The Interactive Novel is on hold while Kirsten recovers from a concussion and finishes up her MPH.  In the meantime, though, I’d love your comments on an idea I’ve been working on for close to five years.  :)

Mental Affairs

Chapter 1

During the day I loved the music. It was the soundtrack of my life and had the effect of immediately making the stress of the moment less imposing. My roommate joked that living with me meant becoming a Raze fan by proximity, because one of their songs inevitably blasted through the speakers whenever I took my turn to pick music. During the day I laughed at her jibes, turned up the volume, and let the beat take over. But at night the story changed. Something else was behind the controls. Hearing the music at night meant another visit from him.

I tried to lose myself in the music as the sound swelled. My dresser should have been making a shadowy right angle to the door across the room; instead I saw a wall with a mass produced painting and a window. Sunlight poured through the open curtains, forcing me to peek between eyelids squeezed shut.

There was that alternating drumbeat I thought was so clever. The music was playing; I should be paying attention to it, right? I wanted to put a hand to my forehead to shade my eyes, but my arms remained frozen by my sides. Don’t worry, listen to the music. I chanced another glance. Someone stood in front of me, tall and thin, his features in shadow.

Why couldn’t I move? The music, listen to the music. He was coming toward me. The music, listen to the music. Closer, oh God, still closer. My skin began to tingle. My heart pounded. Listen to the music! I forced my eyes shut and pretended the sound was coming from my speakers, like normal.

It worked. The next time I opened my eyes he had gone. My dresser was back in its place next to the door. The room was dim and quiet. I kicked off my covers and sat shaking on the edge of the bed. My bedside clock read six thirty. The alarm wasn’t supposed to go off until eight. I pulled my mp3 player from the bedside table and set it to the song I had just heard. There was no sign of the looming figure, and as the song wound to a close I began to relax.

I set the player aside and got up to reassure myself that the door was locked. Then I retrieved my laptop from my desk, logged into my account and began the mundane task of sorting through the e-mail that had arrived overnight. At the top of my inbox was a message from Kaia, my friend from western Ukraine. We had become close when she spent a semester at my university, and she had given me my first Raze CD.

April,

I can’t believe I’ll be seeing you again in two weeks! How long have we planned for this trip, and now it’s actually happening? I keep checking my credit card statement to make sure the charges for the train pass and hostel card are still there. I am so excited!! And guess what? Raze is having a concert in Bucharest during the week we are there, and I’ve gotten us tickets!! You’ll finally be able to see them live! :-D

I must run now, finals to study for. I can’t wait to see you!

Ciao~

Kaia

Seeing Raze in concert? I clapped my hand over my mouth. Oh, man, Kaia was golden! I entered the concert into the itinerary for our trip and grinned while I looked over our plans. After graduation I would fly to Ukraine to meet Kaia. We were going to backpack through Romania to Greece and then swing up through Italy, Switzerland and Austria. This would be our summer blowout before we went on to grad school, me in the US and Kaia in the UK. We had our tickets and passes ready to go, and all we had to do was get finals and graduation over with.

*~*

“Căcat, futui, GodDAMNIT!” I was awake. Again. I rolled over, ignoring the protests from my dick, which was hard. Again. Three-thirty in the fucking morning, and I’d had the dream for the second time that night. There went any chance of being rested for tomorrow’s concert.

Someone pounded at my door. I sighed, got up, and wrenched the blanket off the bed to wrap around my shoulders while I went to answer.

“Alexi, what the hell are you yelling about?” Jan asked the instant I cracked open the door. “You know damn well these walls may as well be paper.”

“Sorry, man, I keep having this dream and I’m getting really tired of it waking me up,” I said.

“A dream? Like a nightmare?”

“No, I keep seeing this girl, and I can’t touch her, and the whole thing builds until I’m about ready to bust, and then I wake up.”

“That doesn’t sound bad.” Jan said. “Just wank it off and go back to sleep.”

“Two or three times a night for the past six weeks, Jan,” I said. “And I’ve been having it on and off for a year now.”

“Six weeks… a year? That’s not normal, Alexi,” Jan said.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Hey, it’s three am and I just woke up to you cussing through the wall of my hotel room. I’m not at my best,” Jan protested. “Have you seen a doctor? No, you couldn’t have, you haven’t been away from the tour… You should see a doctor.”

“You’re not kidding when you say you’re not at your best,” I said. “Go back to bed. Sorry I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry. Just go get some sleeping pills or something, all right? Two weeks left, we all need to be getting full night’s sleep.”

“I’ll do something,” I said. Jan paused, leaning against my door and looking dubious. “I will! Don’t tell Paul, all right? I don’t need another lecture on holding to the image.”

“Whatever. Just deal with it and let me sleep.” Jan turned away and moved back towards his room, swaying slightly as he went. I felt bad for waking him up. This tour was hard enough with the scarce hours of sleep we were managing to catch.

I moved through the darkness to the bed, tossing the blanket down and slipping under it to escape the subzero air blasting out of the AC in spite of the fact that any actual summer heat was months away.

I ran my hand through my hair; my eyelids felt like lead. All I wanted was a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Was that too much to ask? Jan was right; I did need to see someone. There’s a break coming up in a few days… The thought had hardly exited my mind before I began drifting back towards oblivion.

*

“You’re not going crazy, Alexi, I can assure you. All your tests have come back normal.” Dr. Eminescu flipped back through the pages of my chart and jotted down a few notes before continuing. “It sounds like the tour is putting you under a lot of stress; that could be the source of your dreams. We could put you on a sleeping pill, though I can’t guarantee it will provide dreamless sleep. Some people say it does, and others say it makes their dreams more vivid.”

“Will I have trouble waking up after?” I asked. “I need to be alert for performances and such.”

“There are pills with a short half-life, yes,” the doctor replied. “Make sure you have eight hours to devote to sleep, and you shouldn’t have any issues.”

“Doctor, I haven’t slept eight hours straight in months. And besides, falling asleep isn’t the prob-” Dr. Eminescu cut me off.

“Yes, I know, that’s a common problem,” he said, ignoring the second half of my protest. “You’d be better off with eight hours, but sometimes that isn’t possible. I can’t guarantee you won’t have difficulty waking up, but I can give you the shortest acting pill and you can try it and see.” I hesitated. I didn’t like the idea of sleeping pills, but I couldn’t go on like this.

“Fine,” I said. “We don’t have a show tomorrow, so I can test this tonight. It won’t be the end of the world if I’m groggy during equipment set up and sound checks.”

“I’ll give you a week’s worth of samples, and hopefully that will straighten out your internal clock,” the doctor said.

“Come back if it doesn’t work, all right?” He rummaged in a cupboard on the wall and pulled out a couple of small boxes to press into my hands along with the appointment slip. Then he shook my hand and left the room.

I almost wished there had been an abnormal test result, I thought as I left the office. Maybe an imbalance of some sort. It would have been a convenient explanation. Despite the doctor’s assurances, I doubted the pills in my hand would provide a reprieve from the girl who haunted my nights.

It was always the same scene- the room that had become so familiar and the girl sitting in a twin bed. The low light allowed me to see her dark hair, rumpled from sleep. She wore a long nightshirt that only partially masked her delicate curves. I would try to run toward her. I wanted nothing more than to hold her, to run my fingers through her hair and down her body, but as soon as I got close, she was gone.

I had a fleeting image of the giant two and three thousand piece jigsaw puzzles my family used to spend evenings working on. You could sit for hours, trying to find the right piece to fit the one in your hand. This was like a three million piece puzzle, I thought in exasperation. She could be anywhere – if she even existed.

I threw my bag in the car and told the driver, James, to take me back to the hotel. Were these dreams to torture me for years while I tried to find the right piece of the puzzle to fit mine?

The trees outside the window blurred as I leaned against the seat and tried to relax. The view failed to soothe me as it usually did. Rather than zipping by, the comforting greens were fading to become the walls of her room. But the walls were bare and the shelves of books had been packed into boxes lining the walls. Harsh florescent lights threw the room into stark contrast.

I sucked in a breath and leaned forward. Where was she, what did this new scene mean, and why was it happening while I was awake? Then I saw her, lying back on the bed with her eyes closed, listening to music on her headphones. She wore glasses during the day. I stared at her, drinking her in while she rocked to the beat of the music.

She started singing and my breath caught in my chest. That was our music! I listened, filling in the instruments and background voices while she sang. When she reached my solo she stumbled over the Romanian and dropped the beat.

“Dammit, why can’t I get that part?” She opened her eyes, and I saw surprise and shock flash across her face. She could see me! It was the only explanation. A low cry tore from my lips. I reached towards her, towards the bed and boxes that appeared so real, only to have them dissolve when my hand crashed into the car window.

“Noooo!”

The car swerved and jerked to a stop on the side of the road. “Sir, are you all right?” James asked, twisting in the driver’s seat to look back at me. I heard the horns of the cars he had cut off as if they were coming from a great distance.

“No, I’m not all right!” I snapped.

“Should I take you back to the doctor?”

I considered the question. I didn’t think I’d like Dr. Eminescu’s response if I told him I’d had a vision, or a hallucination, or whatever the hell that had been. No. Going back would result in drugs that would alter my ability to perform, at best, and involuntary hospitalization at worse. I couldn’t afford either, not with two weeks of concerts left to go.

“No, I can’t go back there.”

“Where, then?”

“Take me…” I hesitated. My mother had odd dreams from time to time. Maybe she would have some advice for stopping this. “Take me home.”

*~*

I stood panting in the middle of my dorm room, knife in my hand, my eyes darting around the packed boxes. He had been standing right here, reaching for me. I cursed myself for freezing. By the time I had grabbed my knife, he had disappeared.

Where had he gone? The rest of the rooms were empty and the suite was locked. I had seen the last suitemate off a few hours earlier; I knew I was the only person left. My ears strained for any sound. That’s the last time I listen to music by myself, I promised, dropping my knife hand down to my side. I hadn’t heard him come in, and I hadn’t heard him leave. I should have at least heard the door slam.

Something was dripping. I tensed, listening for the noise. Then a sharp pain shot through my arm, and I looked down to see my hand, and now my knife, covered in blood.

“Fuck!” I dropped the knife and ran to the bathroom, fumbling with the faucet and shoving my hand under the water. I must have caught the base of the blade along with the handle when I grabbed it from under my pillow. Stupid, rookie mistake. I knew better.

The cut, though straight and clean, bled profusely. I examined the length and clamped a paper towel on top of it, debating whether to go down to the front desk. Would they insist on taking me for stitches? I could say I’d caught myself on a pair of scissors while cutting packaging tape. I’d have to clean up the knife and hide it before I went down. We weren’t supposed to have them in the dorms.

I tossed the now-drenched paper towel in the trash and tore off a new one, wrapping it around my hand while I moved back into my bedroom to get the knife. Stitches and professional cleaning would probably be a good idea. I didn’t want to risk the cut getting infected while I traveled, and I could take the sutures out myself.

I would have to find another means of self-defense, I thought, rinsing off the knife. Handling a blade with a bandage would be a recipe for disaster. Maybe I could pick up some pepper spray.

Pain shot though my hand when I lifted the paper towel for another look. I grimaced. The bleeding was slowing, but not quickly enough. I sighed. A trip to the emergency room appeared to be in order.

I replaced my impromptu bandage once more, hid the knife in a box and grabbed my purse. Locking the door behind me, I headed for the elevators, steeling myself for the inevitable gasps that would accompany my appearance in the lobby.

*~*

“Alexi, what a surprise!” Mamă exclaimed. She gave me a hug and ushered me into the kitchen, bustling between the cabinets and the refrigerator to prepare a couple of drinks. “I didn’t realize you were in the area. What’s going on? Your driver looked a bit more concerned than anyone navigating the E58 has a right to be.”

“Well, you know James takes his job seriously,” I joked. “Besides, I wasn’t exactly the best passenger on this trip.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. I jumped into my story. She sat and listened through the whole tale, saying nothing and occasionally sipping from her drink.

“Well,” she said when I had finished. “What took you so long to come ask me?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I was busy, I guess, and it wasn’t that big a deal until recently.” Mamă looked at me, her arms crossed and one finger tapping against her lips.

“Give me the pills,” she said finally. “This has nothing to do with your sleep cycle.”

“But the doctor-”

“Doesn’t always know what he’s talking about,” she said. “Remember how I dreamed of your father’s illness before anyone guessed? If that doctor had listened to me, Eugen might still be with us.” I nodded, remembering how she had urged Tată to go to a larger city for a second opinion after Dr. Eminescu had dismissed his concerns, and how Tată had refused. Things had been fine for a few months, but the cancer Mamă had seen got him in the end.

“I think this is similar,” Mamă continued. “You’re seeing someone you’ll eventually cross paths with- someone who will be important in your life. Each dream tells you something valuable about your future, and you can’t be risking that knowledge with some drug.”

“But there’s the tour!” I protested. “I can’t just drop that to go find her! I have to perform, and I’ve barely been sleeping as it is!”

“I can tell,” Mamă commented. “Your ability to put together a coherent argument has certainly suffered.”

“Thanks, Mamă,” I said. “Good to know I’m doing so poorly.”

“Anytime, scumpete. I wasn’t suggesting you drop the tour to go look for her. My guess is she’ll come to you, if the dream frequency is increasing and you’ve begun to see her during the day. Go back to the band and finish the tour, and she’ll probably show up before you’re done.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” I asked.

“I don’t think you have a choice. I’ve never been able to change any of the futures I’ve dreamed about.” Her jaw tightened for an instant, and then she smiled. “Fortunately for you, Alexi, your dreams portend a much more pleasant future than mine have.”

And with that she got up and held out a hand to pull me from my chair. Mamă brooked no protest as she propelled me out the door.

“Take him back to the hotel, James,” Mamă said when we reached the car. She turned me around, put both hands on my shoulders and stood up on her toes to kiss me on the cheek, before giving me a little shake.

“Now, go and do what you would have done, sing, and keep your eyes open. I think you’ll find her if you look.”

*~*

I pressed my head against the window of the plane, hoping the cold glass would soothe my swirling thoughts. Low temperatures made molecules stop moving, right? I guess the fact that it didn’t work proved thoughts weren’t made of molecules. Or possibly that my head was too thick for the temperature difference to have any effect. Given that I still hadn’t come up with a convincing explanation for what I had seen in my dorm room two days prior, the thick-headed explanation was probably correct.

I stared at the ground below without registering any of the details. My mind felt like a mud puddle, with questions bubbling slowly to the surface through the haze of my pain medication. Even with the drugs, my hand throbbed. Perhaps pretending I was fine for the two days I had spent at home wasn’t the most intelligent thing I could have done. I didn’t think I’d had a choice; my mother had come close to confiscating my passport until my hand healed. Still, if I’d taken the things as prescribed, it probably wouldn’t hurt quite so much.

As the last rays of light passed over the horizon I sighed and buried my face in my hands, then jerked back when I brushed against the bandage. It had to be the medication, but I didn’t feel sane anymore. There had been someone standing in the middle of my room, and by the time I had found my knife and stood up, he was gone. It wasn’t physically possible, but I refused to believe the alternative – I had seen something that didn’t exist.

“Are you all right?” The woman in the seat next to me had a British accent and looked the part of the caring grandmother. She was somewhere between fit and plump, with frizzy gray hair and wrinkles around her mouth and eyes showing how often she smiled. Those eyes were looking at me with concern and compassion. I found myself looking at the fairy pendant around her neck, and had a crazy bubble thought that if someone believed in fairies enough to wear one, they might understand what was happening to me. Don’t be ridiculous, I chastised myself, appalled that I was even considering telling my story to a total stranger.

“Yes…no…I don’t know,” I replied, shaking my head.

“Your mind says yes and your body no, I think,” she observed, “Since you shake your head no while saying yes.” The intuition demonstrated in her statement unlocked the last of my inhibition, and the whole story began to pour out. Part of me – the one remaining clear section of my brain – screamed at me to stop, but my lips were controlled by the mud brain. On some level it felt comforting to tell someone, to hear the words out in the open instead of held inside me. No one knew about my dreams – not even my roommate. And yet here I sat, telling everything to a complete stranger. She said nothing throughout my narrative, nodding or making small noises to encourage me to keep going.

“You’re struggling, aren’t you?” she asked, when my mudslide of words rumbled to a halt.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re under the influence of something; your speech is ever so slightly slurred.”

I stared at my bandaged hand, my cheeks belatedly burning red. I thought I had enough control to keep my speech normal. “Pain meds,” I admitted.

“Ah.” The woman nodded. “You’re showing remarkable composure in spite of it all. Why don’t you let yourself sleep for a while?”

“They’ll just wake me up when they come around with dinner,” I said. “Besides, you can’t just tell me to go to sleep, not after the story I told. Unless you just want the crazy girl to shut up until you get off the plane.”

The woman laughed. “Nothing of the sort, dear.” She rested her chin in her hand and stared at me. “There’s really much more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?”

“Am I supposed to answer that? I mean, I think I’m pretty straightforward.” I had a vague awareness that my response wasn’t exactly polite, but the woman’s edges were blurring in my vision and I was having difficulty caring. She continued to stare at me, her mouth creeping towards a smile.

“Let me tell you a story,” she said. “When I was a girl we lived by the ocean for a time, and I used to go out past where the waves broke and drift on the swells. No life jacket or float ring – just me and the waves. And when one would break early I would swim in front and ride it into shore, then go back out and do it all over again.” My forehead wrinkled. What did this have to do with me?

“I think – and I could be entirely wrong – but I think you’ve let your self control take over a bit too much of your life. I’ve heard of dreams like this before. Never had one myself, but my sister has, and my mother used to. Neither of them could ever control them. And they’d have gone crazy if they tried. Think of the circumstances in your life – the dreams, your opportunities, your situation – as waves. Some waves you can duck under and be fine, and others will crush you down into the sand if you don’t ride them into shore. If you’ve been having these dreams for months, ignoring them is like trying to duck under the wave. Why not try to float with it and see where you land?

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Sorry… this is part of the reason. Or rather, this is the latest in a series of misfortunes that’s been going on since October, and which I’m getting thoroughly sick of. Not sure when I’ll be able to get back to writing regularly on the Interactive Novel (hopefully soon!), but in the meantime I’m considering posting a novel I wrote a few years back for some feedback. Anyone interested?

How to make Sinus Saving Soup:

Step 1 (optional, and heartily discouraged if at all avoided): Get a sinus infection.

Step 2: Realize that, despite your body’s preference for sleeping all day, you really do need to eat at some point. Stumble into kitchen and root through freezer for something that might become edible.

Step 3: Put on a pot of northern beans to boil. Pull out random ziploc bags of undetermined stock from some point in the past 18 months and realize you can’t get them into the pot while they’re frozen. Leave on counter to defrost and go lie down, exhausted.

Step 4: Wake up 3 hours later to realize that the beans have boiled a bit too long, and that one of the bags of stock had a hole and is now all over the kitchen counter. Curse for a bit, then toss beans and assorted liquids together and wipe up the spilled stock.

Step 5: Root around in freezer again and come up with a bag of cut squash and onions that (you think) is from this summer. Also, there’s a carrot in the fridge. Decide to grate it, because it will cook faster that way.

Step 6: (optional, and once again heartily discouraged) Accidentally grate knuckles while attempting to grate carrot. Curse, jump up and down, race for first aid kit, get blood in food, etc.

Step 7: Toss remaining carrot to dog. Let all ingredients boil for a bit, then randomly add some salt, parsley and basil. Because what doesn’t taste good without salt, parsley and basil?

Step 8: Ladle yourself a cup of Sinus Saving Soup, and sprawl on the couch breathing in the steam and wishing you had the energy to sit upright and actually eat the stuff.

The Frabjous Furful and the Fearful Furful

First, he stuck his nose into the fascinating pile of cardboard in the corner. How new and interesting, and with such lovely loud noises when it falls!

“Blake!” sayeth the human. “Don’t even think about it.”

Then he stuck his head through the mysterious metal curtain. Such delicious smells of ash and flame and old cobwebs, and such fascinating black things to chew on!

“Blake!” sayeth the human. “Get your nose out of there.”

The Frabjous Furful wandered mournfully, completely ignoring all the toys and chew bones scattered around the floor. “I am bored!” he whined. “Play with me, oh human one!” But the human remained steadfastly glued to her book.

Verily, the Frabjous Furful noticed motion! There, in the great glass door! Another dog to entertain him!

He edged up to it and sniffed cautiously. It didn’t smell like a dog. But there it was, sniffing back!

The Frabjous Furful backed up and stretched forward, his butt thrusting into the air. His tail wiggled once, twice… and then he launched himself at the strange dog on the other side!

The human looked up from her book to see the Frabjous Furful bounce off the glass and lo, she let out a great laugh.

“Are you all right, buddy?” she asked, setting aside the book and kneeling to run her hands over the head and body of the Frabjous Furful. He squiggled with joy and the human stayed on the ground to wrestle with him, and then the Fearful Furful joined in, and all was well with the world.

And that is the tale of how the Frabjous Furful met his reflection.

In our last installment, Sabrina agreed to try disappearing with Johnny.

As always, your thoughts are appreciated! :)

Johnny says nothing about disappearing for almost a week, and I find myself wondering if he’d forgotten. Then he meets me on the stairs one night after my shift and grabs my hands, so excited he’s vibrating.

“I have something to show you!” he says. “Hurry, drop your things, let’s go!”

“What is it?” I ask, letting him pull me through our door.

“I’ve found the perfect place,” he says, stripping me of my Chick-fil-a shirt and grabbing another from the back of the couch for me to put on.

“For what?”

“For us to disappear.” He flashes me a somewhat maniacal grin and disappears into the bedroom. When he comes back out, his arms are filled with the comforter from our bed. He sets it on the counter and starts grabbing packets of ramen and noodle bowls from the cupboard.

“What are those for?”

“Hey, we’re going to be doing this in comfort and style,” he proclaims, and turns to look at me. “You ready? They’re waiting.”

“Who is?”

“The people from before, the ones that are like us! We’re all going together.” He shoves the food into a bag and hands me the comforter, and then directs me out the door, locking it behind us.

*

Johnny has a very different idea of style and comfort than I do. I’d known this for a while, I think, but staring around the “perfect” place he’d found, it hits me all the harder. He leads me down into the Pedway from the Clark Street entrance, and walks through the maze with confidence. I’m lost after the first few turns, but he doesn’t miss a beat as we go left, then right, then left again. The ceiling is low and the tile walls give off the scent of too many bodies. I glance around the edges of the comforter and see a trickle of dirty water dripping down the wall. Johnny walks up to a metal gate and stops.

We can’t get through there, I think, but before I can say anything he shakes the gate a few times and it pops open. He ushers me through, and then we’re walking through darker tunnels, with the walls painted black and lit only by the occasional dusty light bulb. He stops abruptly at a door marked “Utilities” and pushes it open.

The floor inside is covered in blankets and sleeping bags and dotted with lounging bodies. They sit up as we enter, and Johnny sets the bag of food down by a small propane burner before turning to me.

“Sabrina, this is Colin, James, Steph and Zeb,” he says, pointing to each as he says their names. I manage a smile and nod, which is all I’m getting from any of them. Johnny takes
the comforter from my arms and spreads it on the floor.

“All right, we’ve got food, we’ve got water, we’re not sitting on concrete.” He looks around the room, nodding. “We’re all in this together, so no touching or talking from here on out. See you on the other side!”

Quite pleased with the way this is coming along now!

In our last installment, Sabrina had come home to find her boyfriend with four other people in the apartment, all sitting in silence and trying to disappear. As always, your thoughts and comments are appreciated!

When my phone rings into the darkness of the bedroom, I answer out of instinct. When I hear the voice in my ear, I wish I hadn’t.

“That wasn’t very nice of you, Sabrina.”

“Mama, I -”

Johnny groans and rolls over next to me. “Who is it?”

“You left that poor boy sitting all along in that restaurant! Why, I’ve half a mind to send him to Chicago after you, bring you right back here and set you straight! I didn’t raise you to behave that way, and Charlie neither, and-”

“Mama, I’m not-”

Johnny reaches over and plucks the phone from my hand. “You don’t deserve Sabrina, Mrs. Johnson,” he says. “She’s better than all of you put together.” Then he flips the phone shut and heaves it against the wall. Cold air rushes under the covers. I hear a crack, and then the thud-thud of the pieces hitting the floor.

“Did you just break my phone?”

“We’ll get you one with a new number. That way they can’t ever call you again.” Johnny slithers back under the blankets and tucks them close around us.

I smile. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you would.”

“For a while, at least. Until things calm down.”

“Why? There’s pay phones, if you feel the need to contact them.”

“They’re my family, Johnny.” I sigh. “As much as I wish they weren’t.”

Johnny reaches out and pulls me tight against him. “You can make your own family. I can be your family. And there are others like us, that know and understand what we go through. They can be your family too.”

I don’t say anything. I’ve never fit with my family, but they’re still mine. We share blood, and 16 years of living under the same roof. But maybe Johnny’s right. They did just try to marry me off. Without Charlie, God knows what would have happened. I might be waking up this morning with Sam next to me instead of Johnny. I shudder, and Johnny feels it.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “You don’t need them anymore. I’m here.”

The thought of Johnny, my protector, the scrawny man who only just stopped wearing eyeliner two years prior, makes me want to laugh. Johnny mistakes my shoulders shaking for tears.

“Let it out, hon – you’re out of there for good,” he says.

I bite my lip and let the pain pull myself back under control.

“They’ll always be part of me,” I say, because I feel like I have to say something.

“They don’t have to be,” Johnny says. “We can go somewhere where they’ll never be able to find you.”

“Where? The south pole?” I mean the words to be biting, but they come out meek and mouse-like.

“We can go to the other side.” In the dove grey light of pre-dawn, Johnny radiates an earnestness that is almost endearing enough to make his words palatable.

“This is better than the other side,” I say, but I’m lacking the conviction I’d felt so many times before.

“Why? We have shitty jobs, a shitty apartment, no way to change that and your family is trying to marry you off.”

“But the other side is dark and empty.”

“Not if we went together.”

I sigh. “We wouldn’t stay together.”

“You don’t know that. The only times you’ve come close you’ve been alone. But we were making it together, that group of us, before you came in.”

“So you would have just slipped away and left me to come home to an empty apartment?”

“No, we figured it would take longer, and you could join us when you got back. But it was happening, and we can do it all together and take on the other side together!”

I close my eyes. I don’t know what to think, or whether there is even any point in thinking. Johnny reaches out and runs a feather-like finger along my cheek. “Wouldn’t you miss
touching me?” I ask, my eyes still closed.

“Who says you wouldn’t be even better to touch on the other side?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I want to find out. And I want you to come with me. Please?”

The word hangs in the air between us, and I try to remember the last time Johnny had asked me for anything more than a cigarette. I can’t think of it, and I can’t think of a reason to keep saying no. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we would go together, and maybe it would be better.

“All right,” I say. Johnny laughs and pulls me tight.

I dodge the hoards of well-heeled travelers clogging O’Hare and make my way towards the Blue line. Things are a bit calmer here – the majority of people who fly back into Chicago immediately after Christmas have cars to drive home in or the money for cabs. I lean against a concrete pillar to wait for the L.

My phone is still disturbingly absent of any word from Johnny. Perhaps he’s preparing some romantic return, I think, and allow myself to get lost in fantasies of roses and candles, Johnny’s hands rubbing scented oils over my body and claiming me as his own. I will walk in the door and he’ll be there waiting, ready to press me against the wall and kiss away all memories of the disaster that this trip turned into. His dark eyes will stare into mine, that one lock of hair falling over his forehead in that floppy way that always makes me want to laugh and wrap it around my finger. He’ll remind me that I ran to something worthwhile, not just away.

The sharp hiss of the train settling by the platform pulls me from my reverie. I wrestle my bag on board and tap my card, then head for one of the window seats near the middle. They must have cleaned the carriages for Christmas, I think, settling in with my bag in the aisle seat. There isn’t as much grime as normal. I double check my transfer stop, then lean back and watch the city roll by.

Who knows what Johnny’s up to, really, I think. In all likelihood, he’s left his phone somewhere and it died while he searched for it. Or didn’t search, knowing him. I sigh. In a story, this would be the scene where some mysterious stranger comes up and gives me advice. I glance up and down the bus. The other passengers are scattered like raisins in bread, never quite enough and none near me, each immersed in their own thoughts, cell phones, or internal music. My life is not a story. Just as well.

I try not to think for the rest of the ride. Instead I stare out the newly cleaned window, watching the wind whip leaves and scraps of paper up and down the sidewalk. Occasionally a gust buffets the train. Half an hour later I’ve made my transfer, and am emerging from the 87th street station. I pull my jacket tightly around me, hoist my bag up on my shoulder, and set out to work up a sweat walking the four blocks to our building. I skirt past the homeless man on the corner, holding out his hand in vain hope that I might have something for him. Then, on second thought, I pause and yank the sweater from my family out of my suitcase. It may be purple, but it’s certainly warmer than the ragged jean jacket he’s wearing now, and I’d rather not deal with the memories associated with it.

The bulb in the building entry is burned out again, so I feel my way to the stairs and climb up the three flights to our place. I open the door, and my first thought is that it smells empty. Johnny’s phone is lying on the table, red light flashing. “23 missed calls from Sabrina,” the little bubble says. The ringer is off. I sigh.

A quick glance through the kitchen shows empty cupboards and a single bowl caked with something red in the sink. I make a face and run water into it, dislodging a lone piece of spaghetti. Then I open the door to the bedroom.

Johnny is lying across the foot of the bed, with another guy I don’t recognize a few feet away at the head. Three more people sit against the walls, and all heads turn to stare at me standing in the door.

“Sabrina! I thought you weren’t back until Tuesday,” Johnny says, sitting up.

“What the hell is this?”

“They’re people like us.”

“What?”

Johnny gets off the bed and comes over to me, his eyes wide and appealing. “They can disappear too!”

I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but that was not it. “Why the fuck are they here?”

“We were testing it out, you know, just to see-”

“It isn’t something to test!” I snap. “And after all the shit I’ve gone through on this trip, is it too much to ask that I could just come home and relax?”

“What happened?”

“I tried to fucking tell you what happened, but you wouldn’t answer your fucking phone!” I want to shove him against the bed and watch him flip over backwards. Instead I turn back out to the living room and sink onto the sofa with my forehead in my hands. Now what?

Johnny’s feet appear beside me. “Sabrina, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” His hands smooth over my shoulders, and I lean into the touch even though I don’t want to.

“I can’t do this right now Johnny. I just can’t. I’m tired and frustrated and angry and I just can’t deal with four strange people in our bedroom, whether they’re like us or not. Please?” I hear footsteps and the door opens and closes. Johnny stays beside me and keeps his arms around me until I relax enough to tell him about my trip.

I haven’t abandoned the Interactive Novel, I promise! In fact, some of what I’ve been doing (that I can’t tell you much about yet) relates to the IN and is seriously exciting and cool.

But mostly what I’ve been doing for the past few weeks is working on this.

This theory has been more than a year in the making. I dove into the scientific literature and pieced together a framework that uses personality type to determine a person’s ideal organization, time management and productivity strategies. The majority of these people never use alphabetic filing or quarter hour schedulers again when I’m done working with them. And yet they still can find what they need and get to where they need to be on time.

I don’t mention much of what I do in my other businesses here. And I don’t ask for much from you all other than your thoughts on the stories. But I make ends meet through a combination of student loans and other business endeavors, and this one needs to pay my rent for a few months. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d check it out and spread it around.

Thanks – Kirsten

Feeling frustrated that your life is often out of control, leaving you overwhelmed and stressed out, no matter how you try to improve your personal productivity?

Finally!  Even with an outline, this took some turns that I totally wasn’t expecting.  Not to mention a whole new character – Charlie wasn’t even a suggestion in my initial notes.  :D

Here we have the end of scene 3. Sabrina’s father has just dropped her off in the restaurant for her “date.”

Enjoy! And, as always, I’d love to hear what you think. :)

Inside the restaurant, Sam pops up from the wooden bench in the waiting area like a Jack-in-the-box. “Sabrina!” he calls out, as if the room were filled with people instead of being mostly empty.

“Sam.” I smile at him, because my family’s follies are not his fault, and because this is the nicest restaurant I’ve set foot in for years. I might as well enjoy myself. I let Sam take my arm and we follow the maitre’d to our table, a secluded nook in a dining room peppered with couples and families out enjoying the day after Christmas. Once we’re seated, I find myself staring at the ornate stained glass lamp, knots in the wood paneling that somehow manage to be elegant, the bull horns mounted over the mantel of the fireplace across the room. Anything so as not to look at my partner, who is staring at me intently.

“Damn, you’re hot,” he says. What is one supposed to say to that? Sam is not handsome. He has the lean look of a coyote who’s missed a few good meals. His comment is not a compliment; I have the distinct feeling I am sure must accompany a rabbit in the first moments after meeting a fox.

“I try,” I say finally, throwing my shoulders back and sitting up straighter. There is an instant of silence before Sam bursts out with a loud guffaw. Heads nearest to us turn, then swivel back to their meals and companions.

“You’re good,” Sam says, a grin playing around his lips. “So you’re back now?”

“For a few days,” I reply.

“Your Pa seemed to think you was coming back for good.”

“No, I have a flight back home on Monday.”

“Do you now? He was sure you wouldn’t be leaving again.”

I frown. Could there be something more to this charade than my parents trying to get me hooked up and settled down? I’m hesitant, but part of me whispers that it could be possible, that anything could be possible. “What do you mean?” I ask. “What did he say?”

“He was going on ‘bout how you was coming home, and it was high time for you to get married and settled. Figured that meant you was here for good.” Sam hesitates, leans across the table, and is interrupted by the waitress.

“Merry Christmas, folks, I’m Kelley and I’ll be serving you tonight! Can I start you off with something to drink? We’ve got some great specials over at the bar…” I tune out as she rattles off the drinks of the evening, followed by the day’s plates. Sam must have just misunderstood Father’s words. They couldn’t be planning on keeping me here. Right?

“She’ll have the strawberry daiquiri thing with the beef,” Sam says, and I snap back to attention.

“Actually, no alcohol for me,” I say. The last thing I want is to be drunk in this setting. “And I’ll have the salmon, please.”

“Oho, guess you’re not one for being spoken for,” Sam chortles, and I grit my teeth.

“Have I ever been?”

“Can’t say I remember you do,” he says, tilting his chair back on two legs. “We all thought you was crazy when you just up and left that year. Damn gutsy, I always said.”

“So what makes you think I’d be planning to move back permanently?”

“I dunno… A girl gets tired of city life, I figured. There’s all those songs with wide open spaces and cowboys, they have to mean something, don’t they?”

“Perhaps to someone else.”

Sam’s chair makes a crack on the slate tile as he leans forward. “Look, Sabrina, I’m not a bad catch. I’ve got brains in my head, and I’m working the Double Shoe now, Pa says he’s getting on so’s he’ll let me take it over entirely. That’s a good bit of land, and you know our herd takes the top price each year.”

I stare at the table for a moment, my cheeks burning. My finger traces a crack under the layers of lacquer that coat the wood. “Look, Sam,” I say. “I have a boyfriend back in Chicago, and I’m happy there. I won’t be home again until I forget everything they put me through this week, and that’s going to be a good long while. If you’re looking for a wife, look elsewhere.”

Sam sits sputtering for a moment before I can put meaning to the words coming out of his mouth. “But… your Pa… he promised…”

“Promised what?” I demand. “Promised I’d stay here and marry you?”

“Yeah! Your Ma had me over to dinner, and we talked it through for a good long while. It’s what’s best for you, they said.”

“The hell it is! They haven’t known what was best for me since the day I was born!”

“Aw now, don’t be mean about it. They’re good parents, they’ve got you well set up.”

“I’m 25, and this is 2011! They may be conservative, but this isn’t a First compound. We don’t do this sort of shit in the US.” I spy the waitress coming across the room with our plates, and I hop out of my seat. “Which way are the restrooms, please?”

“Just back around that corner to the left.”

“Thanks,” I say, and beat my retreat.

I pace in front of the bathroom sinks, breathing in air perfumed with rosemary and pine. They’d had him over for dinner! To discuss my marriage! I lean on the counter, willing myself to stop trembling. This wasn’t the time for indignant ‘how dare they’s. I needed to decide what to do. I fish in my purse for my phone and dial Johnny’s number. Again, no answer. I try Charlie.

“Hey sis, has the big date gone south already?”

“Please tell me you’re alone,” I say.

“Out in the barn, all by my lonesome. What’s up?”

“Sam is under the illusion that I’m supposed to marry him.”

“WHAT?”

“Apparently he came over to the ranch for dinner last week, and discussed the entire thing with Mother and Father.”

“Jesus, Sabrina, I…”

“I can’t let him take me back,” I say. “God only knows what he’d try along the way. And I can’t spend another night at the ranch. Not knowing that they did something like that…”

“God, no, you can’t,” Charlie says. “Ugh, the next time I see him I’m going to wring his scrawny little neck!”

“Leave it, Charlie. I need you to help me.”

“Right. What should I do?”

“I need you to come get me and drop me off at the airport. If you can get my stuff without attracting attention, that would be great. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

“Good as done, sis. Just keep that weasel occupied for an hour until I can get there.” The phone cuts off, and I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is pulled back in a simple French braid, the end tied in a bow. I haven’t worn this dress since high school; there’s a reason I’d left it behind. I look about twelve. I wonder if that’s what my mother had intended.

I jump slightly as the door creaks open, and Kelley the waitress sticks her head around the edge. “Oh, you are all right!” she says, her face breaking into a smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you, but your fiance was getting worried and he asked me to come check.”

“He’s not my fiance,” I say, taking a step away from the counter and trying to act as if I’ve been washing my hands or examining my makeup in the mirror.

“No? Oh my, well, whatever he is, he was worried for you.” Kelley disappears, and I take a deep breath. I can’t hide here until Charlie arrives. And I am at the nicest restaurant in town. I may as well go out and eat.

“Man, you girls sure to take a while with your primping and pruning,” Sam says as I sit back down.

“Those words. They do not mean what you think they mean,” I say.

“Huh?”

I opt not to respond, and instead pull the cover off my dish and dig into the salmon on my plate. It’s delicious. If I close my eyes, while I chew, I can imagine that I’m at one of the high end places in Chicago, maybe Trotter’s or Alinea, and I’m dining on my own card with my own choice of companion. I ignore Sam for the rest of the meal, amusing myself in my own mind while watching his temper edge toward explosion. He can’t touch me here, and he won’t get a chance to touch me later. I order a second course, then dessert, then a cup of coffee, reveling in the tastes and my own fantasies. I’ve barely started in on the coffee when my phone buzzes. Charlie’s message flashes across the screen: “In parking lot”

“Something else you have to attend to?” Sam asks as I rise.

I put the phone to my ear. “Sorry, have to take this call,” I say, and walk out. I glance back once, to make sure he’s not following me, then stride out of the restaurant. Echos of “Thanks for coming!” and “Merry Christmas!” accompany my exit.

I spy Charlie’s car in the corner, and run across the cold. He grins at me as I dive through the door.

“Good to go?” he asks.

“Yeah, get me the hell out of here,” I say.

“How will you get home? Your flight isn’t until next week, right?” Charlie puts the car in reverse and pulls past the main entrance as Sam comes running out. I lock the doors and wave at him. Charlie rolls down my window and yells out, “You stay the fuck away from my sister, asswipe!” Then he guns it and we shoot out onto the main road. I watch Sam’s angry form recede in the rearview mirror and let my breath out for what feels like the first time in an hour.

“Thank you,” I say.

Charlie punches me half-heartedly in the shoulder. “I couldn’t let them do that to you.”

“They’re not going to be happy you helped me get out,” I say. “Maybe you should come with me to Chicago for a few days.”

“Nah, I’ve got to report back to Pendleton by middle of next week,” he says. “I could drive you up to Chicago, but I’d have to turn right around and drive back.”

“Well, just don’t let them give you any shit, ok?”

“Hey, I’ve got the best role model in the world for that one,” he says. I smile.

I’ve been traveling for the past week, and I’ve discovered that airports are not particularly conducive to writing.  Especially not when one is flying standby and has to keep track of open seats and various color coded screens to figure out whether or not to board the plane.  Excellent trip, but damn, was it stressful getting back.

But, I’ve been working on scene three from the Psychic Exploration, and it’s taking some surprising new turns!  I’m glad, I like it when the story can still reveal itself within the framework of an outline.  There’s always that moment where you wonder if you’ve planned too far, if it’s too strict, if you’ve missed something and now you’ll have to scrap it all and start over to find that seed of inspiration again.  Or at least, that’s how it is for me.

Anyway, we left off with Sabrina connecting with her brother Charlie, and now we have Sabrina’s parents meddling in her life.  And even more meddling to come later this week.  :D

I call Johnny on Christmas day, and try not to worry when he doesn’t pick up.  He’s with his grandmother, eating a superbly roasted turkey and parrying away prying questions, same as I am.  Well, maybe not so much that last – Johnny’s grandmother at least knows we’re together.
“Auntie Sabrina!  Come on!  Nana says we can’t start on the presents until everyone’s downstairs!”  My oldest nephew grabs my hand and pulls me from my room, and I smile in spite of myself.  I remember the enforced discipline of waiting for noon on Christmas day to open presents.  Up at seven, sit through the longest sermon ever at nine, home by eleven and an hour of chomping at the bit before we could tear into the brightly wrapped pile.  I catch a glimpse of the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs.  11:55.
The children are gathered by the doors, and the adults stand with cups of coffee between the hall and the kitchen.
“She’s here!” Matthew announces, pulling me into the melee.  “Can we start now, Nana?”
I look to my grandmother, but it’s my mother who answers.  “Merry Christmas!  Let the chaos begin!”  An apt description, I think, watching the sudden rush for the tree.  I perch on the sofa next to Charlie.  I’ve long since given up on getting anything I want when I come home.
Sure enough, a half hour later I have a serviceable sweater, a new pair of boots, a CD of the local church choir and an “Army Sis” t-shirt (from Charlie.)  Then my grandmother approaches with an envelope and holds it out to me.  “This is from your parents and me,” she says.  I slip a finger along the edge and draw out a $150 gift certificate to the fanciest restaurant in town.  I glance up, confused, and Nana taps her cane on the floor.  “Read the note,” she says.  I turn the certificate over.  All the adults are staring at me.  Beside me, Charlie looks befuddled.  There is a post-it note stuck to the other side of the certificate.  I unfold it and skim the words.

“Hi Sabrina,
I always thought you were pretty, and then when you ran away I thought you were crazy brave.  I’d love to get to know you better.  Would you do me the honor of dinner tomorrow at seven?
Samuel Lovett”

“So is this from you or from him?” I ask.  Charlie pokes me, and I pass him the note.
“From us,” Mama says.  “You’ve been too long in that big city, hon.  It’s time you came home.  Your father mentioned that you were coming home down at the store, and young Samuel heard him and said how he’d always admired you, and the idea just grew from there.  It’ll be good for you to see someone local.”
“But I know Sam, and I didn’t much like him as a kid.”
“Oh, he’s grown up nicely since then,” Nana says.  Charlie snorts, and Nana glares at him.
“We all put in the money, Sabrina,“ Father says.  “Your mother, your grandmother, even your older sisters.  Thank them, and enjoy yourself tomorrow.”
“I… um.  Thank you.”

*

The next day, Nana and Mama fuss over me like I’m getting married, not going on a date.  I can barely steal time away to see Annie and try to call Johnny from the barn.  I leave a message on his phone – “It’s Sabrina, my family is trying to set me up again.  Remind me why I decided to come back?  Call me.”
When the time comes to leave, Mama insists that the roads are too snowy for me to drive myself, and ropes Father into taking me down.  “Why do I get the feeling that she doesn’t trust me to go?” I ask, as the truck pulls from the slush in the ranch driveway to the mostly clear asphalt.  Father grunts.  We drive in silence for a few moments.
“You seeing anyone in that big city of yours?” he asks suddenly.
“No,” I say.
“Good.”  He forces air through his nose.  “Don’t want those city boys to get fresh with you.”
“It’s not your decision,” I say, though I know this argument will lead nowhere good.  “I can see who I want to see.”
“As long as you’re under my roof-”
“I’m not under your roof.” I say, amazed at my nerve.  “I’ve lived on my own for nine years.”
“Watch your mouth, girl.  You’re under my roof now.”  He pulls the truck into the restaurant parking lot.  “Sam will take you home.”
I open the door and hop out, then turn back.  “I’m twenty five, and I’m visiting home.  I’m not a child anymore, Father.”
He looks at me for a long moment.  “You’re still my daughter,” he says.  Then he leans over and yanks the door shut, leaving me standing in a cloud of exhaust.

I really need a title for this.  Anyone have any suggestions?

There’s probably more to scene 3 – at the moment I have it extending over the week that Sabrina’s visiting her family.  But I didn’t want to post too much at once, and I have to figure out how to pack six days worth of stuff into my backpack, so I’m going to break it here.

When we left off, Sabrina and Johnny had made up after his disappearance, and Sabrina hopes the question of disappearing is gone for good.  {insert evil laugh}  Now we move forward a few weeks, to Christmas time, and Sabrina’s first trip home in three years.

Ten points to the person who catches the backstory conflict – I decided it wasn’t worth resolving in this draft, but it is there.  :)  And, as always, I’d love to hear your comments and ideas!

***

I sit in the waiting area of gate 34C at O’Hare International and fight the urge to bite my fingernails.  Around me, holiday travelers whirl past like snowflakes.  Maybe I’m just a ceramic figurine in a snow globe, and none of this is real.
The intercom calls for first class passengers and those needing extra time to board the airplane.  I pick at my fingers and fidget in the only nice outfit I own.  After the scolding I’d gotten from Nana for flying in jeans last time, I wasn’t about to show up at baggage claim in anything close to what I’d normally wear, no matter how uncomfortable I was.

I think I hear my group called to board and start to get up, then realize the announcement is for the next gate.  Dueling boarding announcements.  The idea amuses me.  I glance around, but no one else is laughing.

It worries me, being away from Johnny for a whole week.  I unzip my carry on bag a few inches, just enough to slip my fingers in and brush them across the Build-A-Bear he’d given me for Christmas.  We exchanged gifts last night.  Somehow, he’d gotten the shop employee to slip a necklace around the ballerina bear’s neck so that I could discover it while building the bear.
I imagine what Christmas morning could be like, if I were staying in Chicago with him.  He’s going to his grandmother’s, he says.  And I am headed off to Cheyenne, Wyoming, where my mother will fuss, my father will be indifferent, and my grandmother, aunts and uncle will declare that city life clearly isn’t agreeing with me and I should pack my bags and return to the ranch where I belong.

They call my group to board, for real this time, and I sigh as I get up.  Three years away from Cheyenne, and I feel like it wasn’t nearly long enough.

*

“Good to see that you’re dressed properly this time.”  I turn around to see my grandmother and mother standing behind the baggage claim barriers.  Nana’s lips are a thin line as she looks me up and down.  “That shirt doesn’t fit you well at all.  We’ll have to take care of that while you’re here.”

“Oh, stop it, Mama, there will be plenty of time for that later!”  My mother bustles around the edge of the barrier and wraps me up in a hug.  “You’re far too thin, Sabrina, but it’s wonderful to see you again!  I’ve got such a good week of meals planned, and of course the men brought Annie in from the pasture last night.  She’s getting on in years, but I know she’ll be glad to see you again.  This is going to be such a great Christmas, we’ve got Charlie home from his latest tour and of course Sally and Mike will be coming in with their little girl – born back in July, remember, I sent you some pictures – and your father bagged the most amazing turkey down by the creek, and oh, wait until you see it, they built this adorable little gazebo down there, and…”

I spot my bag on the carousel and dart in to grab it, and then we weave our way through the crowds of holiday travelers, my mother still talking a mile a minute.

*

The first chance I get, I escape the closeness of the main house and head down to the barn.  Annie is tucked into the stall on the far end, just where Father said she would be.  I stand at the door and chirrup softly.  At first she makes no movement, just a swish of her grass tangled tail.  Then she swings her head around.  I smile and chirrup again.  Annie whickers, and soon I am standing in the stall, her head pressed against my chest.

I missed this, when I first moved to Chicago.  I still do.  When I left, Annie was in her prime and we rode the local show circuit.  I wonder whether I could take her back with me, board her somewhere in the city.  The cost would be prohibitive, but when I think of having love and a warm body to touch and care for each day, it seems worth it.

We spend over an hour out there, Annie and me.  I work over her coat with a curry comb, massaging out months encrusted mud and buffing her to a chestnut shine once again.

“Should have guessed I’d find you here.”  My brother Charlie leans over the stall door, his cowboy hat worn at a rakish angle to show off his crew cut.

“Needed a bit of space,” I reply.  Three hours here, and I’m already picking up the accent again.

“How many years you’ve lived in that city, and you can’t handle one overcrowded house?”  I’m ready to bristle when I catch Charlie’s wink.

“Then why are you down here?  Surely the barracks are tighter.”  I lean down to grab a comb from the tack box and start in on Annie’s mane.

“None of the men in my unit talk endlessly about seed prices, pasture, or the weather,” Charlie says.

“And none of my friends in Chicago talk endlessly about food, menfolk or how I’m too thin and not dressed properly,” I respond.

“Aw, you know Nana’s never gonna change.”

“Doesn’t mean I need to spend the entire week listening to her.”

We stand for a moment, the comfortable silence broken only by Annie’s sigh of contentment as she shifts her weight from one side to another.

“So you like it then?  Chicago?” Charlie asks.

“Well enough,” I say.  I might have overstepped a tad saying I had friends back home.

“Better than here?”

“The only thing from here that I really miss is Annie,” I say.

“What, you don’t miss your dearest younger brother?”  Charlie grins, and I catch a glimpse of the imp that had plagued me endlessly as a child, sneaking into my room to swipe my possessions and laughing at the wild goose chase he led me through to get them back again.

“You left at 16, same as me,” I point out.

“True enough.  Funny how nothing’s changed since then.  I remember being so jealous of you when you came back the first time, all big city girl and glamourous at 21. And now I’ve left and come back, and here’s Dad still talking stock prices, and Mom still slaving away in the kitchen, and Nana still without a filter between her brain and her mouth.”

I snort.  “Best not let her hear you say that.”

“Hey, I’m not stupid.”

I’m tempted to fall into the literary retort I would have used when I was younger, but I bite my tongue.  “You really thought I was glamourous?” I ask instead.

“A sight more so than anything else around here.  I wasn’t the only one that thought so, neither.  Had to take out the Lovett brothers when they started getting fresh about you.”

I remember the night Charlie had come home sporting several cuts and bruises, an impressive black eye and a torn shirt.  “Why didn’t you ever say so?  I thought you got grounded for fighting over that night.”

“I’d pretty much made up my mind to leave by then anyway.  Split a week later.”

“I know, I got all the panicked calls asking if I’d smuggled you home in a suitcase.”  Charlie laughs.

“I left them a note!”

“In your sock drawer.”

“I needed to get far enough away before they found it.  Who was I to know it would take them three weeks?”

The crunching of feet on snow drifts through the open door at the end of the barn.  Charlie and I both look toward it, and Uncle Mike’s head pokes through the space.  “Dinner,” he says, and disappears again.  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“I’m still stuffed from the ‘snack’ when I got here,” I say.

“You can slip me some of your plate,” Charlie says.  “And Rita still loves broccoli, I gave her mine last night.”  I laugh at the image of Charlie slipping his veggies under the table to my parent’s geriatric mutt.

“Thanks for the tip,” I say, and give Annie one last rub before heading for the stall door.  Charlie swings the door open as I pass through.

“Shall we?” he says, gesturing up the main aisle.

“Not like we can get out of it,” I respond, and we leave the warmth of the barn for the snow-strewn path up to the house.