The New Genre-ation

Firstly, I'd like to say - I'm dying without my laptop.  Secondly I'd like to say, James's computer chair is entirely too uncomfortable for me to be creative and imaginative in.  That being said... I'm jonesin' and decided to give in and write from this frigid, ill illuminated, marigold/mustard colored room.  I've been reading - A LOT lately - and it's been helpful in inspiring me.  I've definitely gotten some thoughtful insights about the world of YA literature, more so than I did in my Adolescent Lit class the last semester of college, or from any one of the many books I've got lining the shelves of my bookcases.  I've decided I'm much more inclined to fall in love with a series rather than just a single book from some random author.  L.J. Smith has been my most widely read author these past few months, and though the majority of her stuff was written in the late eighties/early nineties, that woman can write.  I don't care how lame and outdated the covers are to her novels, or if her choice of "authentic" slang/dialogue has become a thing of the past.  She's not afraid to litter her "teen fiction" with words like: melodious, ebbed, malice, succumb, belligerence, sinuous, or supine (and that's not even delving into specialized fields she tends to focus on like witchcraft or psychology).  Sure it all comes wrapped up in brooding young lovers and paranormal activity, but it's inspirational because she's not afraid to use wholesome, well-defined characters or real human vocabulary that might make her readers need to pick up a dictionary.  Her stories do fall well within the typical confines of the teenage-style plot line, but she does it without compromising her intelligence or her writing flare.  I admire it, quite frankly.  It's kinda what I aspire to.

I think what I love most about "young adult" fiction is that it's so filled with those overwhelming "butterfly" feelings of your first kiss, that intense climactic problem that must be overcome, cresting to that intimate sexually-heated encounter without ever really going over the edge.  It's filled with mystery and wonder and fascination and takes me back to the days when I thought I could conquer the world.  It re-instills in me those longings I had as a teenage girl pining over that particular guy or wishing that I could do this or that impossible task.  It's all so innocent.  It's all so inviting.

That being said, I do love me a good sex scene.  I can hardly stand those ridiculous romance novels.  You know, the books with scantly clad women hanging onto topless cowboys or Fabio-men shielding their lacey chemise-bearing lovers splattered on the covers.  Or the ones with titles like "The Captain's Forbidden Miss," "Desert Prince, Defiant Virgin," or "In Heat: Mating Call" (yes these are actual titles, and though I haven't read them, I'm certainly not advertising their content, only exploiting their detestable names).  But I do love that intense feeling that a love scene arouses in you (no pun intended here).  My problem is that there isn't really a genre out there that encompasses both these aspects: the full force of adult content (elegantly done, that is) mixed with the timidity of young love.  That stage of life between adolescence and full-blown adulthood.  That gray area where it's still possible to be involved in not-so life-threatening/life-changing situations, but where you're old enough/capable enough to deal with it on your own if it does come to life and death, without that fear that your parents will find out, if any of that makes sense.

But it doesn't always have to involve romance - I'm just itching for life situations that aren't either kid or adult.  I'm not interested in reading about a husband that cheats on a wife (because frankly, if you're my age and already/about to be divorced, there's a serious problem with the world) or a wife who kills a husband (nope don't have any slasher fantasies here people).  I'm not interested in reading about how a woman lost her husband and her job in the same day and doesn't know how she's gonna feed her kids.  On the flip side, I don't want to read about a girl who's involved in a secret relationship with a teacher.  I don't find interest in mundane childish problems like failing a test or getting your first period.  I also don't want to read about the scary bad guy (vampire, werewolf, witch, wizard, fill in the blank) who wants something that the main character teen has but thinks needs to be protected and he/she has to fight the battle with the help of his/her sidekick teenage friends - kids are dumb these days and I don't understand why they NEVER go to their parents when things get too difficult for them to deal with it on their own.  It's a stupid unwritten rule that YA literature depicts adults/parents as the enemy.  I must be an anomaly because I actually liked my parents growing up.  When something went wrong, huh, whodda thunk I actually went to them with my problems.  Even as an adolescent I didn't understand that aspect of literature.

Anyway, my goal, is college-age fiction.  I want to start a revolution, a new genre, a new generation of readers.  Okay maybe not ME personally, but I want this idea to become popular.  Sure I'd like to get the credit for it, but I really just want new stuff to read.  Real-life problems for twenty-something year olds, possibly combined with a ton of creative, imaginative twists.  That's what I'm trying to write, and I hope that people are as desperate for a change in the genres as I am.  If not, everything I'm doing is all for nought.  Not for nought, because I'll get personal satisfaction knowing I'm not just following the curve on what's "popular," but honestly, what writer writes without the hope of getting paid eventually? (:

Confessions: writer's block

As the cool kids say, it's been a minute since I've posted a blog.  I've noticed on facebook that many of my "friends" have started blogs of their own, and I commend them, honestly I do.  It's a lot harder than one would think to post a daily/weekly/bi-weekly blog, especially considering (well for me anyway) that writing is what I breathe for.  So seeing all these "Oh hey here's my new blog" posts is making me realize it's been a month since my last post and I need to jump back on the "bandwagon."  I hope you all stick with it, but I'm a bit of a pessimist, so we'll just see how long that lasts (:

Here recently with all these things happening ALL at once in my life (and the harsh reality that I'm a television junky and find watching stories unfold holds much more immediate gratification than writing one and making it unfold - wow how many dead writers are rolling over in their graves right now????), I've not been writing as much as I want or need to.  I'm halfway through a pretty fantastic manuscript (if I do say so myself?!) and can't seem to get out of the funk I've fallen into to finally finish it and hopefully start in on the 2nd in the series.  I've come to a point where I seem to be stuck.  It all started when I decided to make one of my characters British.  Though I'm a huge fan of British television, humor, and quite frankly life, when faced with the difficult task of being an American-born, American-residing writer trying to dialogue for someone from another country, one from a place I'd never been, I became irritated and flummoxed.  (Do people still use that word?)  I fell to the all-knowing world of the internet, navigated by Google, and came up with the typical, generic, boring, retarded answers to the question, "What's another way that a Brit would say dude or man other than the obvious mate?"  I got chap (really people, really?  I'm writing a 20-something year old male college student here, not a 43-year old global studies professor), ace, bro, cock, and chum.  Yes, someone actually suggested I used the word cock as an expression of fondness for a male sidekick.  So basically I got nothing.  And it wasn't just my need for British synonyms for friend that I was looking for.  I was seeking some guidance on how to make my character believable.  I wasn't really getting anywhere, and unless I wanted to watch all 200 seasons of Doctor Who (I have to say I so don't get what all the fuss is about over that show!) or scour through interviews with every famous British actor making money in American films, I was stuck with just sorta winging it.  To make a long story longer, I pretty much just got frustrated and decided to take a breather.  Step back.  Reevaluate.  Decide if this was the right move for my character and if not, go back to the drawing board.  But somewhere along the way, I just got... bored isn't really the right word, but sidetracked might fit better.  Because I honestly believe in what I'm writing.  I think people will like it and it's pushing my boundaries as a writer - I'm challenging myself.  And maybe that's what my problem is... this isn't easy so I'm trying to sabotage myself?  Argh. 

In any case, I know that I'll finish, I just want to do it by the end of the year.  The last manuscript I finished took me three years, which is a horrible turn-over rate, especially if I want to make real money doing this.  I hope to make this the first book in a series of four, so I better to get work, huh?  Thing's not gonna write itself and me complaining isn't getting it anywhere either!

Here's to hoping I find a way to resolve both mine and my characters' internal struggles.

(:

My personal eulogy

Daniel Lennon was 85 years old when he died.
He is survived by his three children, Andrea, Teresa, and Steven.
He is survived by his five grandchildren, Melissa, Samantha, Matthew, Steven, and Joseph.
He will be missed by many.
The day to remember and honor him is taking place tomorrow.
An 8am wake followed by a noontime mass and ending with a burial.
I've never been to a funeral before, and only seen 1 person no longer living face-to-face.
Sure, a mixture of fear, nerves, sadness, and longing are at the forefront of my mind now, only to be heightened tomorrow when I'm staring death squarely in the eyes.
I've spent the past few days immersing myself in the world that Danny Lennon made and passed down from generation to generation.
My father and Auntie Teresa took me on a tour of Newton, or "The Lake," their old stomping ground, as they call it.  I got to see my roots, my history.  Where my father and his family lived growing up.  Where my mother and her sisters lived.  Their schools, their hangouts, their favorite places to eat.  Places like "Palace Pizza" and "Golden Stah" that don't exist anymore, but whose buildings are still standing.  I got to see where the yearly fair was held when Grampa would give em all $5 to spend on candy and rides - "That was big bucks back then, Sissy," Dad says.  The spot where Dad got bit by a dog or where Auntie Teresa had her first kiss.  The window that Dad used to throw rocks at to get Mom to come down and sneak out with him.  Things that ultimately don't matter in the grand scheme of things, but if not for them, who knows if things would be as they are now.
Grampa made a home, one that's lasted the test of time.  One where people know each other and when somebody from that neighborhood dies, you bet your ass everyone makes a point to come pay their respects.
Magni funeral home, the same people who took care of Grandma when she passed fifteen years ago, they're taking care of Grampa too.  They'll be buried close to each other and for the first time ever, I'll get to say Hi to Grandma and see that they are finally reunited after all this time.
Grampa, well at least how I knew him, was never a man of many words.  He lived a simple life, didn't complain much, and when he spoke, you'd do best to pay attention because what he had to say was probably something worth listening to.  He always had a bright smile for us when we'd (rarely) come to visit, and I always remember he'd be more than happy to give out a hundred hugs or have me sit on his lap and soak up as much of my attention as I'd give him.  His crooked smile and hearty laugh always followed his dry sense of humor, which he passed down to my father, and then down to me.  You could always see him with a cold beer and suspenders, eager to keep himself busy doing something around the house.
I wanted deeply to be able to say, "Hey Grampa.  It's good to see you, it's been a while."  Though that opportunity didn't work out for me, I will get to see him off to his final resting place.  A place where God will keep him safe until it's time for him to be reunited with Grandma.  A place where he's no longer suffering and we're able to remember.  I don't want to greive for him, I want to honor him.  Pay testament to the man he was, the family he raised, and the legacy he set out for the people who came after him.
This will be one of the three readings at Mass tomorrow and it helps put things into perspective for me.  I hope by leaving it to you for a read that it might help you too. 

Romans 14: 7-9
"For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.
For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.
For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and living."

We love you always Grampa and you'll be missed deeply.  Thanks for existing so that I can now.  Thanks for making a family that I'm a part of.  I hope to be able to create a legacy of my own some day that matches the one you're leaving behind.

Ceasing to Exist

Death scares me a bit.  Maybe it's because I'm only 23 and haven't lived a long, fulfilling life yet, and there are so many more things I wish to accomplish.  Or maybe it's because I value what I have as a living being and losing it all frightens the hell out of me.  In either case, whenever I think about dying, I have the urge to cry.  My heart beats a little faster, the hairs covering my body stand erect, and tears begin to form along my bottom eyelid.  I wonder, like all people do at some point in their lives, what happens when you're dead?  Is it really like going to sleep?  Will there be a white light or a vision of whatever God you believe in?  Will I become reincarnated in another person/creature/organism, and if so, is it immediate?  Will I remember who I was before?  Or... will I go to heaven or hell?  Is that immediate?  Does purgatory exist, a place for me to prove myself worthy of one or sentenced to the other?  Will I be able to look upon those mourning my death and hurt because I can't take their pain away?  Will anyone even be there to mourn me, or will I be forgotten?  Will I have left any sort of impression on the world that is no longer my home?

I'm mostly wondering these things, not based off a religious pondering, but a philosophical one.  Death is such a mystery.  No one can answer ANY of these questions.  There are those that have had near-death experiences, all of whom claim different encounters with "the other side."  And of course there's the sensatinalized version of death as being something so peaceful... but no one really knows.  More than likely, the reactions those people who claim to "see a white light" are having are simply side-effects of their brains either shutting down because it's been seriously injured or shutting down to preserve that which is left of them until they become conscious again.  Tons of neurochemicals firing in your brain as a reaction to outside stimuli or increased adrenaline.  Or, you think you're dying so you imagine what you think you're supposed to see and once you wake up, you chalk it up to being a chance meeting with the unknown when in fact you were simply out of it for hours, days, or years.

I dunno what to expect and I honestly don't spend much time worrying over it because it's not something I can control.  Sure I can eat the right foods, get proper exercise, stay away from alcohol and drugs... all those things can prolong life, but nothing can stop death from coming and wrapping its cold, dead fingers around you, squeezing until the life drains from your body and you cease to exist on this plane.  Nothing.  There's no elixir of life, no philosopher's stone, no fountain of youth.  Vampires and immortals don't exist.  Witches can't cast spells to keep you alive or chant incantations to bring back the dead.  As they say, the only thing guaranteed in life is death.  It's sad to think that we are simply living to simply die.  I oftentimes wonder what is the point in being born at all.  Though I do not believe in depression (yea I know, crazy right, but that's a discussion for another place and another time) I do ask myself the age old question of why are we here?

Now this is normally the part where I, the romantic drama writer that I am, would then say, we exist to love.  Or we exist to share our lives with one other person and experience everything that this world has to offer.  And while the hopeless romantic, fiction-lover in me does believe that, at this moment I'm simply left with a palpitating heartbeat, unsteady nerves, and an urge to become an alchemist so that my underlying panic about no longer living can be erased forever.

But then I wonder, why would I want to live forever?  I'd still have to ask myself what is the point in life?  After a century I'd assume I would've accomplished so many things that I'd get bored with my existence and find ways to undo whatever I did to live forever.  Then, the only guarantee in life would be... life?  No, this is where the person who wishes to leave some mark on the world says, the point in life is to make an impression.  Any impression no matter how big or small.  My mother, a hard-working, independent, high-school diploma bearing, blue-collar worker mother asks me all the time why she is on this earth.  And though it pains me to know that if the circle of life follows the usual course I'll see her die, I hate even more that she thinks she hasn't made an impact in this world.  I hope to do big things with myself.  Whether or not they actually come true is up to me, but knowing that she birthed me... brought me into this world to hopefully leave a mark... that's why I know she's left her imprint.  Of course she's done so in many other ways, not just by making two great kids.  Millions of people might not know her or what she's done, but enough people do that she will be remembered.  That's what we live for.  To leave a memory for someone else to be affected by.  To show others what they can strive for.  To help another person guide themselves through their own lives.  I haven't set my own bar as high as I have because I want fame or fortune.  No.  If I've only impacted a single person by the time I perish, that will have been enough for me.  I don't want recognition for what I hope to accomplish, I just want to know that someone out there is just a bit different for having read my work or known about me.  I may not be a glamorous actress or a crowd-pleasing rock star, but if I can touch the life of someone and help them find their own way, that will have been enough for me.  At least, that's what I strive for.  Sure fame and fortune would be grand, but who's gonna remember that when you're dead?  I might be wrong about all this.  There truly may be no point in life at all, but if that's the case, I'd think the suicide rate would be much, much higher.  I'd like to think there's life after death.  That perhaps life is a 100ish-year vacation from death, a chance to live-out (no pun intended) another path.  But, now we're just getting crazy with what-ifs and possibilities and if I keep pondering this post will never end, well at least not til I'm dead.

So knowing that... what do you think life is all about?

His namesake

I've been told many times that I've been named after him, but honestly, I've never really gotten more than that.  My entire life I've lived on the other side of the country from him, always wondering what it would be like to have a stronger relationship, always desiring a fill to that pseudo void I've felt for a more involved father-figure.  Whenever I do get the rare chance to see him (what, once every six years or so) he's always enthusiastic and makes me feel so important, missed, and loved.  I find him oftentimes giving me much more credit than I'm deserving of, but instead of correcting him, I relish in someone finding me fascinating, intelligent, and interesting.  When he's far away, he tries to keep up with all of his nieces' and nephews' busy lives, never lacking in showing support or enthusiasm in what's important to each of us.

I'm sure his day-to-day live is hectic and busy, with a wife, three children, and a grand-baby, but he seems to approach most situations with an open-mind, kind heart, and strong will.  He's had his fair share of obstacles and rough encounters but knows how to keep his head up and urge others to do the same when their lives don't follow the paths that they had planned for.  Watching how his  life and children have evolved and grown, and knowing that he's had a hand in that, makes me look up to him more now as an adult than I ever could as a child.  Now that I've started my own little family (consisting of a husband and a pup, but hoping to add some kiddos in the distant future), I find myself hoping that I become as content and approving of my own life as he seems to be with his.  I also hope that after being married for (ummm how many years now?) as long as he has I can still be as deeply in love with my spouse as anyone can tell he is with his own.

Ever since I started this blog, he's been my biggest supporter and most avid reader and today is his birthday.  This is for you Uncle Ray.  Know that I miss you and the Frankles daily, wishing I could've had the opportunity to bond more with each and every one of you over the years, but extremely happy with the chances I did get to spend with you and hope to still get in the future. I love you and hope that today is a reminder that the world was changed the day you were brought into it, and in the best possible way.

The Habitual Charlatan

Here we go again, that petty business we call deception.
You've started it back up, that hateful deceit.
I see you weaving it oh so well, it's fabrication.
It's something you've mastered, one thing you easily repeat.

I see you foolin' other people
(Or maybe it's just that they really don't care)
You throw around words like love, harmony, and tranquil
And yet you couldn't fathom how those actions are even prepared.

Distortion to you is the natural way of seeing things
Invention is the only way you can look at yourself in the morning
I hate that you don't know what honesty brings
Because it's quite a wonderful feeling.

You don't have to keep up with which untruth you spread this instance
It isn't necessary to remember the exaggerations
Being truthful isn't rocket science
When you can be trusted, no one questions your motivations

I'm done feeling sorry for you
I honestly think you're a lost cause
I just hope for your sake you understand your value
Measures up to nothing but naught.



This is dedicated to anyone out there who's sick and tired of those empty promises of "I'm going to be a better person," or "I just want everyone to get along, man," when all along that "promiser" has been and always will be the true two-faced gossip-monger. =)  Goodnight!

Excerpt from "Finding Myself"

I've written and completed a manuscript entitled Finding Myself, here's a look...

            When we got to her hospital room, I thought my legs were going to crumble beneath the unbearable weight of my shame and guilt.  It seemed as if everything hit me like an uncontrollable wave crashing into the shore.  I wasn’t sure if I should feel like this, but I couldn’t help it.  It wasn’t simply that I felt sorry for Lydia, or that I was blaming myself for this; I had forgotten who she was to me all these years.  She had always been my other half – I’d conveniently let my jealousy and selfishness overtake me; that was not the person I was or wanted to be.  I was that girl who apologized for things that weren’t her fault.  I was that girl who never said what she was truly thinking; I bit my tongue.  I was that girl who could forgive and forget.  Why was it, then, that I allowed myself to cause this mayhem?  My mother most certainly wasn’t going to forgive me and I couldn’t, or wouldn’t expect any absolution from Lydia.  But there was still this undeniable feeling in the pit of my stomach that made me wonder, why did I have to apologize for who I was or who I wanted to be?  Would they ever be willing to do the same?

            I looked up as we walked into the dimly lit room.  Cooper was asleep on the horrible excuse for a couch.  Lydia was lying down with her back propped up, talking softly to Stella, who was sitting in a chair at her side.  When they heard us shuffle in the room, their eyes furiously shot over to Samuel and me.

            “WHAT are you doing here?” Stella asked angrily as she shot up out of her chair.

            Samuel’s expression was pleading, but his tense body screamed anger.  He didn’t say a word, though.

            “I… well,” I began, “I thought that we should come.”

            “It’s a little late for sympathy or support, dontcha think Izabelle?” Stella continued.  “I think you should just leave right now.”

            “Stella,” I began, then looked over at my sister“… Lydia… I know you probably blame me for all this, but I think it’s more important that I apologize for my behavior,”  Here I go again… apologizing for something I don’t really feel I should.

            “AGAIN,” Stella interrupted, “a little late for that.”

            Lydia, who had been staring down at her folded hands finally spoke, “Thanks for coming.  I’m sure it was hard for you…” she paused and looked up at me, “but there’s really no reason for you to be here.”

            It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me and my knees finally did give out from right underneath me.  Samuel quickly turned to brace me, too quickly in fact, because his elbow grazed the tray at the foot of the hospital bed and a cup went crashing to the floor.  Cooper shot up from his slumber and came immediately to his feet when he saw us standing there.

            “Sammy,” he half questioned, half stated.

            Samuel nodded at him, but never let me go.  Cooper looked over at Lydia who was silently crying, and Stella, who was still glaring at me.  I wondered how a mother could ever look at her own daughter in that way.  Samuel looked down at me and we exchanged a glance, allowing him the peace of mind that he could release me.  Cooper’s gaze had returned to us and when he saw Samuel let me go, he took a small step toward him.  Samuel slowly returned the gesture, but began lifting his arms in the form of a welcoming hug.  At first, Cooper’s expression showed his overwhelming skepticism, but once he came to the realization that this was actually happening, he lunged into his older brother’s arms.  They embraced for quite a while, and I could see that they missed each other greatly.

            When they let go, I saw Stella grimace out of the corner of my eye.  How can she be like this? I thought to myself.  I am her daughter… Samuel is the love of my life and she can’t see any side but her own.

            “Do you want to talk in the hall?” Cooper asked Samuel quietly.

            Samuel glanced at me, worried to leave me in the pit of hell by myself.  I gave a completely relieved smile and a strong nod, letting him know how proud I was that he decided to reconcile his differences with his best friend.  They left quietly and I stood, feet planted, looking at my sister and mother.  I knew this wasn’t going to be resolved at this moment, or maybe ever, but they had to at least listen to my side of everything; at least, I was going to try and explain.

            “Look,” I began, “I know you both hate me for all I said to you and about you,” I nodded my head in Lydia’s direction in particular, “but I meant every word.”

            Their eyes widened and Stella replied, “If you came here to place more fault on us, believe me, we’ve heard far too much of that al–”

            “No…” I interrupted, “let me finish.”  I waited a minute for them to exchange glances and to calm down a bit.  “So all of it was valid… I’m tired of just ignoring things and pretending nothing ever happened.  My entire life has been spent suppressing my true feelings about my childhood.  I don’t want these feelings anymore.”

            “Neither do I, Tub,” Lydia responded, “but I didn’t blow things up and rub every mistake in yours and mom’s faces.  I just let it go…”

            “I CAN’T!” I cut in.  “I’m different from you.  I’m not okay with the way things went for us.  I’ve never been able to say any of this before.  You don’t like to listen to it…” I gestured with my hands toward Lydia, “and you pretend it didn’t happen,” I gestured toward Stella.  “I can’t do that. Stella…” I paused, a long pause, “see, just that… not being able to call you mom, it kills me.  Do you know what it was like to have kids ask me why I called you by your first name?”  No emotion showed on her face at all.  I have to get through to her, I thought.  “Do you know what it was like to explain to teachers why my mother was an hour late picking me up more often than not, if you remembered to pick me up at all?  Or why I wore the same clothes day after day for an entire week?  I was ashamed and afraid to tell them that you sold all our stuff to buy drugs, I didn’t have anything else to wear.  I couldn’t tell them you forgot about me every day because you were snorting cocaine and ‘entertaining men,’” I made air-quotes with my fingers trying to pretty-up the fact that she was a prostitute.  “I couldn’t tell them you hated me and never wanted children in the first place, that calling you Mom or Mother would just be a constant reminder of something you didn’t want to be and were cursed with.”

            I looked down at the floor and the tension in the air was creeping in, wrapping its ugly hands around my neck and strangling me.

            “I didn’t come here for this,” I whispered.  “I just wanted to be here for Lydia in her time of despair.”  I was unsure if they even heard me.

            “Izzie,” Lydia said, “I know things were very hard for you, but I went through it all too.  I had to avoid those same lingering questions and…”

            “Yea, Lydia, you did…” I paused before speaking the next words, “but I didn’t up and leave you,” I responded with scorn.

            “You’re right,” she said softly, “but you did have me in the beginning.  I had no one until you came along.”  I couldn’t tell if she was speaking so quietly because she hated thinking about this as much as I did or if she was trying to spare Stella the sting of her truthful words.

            “So… because I was seven years too late, you punished me by leaving me to fend for myself.  You abandoned me like Stella had already done.”

            Lydia had tears streaming down her face.  I looked at Stella, who was sitting, staring at the wall.  She seemed to be in a state of shock and I wondered if what we were saying was in vain; was she even hearing what was being said?  This was for her.

            “I love you Izzie… I really do, with all my heart,” Lydia took a deep breath, “but life isn’t all about you.”  She paused for a moment.  “Everyone suffers, we both got a huge, heaping serving of crap for our life, but you have to move on from this… I have.  You weren’t the only one who experienced all that, it isn’t all about you,” she repeated even quieter than the first time.

            “Oh…” I breathed out.  I was a little put out by her words, especially since nothing was ever “all about me” as she’d said.  But in her eyes, at least she was being honest with me, and I had to have some appreciation for that.  I had tried for so long to push everything into the back of my mind, but with all that happened recently, it was hard to not let these issues rise to the surface.  I was ready to settle this, even if not for my own benefit, but I still wondered if they were as willing.

            “I’m sorry Izzie… Lydia…” Stella said suddenly, “I know I was… no am a horrible mother.  There’s no excuse for how I treated you and made you feel.”  She was almost breathing the words out, mumbling silently.  “I was so stunned to know I had become pregnant.  I didn’t know how to take care of a child.  I was on my own, completely broke, felt sorry for myself, and tried my damndest to get rid of the pain I felt every day.”

            “That’s a shit-ass justification, Stella,” I said, quite calmly.  “You left your parents willingly when you found out about Lydia because you were too scared to tell them the truth.  And yeah, it’s obvious that you were only thinking about yourself because you’ve never taken care of us a day in your life.  And your pain you speak of… you’ve tried to rid yourself of it for over 20 years.  Don’t you think it’s time for you to move on from all this self-pity?”  

            I heard the squeak of rubber on the over-waxed flooring of the hospital room.  I turned my head to the left and saw Cooper and Samuel with smiles on their faces entering the room.  Lydia immediately reached up and brushed the tears away from her face and Stella stood up and left the room without saying a word.  She brushed between the brothers and knocked Samuel off balance, following it up with, “Stupid oaf… get out of the damn way.”

            Samuel glanced at the two of us still left in the room and instantly caught on to the emotion in the air; Cooper was a bit more clueless.

            “Hey babe,” he said on his way to Lydia’s side.  He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.  She forced out a stiff smile and self-consciously brushed her hair behind her ear while turning her gaze back to her folded hands.

            “So ole Sammy and I had a lot to talk about.  I caught him up on the occurrences of the past few days.”  He turned his gaze to me, “I’m sure he’ll relay the information, Iz.”

            I shook my head to let him I know I understood and returned my attention to Lydia.  She was now looking up at me and our eyes connected.  I wanted to convey my compassion and apologies and utter heartbreak for her.  Could a simple gaze do that?  I knew that if I didn’t do something, right now, I might lose her forever.  I couldn’t bear to lose her like I’d already lost my mother. Even if I did end up reconciling with Stella, I would never have the relationship with her that I truly wanted.  Lydia was the first to look away, and I didn’t mind; I understood.  Not only, by sitting in this hospital, was she being put on display for all to sympathize for and with, but she couldn’t run away and hide like Stella had already done.  I glanced at Cooper, who was aimlessly fiddling with the stuff on her bedside table.  I turned my head to Samuel who was staring intently at me, as if he knew what I was going to do before even I did.  He gave me a wonderful smile, bringing up the corner of one side of his lip higher than the other.  I returned the gesture and closed my eyes.  After taking a deep breath, I looked back at Lydia who was crying even harder now, still without sound.  I slowly began moving the muscles in my leg to step forward.  I hesitated for a second, What if she doesn’t want to make amends with me?  She has Cooper now, right?  She has Stella, more than she ever has… certainly more than I ever will.  Like she said, I’m being selfish.  I can see she’s in pain, but she’ll move on from it like she always does.  I hate to even think it, but could this ‘miscarriage’ be another attempt at gaining attention?  Will she… all this, ever change?  I felt a small tear trickle down my face and I wiped it away before anyone could notice.  I rested my foot in place.  I can’t do this, I thought.  I turned to Samuel and his smile was gone.  He mouthed to me, “Oh, Izzie,” and very slowly closed his eyes and shook his head.  I think he understood that I wasn’t going to do anything, and I could definitely read the sadness on his face.  My stomach turned and I felt like I was going to throw up if I didn’t leave the room.  I turned my body completely toward the door.

            “I’m sorry we… I caused so much trouble by coming here.  I can see I’m not wanted.”  With that, I turned and left the room.  Once I hit the hallway, I began to run.  I knew it was probably a bad idea, but I had to escape.  I had to get out.  The walls were coming in on me.  Everything was continuing to fall underneath me, disappearing.  I wasn’t sure if Samuel was following me, and I honestly didn’t care.  I had to get out.

            When I hit the exit, I realized that rain was pouring from the sky.  I knew the second I stepped out from underneath the awning I was going to be drenched, but I didn’t care about that either.  I kept running until I hit the sidewalk.  I stopped and began heaving, taking in huge gasps of air.  I wasn’t sure if what I was feeling was anger or frustration or grief or aching… longing for that which I just let slip through my fingers.  Without an ounce of hurry in my body, I tilted my head back to let the rain wash it all away.  I closed my eyes and soaked everything in.  I remained there, letting the water drop on my face and slide down my body.  I didn’t care if everyone in the world was staring, I just wanted this feeling, this aching to go away.

            I felt a soft touch on my shoulder and knew right away that it was Samuel.

            “Izzie…” he whispered to me.  He let his fingers linger on my shoulder for a moment.  I gradually dropped my head back to its normal position and turned to face him.  There we were, standing in the middle of a storm… just us two.  I stared into his longing eyes, they were worried and I could tell my actions were affecting him deeply.

            I tilted my head a bit and gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.  I reached up and softly stroked his cheek.  He gave me a confused look and I knew he didn’t truly understand what was running through my mind.  I wanted to feel nothing… I wanted the numbness to come on, but I knew it wouldn’t.  I’d be aching for a while, if I didn’t find a way to fix all this.  But how would I go about that?  He couldn’t answer that for me, and I think he knew that.

            “You ready?” I asked him softly with a surprisingly steady voice.

            He just took my hand from his face and held it in his own, leading me to our car.