Saturday, July 7, 2012

Baby Doll Magic: Part One


Hi, readers! To whet your literary whistles, I'm giving you part one of a short story I've written. I hope you enjoy reading it and come back for more! Let me know what you think....




Part One

My grandparents were never people that liked to confront an “issue.”  Issues were for magazines and non-conformists, not for people who wanted a relatively waveless society.  
     
Waves belonged at the beach.  
     
Waves were created by subjects that caused any kind of dissension among the people discussing them, anything that might give rise to an argument.  For my grandparents, these subjects simply didn’t exist.  If you don’t see them, they don’t see you.  No discussion meant no argument, and no argument meant a relative feeling of peace and acceptance.  Incidentally, this ensured that no one had any legitimate reasons for disliking them or their beliefs.  Their beliefs were indefinable. 
     
This was also how they approached the raising of their children.  They taught each of their four children that they were to avoid incendiary issues at all costs, in all company.  After all, how better to get along with the rest of the world than to have no true opinions of your own?  They were benign beings--well-behaved, well-mannered, well-liked children.  But as they grew into adults, their lack of strongly-founded beliefs became dangerous.  All four of them, in some way or another, went in search of what they were lacking.
     
My mother’s theory on what might be missing in her life took shape when she was seventeen, when the rest of her truly began to take shape.  She had never been flirtatious or carefree as a young child, despite the fact that her parents seemed to grant her every freedom.  She was serious, quiet, unobtrusive.  Her grades were always impeccable, and her parents never seemed to have reason for complaint.  Still, my mother felt as though she never quite measured up, never fully had their love.  Love she desperately needed and wanted.
     
Despite being beautiful, she never felt it.
     
Until she met my father.  
     
Their romance found its unlikely beginning in the park, under the shade of an oak tree.  It sounded so picturesque, so innocent, to hear her tell the story of how she met the man who would be her first love, the young soul who seemed to understand and appreciate her more than anyone else she had ever encountered.  He was a painter--or should have been.  That was his true talent, his true passion.  It was, unfortunately, not what paid his rent.  For that, my father depended on the payroll department of a local law firm, where he worked as the assistant to one of the up-and-coming partners.  An up-and-coming partner who was the same age as he.
     
That injustice, coupled with the fact that he was having to stifle a dream, gave him license to brood, to consider himself a misunderstood citizen of the world.  He was absolutely poetic.
     
My mother adored him, and he seemed to return her adoration.  He needed her, appreciated her.  He made her feel like a rare and priceless painting.
     
Their passion for each other, however brightly it burned, burned out quickly.  It was a paper match held by tentative hands, between two fingers that released it as the flame crept closer.  Neither of my parents was prepared to hold on when they were tested.  Perhaps they were too young.  Perhaps they ultimately realized that they were not strong enough.  
     
Whatever the case, after six months, my father and mother said good-bye. 


**********
The air in the waiting room had that strange, sterile, stale smell that doctor’s waiting rooms always have.  That indefinable, unmistakable smell that seems to be found nowhere else in nature.  It was a smell that, today, was making it extremely difficult for Julie to breathe.  
     
She tried to ignore it, to concentrate on the outdated, dog-eared parenting magazine that seemed to have taken up permanent residency on the scarred wooden coffee table in the middle of the room.  Words and pictures blurred together in front of her eyes as she tried to breathe.
     
In, out.  In, out.
     
The chairs arranged around the perimeter of the small room were mostly unoccupied, though there were a couple of mothers with tiny children, their focus swallowed as completely as juice from a brightly colored sippy cup.  It was fortunate, really.  No one was paying attention to her, no one noticed the fact that her young face was ashen or that she was struggling against panic that seemed to be closing in on her.
     
No one sat in judgement.
     
A bright yellow plastic dump truck skittered across the worn industrial carpeting, stopping only when one of its oversized front wheels met the toe of her shiny red ballet shoe.  She looked up, startled, to see the sheepish grin of a little boy.  He crouched beside the table, a plump arm still outstretched after his release of the toy.  His bottom hovered only inches above the floor, his tiny little plaid shorts bunched up above skinned knees.  Blue eyes sparkled mischievously in a chubby little face flushed from the exertion of play, while straw-colored whispers of hair fell across his forehead.  Julie would have guessed him to be somewhere around eighteen months old.  
     
The tiny boy smiled again and giggled gleefully, rising from his crouch to run back to a toy box in the corner of the room.  He leaned over the side of the plastic crate, nearly falling in as he rifled its contents, searching for something known only to him.  His tiny shoes kicked the air happily; and he reemerged, his chubby, dimpled fist wrapped around the thigh of a baby doll whose plastic infant body was dressed in nothing but a diaper.  The boy looked at the doll in his hands, raising it so that he held it right-side up, clutching the baby to his chest.  He stood there a moment, smiling sweetly, and took off at a run in Julie’s direction, his body bouncing madly with the awkward gait of a toddler.
     
Another squeal of delight escaped him as he neared; and finally he slowed, stopping directly in front of her, his small form mere inches away.  Julie thought for a moment that he might crawl into her lap.
     
Instead, he looked up at her, his bright blue eyes meeting hers.  His hands, still holding the baby doll, reached out toward her and gently placed the doll in her lap.  His cheeks swelled as his smile broadened, and he leaned closer.  The little boy’s tiny hand fluttered forward until it rested, feather light, on the flat surface of Julie’s abdomen.  He stilled, his eyes growing large and solemn.
     
Everything in the room stopped and slipped away, leaving only Julie and the little boy.  There were no sounds aside from her heartbeat and measured breaths.
     
In, out.  In, out.
     
The big blue eyes blinked.
     
“Baby.”  It was a tiny word whispered by a tiny stranger, but it made Julie’s heart stop.         


**********


Though she never maligned his character, my mother never answered all of my questions about my father or gave me all the details about their relationship.  I always thought it might be an attempt to protect all of us: me, from a father too flawed and selfish to raise a child; her, from the self-loathing that would accompany the acute realization that she had been so foolish in her emotions.  I never judged her, though I know she always felt some sense of inadequacy and failure.
     
Despite the fact that she overcame the challenges of being a very young mother alone, she always wondered if she had been good enough and if she had taught me well enough.  She was determined not to be a stereotype-- she worked her way through college and graduated at the top of her class.  She took a job at a local restaurant and labored her way all the way from the dish room to management, leaving only when she was ready to open the doors of her own restaurant.  Her passion for life and her dream were obvious to anyone who met her or tasted her food, and that passion made her wildly successful.
     
Still, though, she felt she had failed me.  And nothing I ever said or did seemed to reassure her.
     
**********


I was sitting alone, folded forward in a padded chair as I considered the shoes on my feet with the concentration of someone making a life-altering decision.  My left foot was encased in a bright red patent-leather ballet flat, beacon-like in its shiny cheerfulness.  The right foot wore its alter ego, executed in hot pink.  
     
Pink.  Red.  Pink.  Red.
     
Both?
     
Pink.  Red.
     
“I vote the red,” said a voice that floated above my head. The toes of a pair of well-worn leather loafers pointed in my direction, curtained by dark jeans with the perfect amount of length and break.   
     
I turned my head and lifted my gaze to find myself looking directly at a man somewhere around thirty, his pleasant face arranged in grave contemplation.  Blue eyes assessed my mismatched feet, narrowing in single-minded focus.
     “Yup.  Definitely the red,” the man said again, nodding as he spoke.  Short, sand-colored hair reached just over the top of his forehead, swept to the side and slightly ruffled.  It made him look more approachable, less formal than he might have otherwise.  
     “You don’t think they’re a little too Wizard of Oz?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t showing the surprise I felt at his unexpected approach.  
     
He considered for a moment.  “No.  I think they’re great.  And I happen to like the whole ruby slippers thing, but that’s another issue entirely,” he replied, smiling.
     
I couldn’t help but smile back.  It seemed so rare that anyone stepped out of their own orbit to make contact with a stranger--unless, of course, it was to complain about something.  Pleasantries seemed reserved for only the closest acquaintances and came at a premium when exchanged between strangers.  It was shameful really, though it certainly made moments like this that much more notable.
     
“So you’re a Judy Garland fan?” I asked.  
     
“Me?  No, not at all.  I just like a pretty lady in shiny shoes.”  He laughed.  “I like a pretty lady out of shiny shoes, too,” he clarified.  I felt my breath release.  So he was flirting with me.     
     
“Well,” I said, not knowing quite how to respond.  I could feel my cheeks coloring as brightly as the shoes on my feet.  Both feet.  Apparently, no matter how old I got, being complimented would never cease to make me blush.
     
“And don’t worry.  I don’t actually work here, so I have no stake in your decision.  Consider me an unbiased second opinion,” he paused slightly, looking around the small shoe boutique.  “Unless, of course, you already have one?”
     
It took a moment for me to register the meaning of the question.  I shook my head.
     
“No.  No second opinion givers here, and the only ones I have in my repertoire are all female.  Having a male perspective is certainly helpful.” I smiled at him again, hoping none of my lipstick had migrated to my teeth.  “Thank you,” I said, feeling slightly awkward.
     
“Michael,” he supplied, extending his hand.  It was strong and capable looking.      
     
“Evalena,” I said, taking his hand.
     
We stayed like that for a moment, hands clasped in the friendly gesture of a handshake, eyes locked in silent exploration.  It was odd, this sensation that seemed to shiver through me at his touch.  Familiar, somehow, like we had met before.

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