I still have a job

This week was the 22nd anniversary of Andy's death. I was surprised at the ease with which the day passed. The next day I found out I still have a job. The clinic where I work is consolidating and attempting to at least break even instead of losing money every year (our health care dollars at work). So, they chose to have us all interview again to see which ones would be chosen to hire back ... I was relieved to be chosen, but then again, I thought they'd be crazy not to hire me. After all, all that experience ... a shame to waste it.

A vignette

AN I've struggled and struggled with this, was strangely compelled to write it after a particularly difficult session that left me wuth the feeling of being surrounded by fog or cotton wadding, unable to bat my way out of it.

The air in my office was heavy. The woman sat, legs white in her shorts, hair a dull gray blonde. She had agreed to start without her husband who waited outside. She was talking, indignant about her granddaughter.

“She wanted to spend the night with us. All was well until time for bed. She had her little mat but she wanted to sleep with us. I said no. She screamed and cried. She wanted to put her little mat on the floor beside our bed. I said no.”

“Why couldn’t she sleep with you?”

“Because she wiggles all night and would keep us awake.” She looked at me as if wondering why she had to state the obvious.

“Couldn’t she sleep on the floor beside your bed?”

“Oh no. No. She’s just spoiled. I had to call her dad to come and get her. Then my daughter called me. She wanted to know why Allison was home. I told her. You know what she said to me? ‘She’s only six, mom,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t seen you all summer.’ That’s what my daughter said to me.” Lips pursed, knees together, righteous. I'm wrenched by her twisted logic.

“Can my husband come in now?”

Her tolerance for being alone with me was at an end. I went to the door, gestured to him. He came in, sat down beside her.

The woman started talking about her father. “The town had a big ceremony to honor him. It’s because he’s done so much for everyone,” she said, pleased.

“Your parents are still healthy?”

“Oh yes! They still do everything for themselves.”

“Isn’t this the man who molested your sister?”

“Well, that’s what she said,” emphasizing said. “We had a big meeting about it when she was in the hospital. She says he molested me, too! I don’t remember anything, but she said she used to hear me screaming at night from my bedroom. I don’t remember,” she repeated.

She’s told me she hears voices, but resists medication.

Her husband started, “You know, with our daughter, I would never think of such a thing,” he said. “Never even crosses my mind!”

“And your mother was at this meeting?” I direct this to her, ignoring him.

“Oh yes.”

“And she stayed married to him?” Prodding.

“Oh yes. They’ve been married for 65 years.”

Undoubtedly they didn't allow daughters in their bed because he wanted them alone, I thought. I wondered what the voices whispered to her as I gave up prodding.

The lobelia are still beautiful

This is the first time I've had them in my garden. I first saw them in North Carolina. Here's a bit I wrote at the time:

The phone rang. It was Anne, the woman Patsy had told her about, the published writer, divorced, children in their twenties.

Anne invited Martha to dinner. Her house was wonderful. She had a wonderful porch. She was a wonderful cook and served an elegant meal of tomatoes, avocado, cucumbers, and corn fritters. There was bread. An elegant white kitchen, wonderful flowers outside her kitchen window - delicate feathery blue flowers called Lobelia. Martha looked at them sitting at the elegant little table under the window. There were flowers on the table, wicker chairs with cushions to sit on, a shelf under the table. Martha was overwhelmed with ‘wonderfuls.’

Shit, thought Martha. Makes me wish I'd painted my kitchen white.

Anne had rugs. Not Orientals, but good rugs, a charming bathroom. No shower, but great plumbing. Even the faucets were artistic. A great huge basket for toilet paper was on the floor in the bathroom, filled with rolls. Martha didn't have room for one that size, couldn't have it on the floor with Luke who would spread shredded toilet paper throughout the house.

"Did you see the quilts at the festival?" Anne asked.

"No, it was too hot to go."

"I have never seen such quilts," she said turning corn fritters in her stylish skillet.

Martha asked to borrow one of her books.

"Oh, no. I don't do that," she said. "I learned that a long time ago."

"What is it you don't do?" asked Martha in surprise. "Loan books, or let friends read your stuff?"

"I have found it's best not to let my writing interfere with my relationships, or enter into them."

They were upstairs in her office. Even her clutter was stylish. Martha asked to use the bathroom and it was then that she saw the plumbing and the basket of toilet paper. The wallpaper was coming loose at the seams.

Why am I being so hostile? Martha wondered. This woman, after all, invited me cold for supper after hearing my sad tale from Patsy. Patsy told everything to everyone.

Anne’s son called to ask her for money. Martha envied her her son and her money both, as her own supply was dwindling.

I am hostile and envy everyone right now, Martha thought. Be careful when you are nice to me. I might bite, like a wounded animal.