holly shivered in fear and anticipation as Lance displayed his magnificent weapon. As she tossed and turned on the bed in a helpless effort to free herself, her little satin chemise began to slide down, exposing her full, round breasts to Lance’s burning gaze.’
“Beautiful, beautiful.” murmured Mr. G. thoroughly transfixed by Miss Peavy’s writing skills. Miss Peavy, who had begun to write after her retirement from accounting, smiled complacently. She knew she could always count on Mr. Gibaharldimaxima for a good, honest critique. The lack of plot did not bother her in the least.
Several other group members gave feedback on the story. The general consensus was that the descriptions were good, but that the story did lack a plot.
At the end, as was the custom, it was The Instructor’s turn to comment.
“Gertrude,” said The Instructor, leaning forward to allow the full wisdom of his words to impress the group members. “Your story lacks a plot. And furthermore...” The Instructor paused for dramatic effect, but unfortunately he paused too long. Several group members wondered if he had lost his train of thought, or even fallen asleep. However, they maintained a respectful silence.
“And furthermore,” The Instructor continued after his pause, “you have changed the name of the heroine right in the middle of the story.”
A few of the group members gave a start at this comment, but, recovering nicely, nodded their heads wisely as if they too had noticed this aberration. Ethan, however, was disconcerted. He had given up reading Miss Peavy’s stories long ago, but now wished he had perused them, for he felt that he might have been the one to make this wise observation. Miss Peavy was not in the least troubled.
“This is easily remedied,” she declared. “I have a ‘find and replace’ feature on my computer.”
Next on the evening agenda was a poem which had been submitted by Mr. Hubert Longelly. As was their custom with poetry, the group read aloud. However, as sometimes happens when a group of people read aloud, the pace grew slower and slower as they covered page after page. Near the end of the fifth page, the pace had grown so slow that it seemed to come to a complete halt. The Instructor, with a snort, felt that the process had been completed, and, although there was a sixth and seventh page to go, called for a coffee break, saying that they would do the critique afterwards. Mr. Longelly’s protests were drowned out by the scraping of chairs.
Ethan, by now having a full blown asthma attack from the effects of breathing Ms. Riley’s Cinnamon Meadows, hurried to the men’s washroom. Struggling for breath and supporting himself on the edge of the sink, he began to desperately fumble in his pant’s pocket for his asthma inhaler. At that inopportune moment, Mr. Gibaharldimaxima strolled in. Quickly assessing Ethan’s breathing difficulty, and his fumbling attempts to extract his inhaler from too tight jeans, he grinned with delight.
“Yah, yah, I know how it feels. Ms. Riley does that for me too,” Mr. G. divulged. “But really, you should use a stall for your activity. I don’t care, you know, but someone else might come in.”
He disappeared into one of the stalls himself. Ethan, too distracted to catch Mr. G’s meaning, continued to search his pant’s pocket. Finally, he found the inhaler and took two hits. He felt better immediately, and with the attack now manageable, began to regulate his breathing. He conscientiously took long, slow breaths, attempting to empty his lungs completely with each exhalation, and fill his lungs with each inhalation.
“All done, eh.” observed Mr. Gibaharldimaxima, emerging from his stall. “That was pretty quick for a man your age.”
Ethan ignored him and concentrated on his breathing. He hated to miss any of the workshop, but knew that if he returned to sit beside Ms. Riley, his allergy to perfume would continue to plague him, so he made a decision to forgo the rest of the evening. He decided to return to the room before the rest of the participants, and privately, so as not to embarrass Ms. Riley, advise The Instructor of his difficulty, and insist that he must leave now in order not to exacerbate the problem. However, when he returned to the room, he discovered that The Instructor was having his fifteen-minute power nap. Head dropped back on the chair in what looked to be a most uncomfortable position, The Instructor was in full voice. Grey beard and mustache fluttered with each snore. Ethan, loathe to interrupt what looked like a much needed rest, seated himself to wait for the little snort that traditionally heralded the end of the power nap.
A wave of Cinnamon Meadows announced the return of Ms. Riley, and Ethan felt his eyes begin to itch and burn once more.
Mr. Gibaharldimaxima entered, looked greedi
ly at the unoccupied chair next to Ms. Riley, but returned resignedly to his earlier seat next to Miss Peavy. Miss Peavy, undaunted by either previous critiques or The Instructor’s loud snores, began to distribute the fourth chapter of her book. Mr. Gibaharldimaxima eagerly clutched the pages, and in order not to waste time, began to read immediately.
The rest of the workshop participants straggled in and respectfully awaited the little snort that would announce the beginning of round two. As time passed, Ethan began again to feel the full effects of Cinnamon Meadows.
Fifteen minutes stretched into twenty. Workshop participants looked at each other questioningly, and then, with one accord, looked to Mrs. Goodwind as the person who should break this deadlock. Mrs. Goodwind cleared her throat loudly, to no effect. At a loss for once, she began attentively to sort the papers in front of her. At last, The Instructor gave his little snort, and the second half of the workshop began. Unfortunately, Ethan’s opportunity to speak privately with The Instructor was lost.
Mr. Longelly’s poem was thoroughly critiqued. Several workshop participants commented that the poem seemed somehow unfinished. Unfortunately, in the ensuing discussion, Mr. Longelly’s explanation that they had only read five of the seven pages was lost. The class proceeded to the next offering: a lengthy analysis of the benefits of a saving account versus the benefit of buying Canada Savings Bonds.
Fortunately for Ethan, the second half of the workshop was quite short, as about forty minutes had been taken up by The Instructor’s power nap. As the group broke up, Ethan hurried from the room, groping once again for his inhaler. Mr. Gibaharldimaxima, in hot pursuit of Ms. Riley, and Miss Peavey, in turn pursuing Mr. Gibaharldimaxima, also made quick exits. Unfortunately, all four participants missed The Instructor’s summary, as well as his complimentary remarks on how well the workshop had gone.
Daddy
I LOOK FOR MY SISTER by the school door, but she isn’t there. Usually she just stands by the door after she eats. She says she’s too old to play with the rest of us. She is older, fourteen, because she failed a grade, but I think she’s just being a snot.
My best friend, Bonnie, called her a snob the other day, but I told Bonnie she’s not a snob, and if she doesn’t want to play with us, that’s up to her.
I go round the corner and look through the window to see if I can see Mary in the room. And I do see her. Miss Bell is talking to her. Miss Bell is supposed to be the nicest teacher in the whole school, even if she is kind of fat, so I can’t wait till I get to grade eight.
Miss Bell looks really interested in what Mary might have to say, but Mary, like always, isn’t saying anything. Miss Bell reaches out to touch Mary’s hand, but Mary yanks her hand away. She has on her “nothing” face, like she doesn’t have any feelings at all, like she doesn’t care for anybody or anything. Miss Bell takes her hand back, and both the teacher and my sister get up. Miss Bell looks at Mary as she leaves the room, and she has a kind of worried look on her face. I guess she thinks Mary is going to fail again. My sister pretends she doesn’t care if she fails or not, but I know she does care. I don’t know why she doesn’t try harder and do her homework.
After school, when we are walking home, I ask Mary what the teacher wanted, and she says it’s none of my business.
I don’t bug her about it. I want to know really badly, but she’ll just tell me I’m too little. That’s what she says if she doesn’t want to tell me anything, or if she doesn’t want me to go somewhere with her, or if I want to keep the house key instead of her. I’m sick of hearing how I’m too little for this and too little for that. She thinks she’s cool because she’s older than me.
When we get home, I race up the stairs. I know if Mary gets to the TV first I’ll never get to watch what I want. Sometimes, she changes the channel anyway when I’m watching, and when I get pissed off, she doesn’t even care. That’s what she does today. It’s no use trying to change the channel back. Last time I did that, she called me some bad words.
I wish I was the oldest sister, but I would never treat any little sister like Mary treats me. I think she doesn’t even like me, never mind love me. I miss my mom so much.
I don’t want to watch Mary’s show, so I get out my homework. I tell Mary she should do her homework too, but she pretends she doesn’t hear me.
I would really like to have Bonnie or Melissa over, but my dad doesn’t like for us to have friends over. He says that if my friends come here they’ll make fun of us because we don’t have any money, and he may be right. One time I heard Hanna laugh at my dress because it was way too big. It used to be my sister’s dress. Hanna said, “Talk about reduce, reuse, recycle.” I wanted to hit her, but I pretended to not hear her instead. But Bonnie and Melissa wouldn’t laugh. I’ve seen Bonnie wear her older sister’s dress, and I told her I really liked the embroidery on it. I don’t, but she’s my friend, and I didn’t want her to feel like I felt when Hanna made fun of me.
When my dad comes home, I know he went and had a beer, because I can smell it. He says having a beer is good for his heart, and I know dad has a bad heart, so I don’t care if he has a beer, except sometimes he falls down and gets sick. Usually he gets sick into the toilet, but sometimes he misses, and that is diiiisss-gusting.
Dad says he’s tired, and he gives Mary some money and tells us to go out and get a pizza.
“Why can’t I carry the money?” I ask.
“You’re too little,” Mary says.
After dinner, my sister and I watch TV. There’s one show on at this time that both of us like. I squish into the corner so I’m not sitting on the broken spring.
“Mary,” Daddy says. “You’d better come to my room to sleep tonight. I’m not feeling well.”
Ever since my mom left, Mary has taken care of Dad when his heart acts up.
Well, I’ve had enough!
I jump up from the couch. “Let me come take care of you tonight, Dad” I say. “I’m big enough now.”
Dad looks at me. I stand up really straight and stick out my chest. I know I’m growing up because I’m getting breasts now, even though I’m only eleven, and that’s a sign I’m becoming a woman. And Mary told me about getting periods, and everything.
My dad looks at me. He looks really hard, and then he smiles, and suddenly I feel like hunching up my shoulders to hide my chest, but I don’t do it. Mary says girls should be proud to become women.
“Yeah, you are getting big, Liz.” he says. “I think you can come and take care of me tonight.”
He goes into the kitchen.
But my sister whispers “Don’t do it, Lizzie, let me do it.”
It’s been a long time since my sister called me Lizzie, so I look at her.
Mary is staring at the TV, but her face looks strange. Her chin is pulled into her neck and her eyes are squinched up.
Suddenly, my insides give a little jump, like they do when something scary happens real fast on TV, because my sister looks like she’s going to cry. Then I think that’s crazy, because I can’t remember the last time Mary cried.
Wait a minute, I can remember. It was one morning after she took care of Daddy. I woke up, and she was crying. Right away, I figured Daddy had had a heart attack and died, but then I heard him grunting in the bedroom, so I ran in and he was okay. That happened about two years ago, just a little while after Mommy left us.
When I see my sister looking like she’s going to cry, I get a little scared.
“How come you don’t want me to do it?” I ask, but I know what she’s going to say before she says it.
“You’re too little, Lizzie.” she says. “This time, you are too little.”
But I know she’s just mad because I’m finally getting to do some of the stuff she gets to do only because she’s older than me.
“Too bad,” I say. “I’m going to do it tonight.”
I would stick out my tongue at her if I weren’t getting grown up.
Insid
e, I feel strange, a little happy, a little scared.
Tonight, tonight I get to take care of my daddy.
The Beginning of the End
IT’S GOING TO BE A good day. It has to be a good day. This is the first day I’ve had off in a year and a half because of changing jobs. It’s the first weekday when I don’t have to jump up at 5 a.m., get Mikey out of bed, clean him up, and rush him off to day care. It’s too much for a little kid, this getting up so early, being rushed through breakfast and into his clothes, and out into the cold.
And of course, my weekends are filled with laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, cheque book balancing, and the other numerous household tasks.
I had set the clock for 5 a.m. for the sheer relief of being able to turn it off and go back to sleep. I know I would have woken up about five anyway. My body is used to that after all these years.
James goes out today, to his day care. I don’t like that name for it, it makes an adult sound like a kid, but that’s what the hospital calls it. Since his hospital stay after the last suicide attempt, it’s been this day care, a way station on the road to recovery. And I sure hope he recovers quickly, because with my salary alone our finances are in poor shape. The fact is, we seem to be getting behind a little more each month, and I would love to stop counting pennies. It’s been a long time since I bought toys or clothes for Mikey. And he’s growing fast, his round belly showing below his undershirt.
Mikey wakes about six, and I pick him up and bring him back to bed with me. He snuggles down with his stuffed frog, and looks around, and eventually giggles and pokes me and his dad, giggles some more, stands up and looks out the window, then jumps on the bed.
“Mikey,” I tell him, “we are going to have a great day today. We are not going to daycare. We are going to have a delicious breakfast, and then we’re going to the park. We’ll slide down the slide, swing on the swing, play in the sand. We’ll read Pooh Bear, and Mommy will do the funny voices. We are going to have a scrumptious lunch. Then we’ll have a nice nap, because you’ll be tired by that time, and so will Mommy. And, then we will go swimming.”