BLACK
EYED
SUSAN
A NOVEL
ELIZABETH LEIKNES
Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Leiknes
The following is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblense to actual persons, living or deceased, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
Published by Bancroft Press
Books That Enlighten
Bancroft Press
P.O. Box 65360
Baltimore, MD 21209-9945
Phone 410.358.0658
Fax 410.764.1967
bancroftpress.com
Cover J.L. Herchenroeder
978-1-61088-199-9 (cloth)
978-1-61088-200-2 (paper)
978-1-61088-201-9 (kindle)
978-1-61088-202-6 (ebook)
978-1-61088-203-3 (audio)
Printed in the United States of America
For Denise
CONTENTS
Red
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Orange
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Yellow
Seventeen
Eighteen
Green
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Blue
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Indigo
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Violet
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
About Elizabeth Leiknes
“Just like the falling rainbow, just like the stars in the sky,
life should never feel small.”
—Vearncombe
“All I got is a red guitar, three chords, and the truth.”
—Bob Dylan
The following story, a story I’m writing for peace and fulfillment, is a story about me—Susan Spector. It is not a legend, because that would imply an element of oral tradition, and as of today, no one else has heard it—you are the first. It is also not a myth—as far as I can tell, it doesn’t have a hero or a hidden meaning. And it can’t be called a fable because I see no concrete moral in it.
But it is my story, and it holds the truth, as I know it to be.
Here’s what else you need to know:
I don’t see colors, but I hear them in the form of music.
I like rainbows, even though the hues elude me.
I have one blue eye and one brown eye, which some have called black.
I am a collection of anomalies and improbabilities.
I sometimes see Kermit the Frog in my dreams.
I believe if heaven exists, you can hear the radio there, 24-7.
I think life is a gift, and if you don’t breathe it in, you’re missing out.
And oh yeah—
I’m dying of cancer.
red
(adj)
Definition:
1. of a color at the end of the spectrum next to orange and opposite violet, as of blood, fire, or rubies.
My definition:
1. the sensation I get when I hear Stevie Wonder.
ONE
When I pulled into the clinic’s parking lot, it was 8:40 a.m., and when the doctor delivered my fate, it was 8:57.
I remember what time it was because I tend to recall obscure details when facing unusual circumstances. There are certain moments in life that play in our minds long before they ever happen, so when my big moment materialized before me, it seemed familiar. When I first heard I had a matter of weeks to live, I ran into the patients’ bathroom and vomited, not out of shock, but because it was the fourth crappy thing that had happened to me that day.
Already that morning, I’d consumed a whole bag of Fritos as a last-minute breakfast, I’d slammed my pinky finger in the bathroom door, and then, as the ultimate shitty sundae topping, when I got to the clinic, I was forced into one of those stupid almost-gowns, the kind where your ass hangs out. That would’ve been fine, especially since I had an enormous crush on Dr. Marsh and had a decent ass, but I’d woken up late that morning, and so when he brushed his smart hand up against my prickly unshaven legs, he seemed to pity me. By the time he got to the “You’re dying” part, it was the definition of beating a girl when she was already down.
He gave me an embarrassed smile. “Sorry about the gown,” he stumbled. “The nurse made a mistake. Usually we …” He stammered again. “It’s usual procedure, but not in—your case.”
Note to all attractive, single doctors: If you know your patient is close to expiring, don’t make her bare both her body and her soul, and humiliate herself any further. How was I supposed to know I’d be getting naked at a routine visit? All the phone message said was that I needed to have a brief meeting to discuss the results of my insurance physical. I’d actually forgotten about the chest X-rays. I’d been experiencing some chest pain and shortness of breath, so they took them just to be safe. But they didn’t seem so safe now that I was dying.
When I first got the call from Dr. Marsh’s secretary, I fantasized about how the appointment might go. First, he’d lecture me about drinking less and exercising more. I’d nod, looking charming in my Bohemian poet shirt. And finally, just to be cute, he’d ask me out by scribbling “How do you feel about chai tea?” on his prescription pad. But it wasn’t that kind of day. None of those things happened, not even a little. Instead, I was just another sick person in a paper robe under unforgiving lighting.
“Adenocarcinoma—a couple of months, maybe three.” It looked like he was going to touch me, make an attempt to comfort me, but instead he brought his hand to his own face. The way Dr. Marsh’s salt and pepper hair looked in the fluorescent office lights made me think of George Clooney in the later episodes of ER, but there was no TV miracle cure here. I could tell by his disappointed gaze that he was cutting me loose.
It was the same look I gave Laura Stanton when I found out she was moving away in sixth grade. Why put energy into someone you’re not going to know anymore? I say “cut the cord,” and that’s what Dr. Marsh did. He told me they could try chemo and hardcore radiation, but both were unlikely to be successful since I was already experiencing symptoms of metastasis.
He placed his cold stethoscope on my chest and, for a brief moment, I thought maybe I could will my heart to beat stronger and faster, and force whatever was killing me out of my body. But that’s not how it works.
Cancer cells had taken up residence in my lungs, and they were staying—for good. It was a straightforward case of numbers. If the cancer had been caught earlier, it might have been possible to obliterate a few of the cells in their pre-cancerous state, but they’d evolved into a massive, malignant cluster, gaining more power each day, and that added up to disaster for me, victory for them.
All I could say was, “I don’t even smoke.”
“I know. That suck
s. As a non-smoker, you’re actually more likely to get struck by lightning than to get small-cell adenocarcinoma. This is extremely, extremely rare. I’m so sorry.” And I thought my colorblindness was rare.
“What about surgery? Can’t we cut it out?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Due to its size and location, it’s unresectable.” Then he tried his best to sound positive. “I’ll schedule an MRI for Tuesday, and we’ll do a biopsy to make sure. You’re welcome to a second opinion. Maybe …” But we both knew there was no “maybe” about it. I agreed to the appointment even though I knew I wouldn’t show up.
So yet again, I’d defied the odds and wrecked a decent man’s day in the process. He looked depressed, and I didn’t want him to be. When I’d puked in the bathroom earlier, some vomit had stuck to my crinkly gown, and I tried to brush it off like a piece of lint stuck to a sweater. But it was embarrassing and stubborn. Dr. Marsh handed me a paper towel.
I mustered up a smile and thought about what I could say. If I were cool, I would’ve said, “Hey, Doc, no sulking. You’re divinely handsome. You’ll find someone else.” But I wasn’t cool. I was dying. So I kept it simple.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “No worries, Doc. It’s been a full life.”
In other words, I lied.
I don’t remember much about what happened to me after leaving Dr. Marsh’s office, but I do remember listening to my car radio, tuning in to the end of Lonny’s six-song set from Springsteen’s 1980 classic The River.
Lonny and I were self-proclaimed DJ music-snobs who worked twelve-hour shifts at KROD, alternative music for alternative people, and lucky for me, Lonny liked working late nights, which left me the 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. shift. Lonny was, by choice, my only friend. I was a self-proclaimed loner. Lonny said it was because of my “ambivalence.” I don’t know—maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Whatever.
Perhaps it was the simple fact that I had no social aspirations—that’s why radio was perfect for me. Radio didn’t judge me or expect anything from me. It couldn’t disappoint me, because it was just a frequency, a wave. It didn’t have a pulse, which allowed me to trust it. One-way communication was always safest. And although I had a less-than-gregarious personality off-air, something turned on inside of me when I spoke into that microphone. Nobody who ever met me on the street would’ve ever guessed what I did for a living, but that was fine with me—I knew it was where I belonged.
My friend Lonny lived with an unfortunate coincidence—he had the same name, more or less, as a large-breasted blonde actress who once played the part of a radio station secretary (Loni Anderson) on a long-running TV sitcom (WKRP in Cincinnati). When I thought of it, I tried to call him “Lon” to avoid any further emasculation. And as if being linked to a 1970s has-been actress wasn’t insulting enough, he had to give up the radio sign-off he’d been using for eight years because American Idol’s Ryan Seacrest just so happened to use the same one, therefore bastardizing the personal goodbye Lonny had come to know and love. Every time Lonny ended his shift with “Anderson, later,” instead of “Anderson, out,” he died a little bit.
As I drove down First Street, still stunned by my diagnosis, I found surprising comfort in Lonny’s depressing words and doomsday delivery.
“That was ‘Independence Day,’ folks,” Lonny said in a patronizing voice. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “And independence is a good thing because, really, who can you count on? This is ‘Crush On You.’ Springsteen. 1980.”
I may have been dying, but Lonny was a train-wreck over recently being dumped, so when the song was over at nine thirty-two, I picked up my cell phone and called our on-air line.
He sounded agitated. “KROD. Alternative music for alternative people. What would you like to hear?”
“What kind of DJ are you, anyway? You depressed or something? I could’ve forgiven the saccharin extended metaphor in ‘Tunnel of Love,’ but ‘Crush On You’? Come on. And what’s with all the Springsteen today anyway?” It took him a moment to recognize my voice.
He laughed. “Well, I’m sorry about that, but nobody makes me feel alive—really alive—like the Boss.”
“Hmmm … alive. I could use a little of that. Do you think he’d work for me?”
“It’s hard to say. What exactly is your problem?”
“Ever feel like running away, Lon?” I paused. “I mean, Mr. DJ.”
“Sure, Ms …”
“Seacrest. Ms. Seacrest.”
“Fine, Ms. Seacrest,” he snickered. “Who doesn’t feel like running away? The better question is this: Which destination has what you’re looking for? ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’? ‘Thunder Road’? ‘Over the Rainbow’?”
“Whatever,” I said, oozing with neutrality.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that—how often you say that word.” He sounded more like a father than a DJ.
“What word?” I asked, even though I knew. “‘Whatever’?”
After letting a microscopic laugh sneak out, he said, “So you know you’re emotionally lobotomized, right?” He sighed. “Flat-lined … Nothing … Nada. You’re so unsure, you’re not even sure if you’re ambivalent.”
The jovial tone turned serious; it was inevitable. “Look, Lon, I don’t know where yet, but I’m going away for a while, and I just wanted to say—goodbye.”
“Susan? You’re killing me.”
“Yeah, that’s going around today,” I scoffed. “Look, don’t feel bad about Kim—she wasn’t the one for you. I didn’t have the heart to tell you before, but she asked me once if the Gap Band actually played live music at the Gap.” What I said next was sure to heal his broken heart. “And that day, when the three of us went to IKEA and you were in the bathroom, I saw her humming to …” I shook my head in disgust. “Celine Dion.”
He gasped. “Jesus, now you tell me! I could’ve married her!” In a quieter voice, he said, “Crap, we’re still on the air.”
“Just play me one last song for my journey. Start me off right, Mr. DJ.” After a moment of silence, I heard some rustling and then a thud, so I said, “You’re not thinking of bringing out—”
He interrupted with confidence. “Serious times call for serious measures, Ms. Seacrest.”
He’d gotten out the box we’d nicknamed “The Rodney Dangerfield.” In it was a collection of albums that we both knew, if played, would obliterate any respect our listeners had for us. The box held the guilty pleasures we were too ashamed to keep in our own homes for fear a member of the opposite sex might see them. As I turned off First Street, I hung up and waited to hear song number one of my short new life’s soundtrack. I smiled when I heard it because it represented a true term of endearment.
Our listeners had never heard a Dangerfield on air before, and I’m sure they were dropping coffee cups in their kitchens or swerving off roads for fear that Armageddon was approaching. But there really is one perfect song for every moment, and it is downright lovely when moment and music unite. In keeping with its musical genre, it began as a ballad, and escalated into pure roller-rink, leg-warmer splendor.
Lonny cleared his throat. “Well, this is a first.” And as if he were introducing two long lost sisters, he said, “Ms. Seacrest, meet Ms. Donna Summer: spandex diva, disco goddess, ‘Hot Stuff’ extraordinaire. ‘She Works Hard For the Money,’ likes ‘Bad Girls’ like yourself, and appreciates the beauty of the … ‘Last Dance.’”
The music swelled, and Lonny said goodbye for the last time in the only way he knew how. “Love ya, you sassy bitch.”
TWO
“Good job sitting still, Susan!” Mrs. McIntyre told me, but I was unimpressed with her teacher compliments because she dished them out to everyone, even to Polly Simpson, the only girl in fourth grade who still picked her boogers—and ate them.
Randy Pitts and I sat facing each other while he attempted to draw a picture of me on page one of his Red Chief drawing pad. He’d groaned when paired with me for Monday
’s “Get-To-Know-Your-Classmates” art activity.
Mrs. McIntyre spewed more praise as she strolled by Randy’s chair. “Good job, Randy! Is that little circle going to be Susan’s sweater button?”
He was nonplussed. “It’s her head,” he said.
“Oh.” She stopped walking for a moment, and said, “Well, it’s a lovely little head!”
When he glared at me, I felt like a circus sideshow, minus the donation jar. He scrutinized all my features like a witness examines each face on a criminal lineup, then after scowling at me some more, he attacked the paper with his jumbo crayon. “I think I saw someone like you in an alien movie once.”
He meant my strange eyes, one “radiant blue,” according to Mrs. McIntyre, and the other “shit brown,” according to me. Some have said it’s darker than brown, more like deathly black. My mother always lovingly said my two different-colored eyes demonstrated God’s sense of humor, but here’s what I figured: If my genetic code couldn’t even make up its mind about what color eyes to give me, I wasn’t gonna get my panties in a wad because I was ambivalent.
Randy scribbled hostile strokes while Mrs. McIntyre returned to my side and put her cold hands on my face. “You’re frozen still as a statue,” she said. “You haven’t moved a muscle!”
I thought to myself, Get your hands off me, you denim jumper-wearing weirdo, but I said nothing.
“Time to share!” she squawked. “Randy, hold it up high so the whole class can see your masterpiece!”
Randy Pitts took one last look at his work, marveled at its brilliance and, standing tall, revealed to everyone how the world saw me. Some of my classmates snickered, some belly-laughed, some gasped, but everyone reacted.
Except for me.
There I was, exposed and two-dimensional. Most of the paper was left blank, except for a teeny circle of a head with two blobs for eyes (different colors no doubt), a few insignificant squiggly lines for limbs, and then, scrawled in thick, mean letters at the bottom of the page, a single word—FREEK.
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