Author: deltawrites

The Spangled Pearl White Shoes

.Reading time 14 minutes.

Every day, we have to make dozens of choices. Some choices, such as what to wear and what movie to watch, are simple to make. Have you ever faced the situation that you have no right to choose? If so, would you be willing to accept or deny choices other people made for you? Some of you may never regret, but some will.

Whenever I go to a shoe store and see many varieties of shoes, I always want to look for the pair that I never had the chance to own when I was a child in Taiwan. It was a pair of spangled pearl white shoes with a pink bow, which I miss deeply. Until this day, even though I often spend much time in children’s shoe stores finding the shoes for my girls, I still cannot find the exact same pair. Decades have gone by, and I am no longer a little girl. I studied hard and graduated from a prominent university with a decent degree in my country. Although I live a happy life now, married to a nice man who is an executive in a machinery company and can buy as many pairs of shoes as I want, I know that pair of spangled pearl white shoes with the pink bow that I miss deeply will never come back to my life. That pair of shoes remains an unforgettable memory from my childhood because it symbolized my resentment of growing up poor.

In my country, Taiwan, every public school student wears almost the same uniform: girls wear white shirts on top with knee-length blue pleated skirts, and boys also wear the white shirts but with short blue pants. We all need to wear the black shoes as part of the uniform; this is the policy everyone has to follow. During the beginning of each new semester, parents are busy preparing the children’s school supplies. For example, my parents would take my brother Huendun and me to shop for some new clothing for the new school year. However, we did not buy things each time because it depended on the condition of my old clothing. If the clothes were torn or ripped with a big hole and were not wearable, my parents would take us to buy new ones. If my parents said we needed new clothes, my brother and I would cheer for many days because we usually did not have new clothes to wear.

My parents were both working in an eyeglass frame factory. Their jobs were to assemble each part of frames to make eyeglasses, and their jobs did not earn them a lot of money to raise a family. I remember at the end of each month, our money was always tight. We often ate rice with only soy sauce and nothing else. We knew we may not have enough money for that month. When the new semester came, I often felt my parents would worry if they would have the extra money to buy our school supplies.

When I was in the fourth grade, I had a pair of black shoes that were really worn out and were becoming small for me, even if I tried to bend my toes. I had been wearing this old pair of shoes since I was in the second grade. My parents would always buy shoes that were a couple sizes too big for my brother and me, so we could wear them longer. Therefore, most of the shoes I wore back then were much bigger than my feet at that time. Because of the loosely fit oversized shoes, embarrassment happened to me so many times from having to go back and pick up my shoes when I ran too fast; it drew a lot of laughter from other students. Finally, I told my parents I really needed a new pair of shoes although I thought they would refuse. One night after dinner, my mom was washing dishes. The sound of water flowing down from the faucet almost made my voice inaudible. I raised my voice and said to my mom, “Ni ker yi mai yi shuang xin xie gei wo ma? Jio der na shuang chuan bu xia ler.” (Could you buy me a new pair of shoes? The old ones cannot fit me anymore.) I showed my old pair of shoes to her, but she continued to wash the dishes. I asked myself, “What if she didn’t hear me?” I was nervous that I did not speak loud enough.

My mom did not answer; the water continued to flow. She may not buy me a pair this year, I thought. Just when I was ready to turn around and go back to my room, I heard her say, ”Hau, wo men zhao shi jian qu xie dian.” (Fine, we will find time to go to the shoe store.) I could not believe what I heard—she finally agreed. But she told me to wait for next month when they had enough money, and she would take me to buy a new pair of shoes.

I counted day after day, and finally the big day arrived! My parents told me they would take me to the shoe store in the afternoon. I could not wait for a second; I was full of joy and cheer because I had been to the only shoe store in our small town so many times to search for my new shoes on my own. The pair in the display behind the window looked so beautiful. Whenever I went home from school, I would always detour to the shoe store to see that pair. They were beautiful pearl white shoes without too much design, and they looked neat and trim. They drew my attention immediately when I saw them the very first time, because this pair of shoes was similar to the one that my neighborhood girl had. She lived in a big house on the top of a hill with a tall fence. Nobody knew her name or what the house looked like inside. All we knew that she was a wealthy businessman’s daughter, probably the same age as me. However, I had never talked or played with her, and neither had my playmates living on the same street.
One time I saw the neighbor girl shopping at the shoe store with her mother. She was wearing a pink, puffy princess dress with this pair of white shoes. The way she dressed looked like a girl from a movie that was so elegant and unreachable. I liked what she wore. I always wished I could be born in her family and wear new clothes every day; then, I would look like her.

This pair of white shoes were the shoes she wore. This was the pair I had dreamed of for a long time, and I was really determined to get them.

When my parents brought me to the store, I went in first and told the clerk that I wanted him to bring me that pair of white shoes. He brought them to me, and when I wore the shoes, I felt I looked as elegant as the rich neighborhood girl. I thought my parents would like them, too. But my parents brought me a black pair of shoes instead and said, “Ba na shuang bai xie tuo diao, chuan zher shuang hei xie. Wo men bu huei mai na shuang bai xie.” (Take off the white ones and wear these black ones. We are not going to buy that pair of white shoes.)

“Wo wei sher mer bu ker yi mai na shuang bai xie?” (Why can I not get this white pair of shoes?) I said it out loud with all my courage. I knew my parents would ignore what I said. “Ni bu ren wei zher shuang bai xie bi jiao shi her wo ma?” (Don’t you think this pair fits me better?) But my parents said I needed to wear black shoes to school, not white shoes, and they could not afford to buy both pairs. I hated that I was born in this blue-collar family and could not have anything I wanted.

“Wo zhi xi huan zher shuang bai xie, ni men jin tian ruo bu mai gei wo, wo jio dai zai zher li zhi dao ni mai gei wo.” (I only like that white pair. If you do not buy that pair today, I will stay here until you buy it for me.) I could not believe how those daring words came out from my mouth. My parents did not say a word. They turned around and went home. I felt so embarrassed standing there. I reluctantly took off the shoes and my eyes filled with tears, and I thought, “Why can I not get that white pair of shoes? Why are my parents so cruel to me? Why was I born in this family? Why can I not be like the girl who lived in that big house? She probably has many pairs of shoes to choose from each day.” I cried on the way home. I did not care how other people looked at me. All I wanted was that pair of white shoes.

When I went home, I threw myself into the bed and cried sadly until I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up, it was dark outside and my pillow was wet with my tears. I knew I must have cried for a long time. I went downstairs to see if my parents were generous enough to buy me that pair of white shoes. However, the reality was not what I had hoped for. They did not buy me the white pair of shoes that I wanted. Instead, I saw the dull black pair of shoes lying on the table.

I still remember that silent, emotionless despair. That was what I got for fourth grade. From that day on, I knew there was no fairy tale. Not everything will happen according to our wishes. Since then, I had learned not to expect things that are beyond my control or capabilities. I do not blame my parents for not buying me that pair of shoes; I do not resent that there was no fairy tale, either. I know with all the efforts that I make, right now I am the person who can make my own choices and make a better life.

~Meiling I

This essay earned third place in the annual student contest for the Liberal Arts Network for Development (LAND). LAND provides a network for the development of the liberal arts in Michigan’s community colleges.

A Lesson on Privilege

.Reading time 8 minutes.

We squeezed down the tight aisle with our oversized carry-ons and handbags. We walked further and further, weaving in and out of the other passengers until we finally reached seats 27B and 27C.  I was eleven years old, and it was my first time on an airplane. I felt like I was lost on the first day of school.

I sat only one seat away from the window, and my mom sat just across the aisle. We got comfortable in our seats, and I stared at the clock, counting down the minutes. Fifteen minutes until departure, next stop Disney World. As I waited impatiently, I hoped the seat next to me would remain empty so I could get a perfect view out the window. Seconds later, I saw a tall man walking down the aisle towards us, looking for his seat. He was an older, olive-skinned man, with a long, curly beard and glasses. He was skinny and dressed in a dark blue button-up shirt, light brown pants, and a hat of rich silk and bright colors.

I was bummed when I saw him smile and heard him say, “I believe this is seat 27A.”

“Sure is,” I said as I got up to let him in. I glanced over at my mother and saw her muscles tense. The grin on her face turned from happy to uncomfortable. As the man settled in his seat, she stared at him bitterly, and stood up straight.

“I need you to trade seats with me right now,” she said.

Confused, I told her no. “I want to be by the window,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t argue. You can have the window seat on the way back home. Just get in my seat,” she said as she pointed to her aisle seat next to a young white woman listening to her iPod.

“I don’t understand why I can’t just sit here,” I pestered. “Come on Mom, calm down.”

Then, she became visibly angry. “You’re going to sit there,” she said pointing. “If you don’t want to sit there, we can get off the plane.”

I sat in disbelief, and still didn’t understand why she was being so disrespectful.

Minutes later, she took me to the back of the airplane near the bathroom. “That man looked dangerous,” she explained. “I took your seat to keep you safe.”

She wasn’t making sense. What made him dangerous? His beard? His glasses? The hat? He looked friendly, but I accepted her answer and her seat next to the apparently “safe” white woman.

At eleven years old, I was oblivious to the racism displayed in front of me. For a majority of my life, I had been unaware that this happens too often, even in our post-Civil Rights world that is filled with citizens of various races and cultures.

While living in the culturally diverse city of Saginaw, I was taught at a young age to lock the car doors when driving by any “colored” person and to hold my money a little tighter when standing near them in a store line. My mother and I kept our distance from the black groups at the shopping mall because they were “dangerous.” It was as if anything that wasn’t white wasn’t clean. They were tainted, like a rusty penny on the ground that isn’t worth spending. The darkness of their skin was an irreversible flaw that sentenced them to a life of ridicule.

As doors are held open and locked behind me for my protection, I understand what it means to be privileged in America because of my race. It means that this land is my ensured opportunity, and with a little hard work, I am guaranteed success. There are jobs that I reject because they might make my skin dirty, jobs that I save in my back pocket, and jobs that I work because I can afford the degree. As I stand neck deep in opportunity, I understand what White Privilege means. The benefit of the doubt is my birthright, and I am treated with respect. I have all of these privileges that I did not earn, but rather was born with.

I have never had to fight for rights or for equality. I have never had to watch for cops out of the corner of my eye, and I am able to hide behind my skin if I am a suspect. I have never been guilty until proven innocent. I am able to walk through airport security without harassment, as others need to have their privacy invaded just to set foot on a plane. I can’t say I’ve been in their shoes, but I do realize that this injustice exists. I realize that it is immoral, and I realize that it needs to end.

It is those who have the privilege that deny its existence. As a child, I was taught in school that we asked the Native Americans to leave nicely, that slavery ended along with racism and that we are all equal now. We are often blindfolded with the excuses. It’s not our fault; it’s theirs. If we were there, it would have been different. It wasn’t us; it was them. We are polite; they need to keep their distance. We’re not racist; we promise. We’re not racist; we’re patriotic. We’re not racist; you just look like a terrorist. We’re not racist; we’re protecting our children. We’re not racist; we believe in freedom.

We need to believe in freedom for those who don’t look like us, too, by doing more than accepting our privilege and ignoring those without it. It doesn’t have to be this way; we can all be privileged Americans, no need for color categorization. We can all be born with a right to freedom and equality. We can erase the terms “White Privileged American,” “African American,” “Asian American,” “Arabic American,” and simply be Americans.

~Tiffany Sember

This essay earned an honorable mention in Delta’s local competition for the Liberal Arts Network for Development (LAND). LAND provides a network for the development of the liberal arts in Michigan’s community colleges.

A List of To-Not-Dos.

.Reading time 1 minute.

I haven’t drunk coffee

since you left

or slept with a crooked pillow.

I haven’t been to IHOP at three in the morning

or counted all the Iron Man comics at an antique store.

I no longer spend any time

contemplating this shade of black

over that one

and I’ve stopped believing anyone’s hair

could be spun from gold.

I can’t look at the number 7

without seeing the other three digits

of your old apartment

and I don’t care to tread softly through the snow.

I’ve figured out that the only thing

that separates one moment from another

is whatever division we make inside our heads

and that, now,

the only thing that separates you from me

is that I don’t want you,

I don’t want any of this

anymore,

and I haven’t

since I stopped doing it.

~Kayla Grose

This poem earned an honorable mention in Delta’s local competition for the Liberal Arts Network for Development (LAND). LAND provides a network for the development of the liberal arts in Michigan’s community colleges.

Thousand Empty Windows

.Reading time 1 minute.

The weary warehouse

gripping the corner of

Ring and Wheeler

has a thousand empty windows

tonight

stars above that I followed

parade the sky in jest,

good-natured elves—they favor these

tired bricks, chipped and dusted with labor;

its windows coated in thick fog

reflect faces of ghost-men,

men who gave better portions

of days to unforgiving metal,

patting the foundation with torn boots,

their laces tied tight in a knot

like their belts below their stomachs

but, a neighbor’s cat passes my heels

while an overcast night

blows the playful notion of the stars away

I too forget the men’s faces,

only impressions left in dust

and head home to get sleep

that I lack

from a long day’s work

~Hayley Durham

This poem earned first place in Delta’s local competition for the Liberal Arts Network for Development (LAND). LAND provides a network for the development of the liberal arts in Michigan’s community colleges.

Vintage

.Reading time 17 minutes.

Whitney liked to arrive early. Sit in the parking lot and get herself together. She had an unusually large vanity mirror, with lights on her visor. A major selling point. Applying eyeliner, she could ponder the contradictions of her girlfriends.

She could think of things even she didn’t agree with. And this is a hard thing to do. She poked her lips out, considering balm. She thought past that, then stopped at a name. Whitney could not always divide herself. Her girlfriends would approve, but her mother wouldn’t. Or vice versa. Or nobody would approve and certainly never her father. And getting herself to approve on top of it would prove harder still. So she didn’t tell anyone she was meeting Kelly to go thrifting.

She continued fussing with her hair, alternating between innocent eyes and vixen, devouring smiles, as she does in parking lots. Brief practice for the conversation ahead. A bearded man knocked on her passenger window mid careless-sex-pose. She collapsed the visor elegantly and gathered her things into her purse. Never looking up, never feeling startled. High on herself. She opened the door, took one step and spread her arms out. Kelly swept around the car and hugged her.

“I cannot believe you’re wearing that nasty beard.”

He rubbed it into her neck and she fell out of his arms like liquid.

“Straight granola these days,” Kelly said. He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. He looked her up and down, asked her if she was getting better looking.

She dug through her purse and found her cell phone, put it on silent in a covert act. She wasn’t trying to blow anyone off specifically. She just thought it better not to be distracted. Kelly hadn’t seen her in a while. She hadn’t thought of him in a while. They broke up over a year ago. She knew the break-up was coming and so her life didn’t halt one bit. It may have sped up.

“So what do you want to show me?” Whitney perked up as the sun sank in her skin.

He told her she would find out once inside. They walked in and neither had to fight any nostalgic urges. Kelly was too rambunctious to hold hands while shopping. Everything stimulated him. This is what attracted Whitney to him. Though in practice she found it was too much. She had to scold him. She had to be a bitch. And worse yet, she liked doing it. She found her own angry face to be sexy and thought he must as well. Still, she felt guilty deriving pleasure in such incidents. This sort of conundrum would invoke itself on the two in everything they did.

The old ladies working the register were talking intensely about recipes or grandsons or blacks or discounts or medicine or republicans or vacations or Christmas or crocheting or work or church. They were not talking about true love. Whitney and Kelly slipped in unnoticed. Kelly went into the corner and pulled a fedora from a rack. There were feather boas and winter hats; a Playskool telephone was wedged onto the end. Kelly handed it to Whitney and said, “It’s for you.”

He told her that was it. The reason he had her come out.

“Really, come on. You know I’m bad at waiting,” and she rocked her shoulders a little. Mostly she could wait. She liked to make sure that Kelly still wanted to satisfy her. Whitney was a smart girl. She could rely on herself for trivial demands. She finished school.

Kelly laughed at her. She realized she overdid it with the Monroe-esque line. She laughed at herself and threw a feather boa around her neck. He peeled the fedora off and put a plaid cabbie hat on. They walked down the aisle with all the busted electronics. Kelly liked to scour for obscure VHS tapes. He collected a few. Whitney always thought they were junk, but she stole one from him. A copy of This Old House. Bob Vila inside Frida Kahlo’s. After her divorce. It was strange, but Kelly never asked for it back.

“Doesn’t Saul wear these hats?” Kelly asked. She knew it would come up sometime. Kelly didn’t bother with tact.

“Sure. He wears whatever he wants. I don’t keep track,” she said. But she did. She kept track. And she liked the hat with a particular set of dark glasses. And she didn’t mind it on Kelly either.

“Is that really what’s going on? I mean, I know it is. It’s our little quarterly check-up. I tell you about me and the artist. You tell me about some drunken hook-ups.” There, she thought, this is what we both wanted. His lack of articulating what they were both thinking is why she left him.

Kelly lifted his hands in arrest position. “Okay,” he said. “I don’t have any drinking stories. I’ve mostly been by myself. All my drinking is E. A. Poe style.” He thought this would intrigue her. She always said he was a weepy-philosophical drunk. It was one of those attract-repel things. Not now. Whitney saw in hindsight pure repellent raven.

“Oh my god. Are you still doing that shit? There, Saul would never do that. You think you’re classic, but you’re just corny. ‘Corny Kelly is crying because T.V. is ruining the world’,” she mocked. “Yeah, we get it. Jersey Shore is what’s wrong with America. But I got shit to do.”

Kelly smiled inside. It pierced Whitney, just a little, to pretend those things were so frivolous. But really, who had the time? She started thumbing through men’s shirts. Kelly knew she was looking for specific paisley patterns. They could’ve written dictionaries to each other’s daydreams.

“Are you still making scarves?” Kelly asked. They used to take weekly trips to thrift stores together. They would usually stop for the ‘bag for a buck’ deals. Whitney made scarves. The frayed old-western types that musicians wear. Along with vintage dresses and boots she would sell online. You get a variety of patterns cheaply at the thrift store, Whitney would say. It was an excuse. She always loved revitalization. Finding the brilliant flairs amid all the worn out. Sewing memories together for ‘hand-me-down happiness.’ The smell. Garage and attic. Hiding. Sharing that smell.

“Yeah, but ever since I started at the co-op I don’t have time. I mostly just make them as gifts now.” Co-op made Kelly’s stomach turn a little. Picturing all these artists rubbing elbows with each other. Pretending they have their lives together. For the instant they are together, knowing that they do have their lives together. Kelly was looking for t-shirts with wolves on them. Preferably in tie-dye. Whitney held up a shirt with gold piping and white and red paisley on brown. “Perfect,” he said.

“All right, I’m going to walk behind you and cover your eyes. I don’t want you to peek. You are really going to like this,” Kelly said. He got behind her and resisted the urge to nuzzle his big beard into her back, grab her by the waist and hump her. He was unsure if it was typical male or a fog from the oxytocin released in his brain upon sight of her. He walked her down the aisle without any sexual advances.

“Now keep your eyes closed until I say.” He leapt in front and said Ta-Da.

He leaned back, reclining on an orange corduroy sectional couch, circa 1970 whatever. She smiled brightly and it faded into a giggle. Whitney walked over and sat next to Kelly. Only three parts were in an orderly fashion.

“What do you think?”

She really didn’t know what to say. She had always wanted a vintage couch. None she had ever seen to that point fit her exact description of ‘vintage-couch’ like this one. Kelly was beaming. Proud of his discovery. She thought it was cute, but she knew the mess ‘cute’ could make. She thought about asking the price, but that implied wanting it.

“Oh my god, Kelly, too much. How did you find this? I suppose you expect me to fuck you now?” she laughed and laid back.

“You always said, vintage couches and shag carpet made you horny.” Kelly didn’t really honor that statement. He straightened up and told her upon finding the couch he thought of her. He sighed.

“It’s too late. I think I’m moving in with Saul. I don’t have room for it anyway,” Whitney sat back up.

“You’ve always wanted one. Suddenly you don’t?” He threw his leg over a fray in the upholstery.

“I don’t know. I don’t have the room. I can’t just rebuild all my décor around one piece of furniture. I don’t think Saul will even like it. He’ll think it’s tacky or ugly. He thinks the retro is there to serve the new. Not to be applauded,” and she cast her gaze at her feet. “Are you ever going to grow out of that stuff, evolve?” She looked at him.

“Whoa, whoa. Don’t think the couch thing is some metaphor. I mean, yeah, I can’t turn down public sex on a corduroy couch, but… This isn’t some effort to win you back. I just thought you wanted to see a great couch. I thought you would appreciate it,” Kelly demonstrated sincerity. She could tell he meant what he said. She always had a problem with his lack of concealing. She could see right into him. He was transparent except for a little core, like the seed of an apple that reflected Whitney right back. “Besides, I might consider not fucking you in this thrift store. Old Jenny would get pissed,” Kelly said and fingered a macramé hemp bracelet.

Whitney reeled a little. She had never suspected that the little core was capable of reflecting back whatever gazed upon it. Whoever. That his core could reflect back another. She stiffened up and gathered all the sex from the vanity mirror of her car. Composed she said, “Oh yeah? I bet I could seduce you.” And he didn’t respond. They were both rubbing their hands over the fabric of the couch until Whitney noticed. She reached into her purse absent minded. Her hand touched her cell phone. She pulled it out. One missed call. Two missed texts. Saul had texted that he saw her car at the thrift store but couldn’t stop. The second noted that she hadn’t told him she was going out that day.

“Excuse me,” she said and texted back to Saul. She said she was with Taylor grabbing shirts to make scarves. Then she texted Taylor to cement her story. She turned a little from Kelly so he couldn’t see her typing. “I’m going to grab a few more shirts,” she said.

The two walked out together into the purifying sun. It made them realize how truly dark it had been. The fresh air turned their bloodstream into southern California. Traffic and people and birds and garbage and carbon monoxide and vibrant colors and advertisements and train whistles and puddles and chocolate and that fucking-not-attic-air reminded them that it’s good to go to the thrift store, if only to leave.

They hugged near Kelly’s beat-up car. He stole a kiss at her cheek. She spotted a big tangle of hemp looking stuff in the back seat. “What’s that?”
“Jenny made it,” Kelly said. “It’s a hammock.”

“Hmmm…,” she wrinkled her nose. She thought Kelly’s car was a mess and all that rope wasn’t helping. She walked back to her car and closed the door. The solitude and the pent-up heat overcame her. She pulled the visor down and mussed her hair. Pursed her lips. When she started her car, she realized she never even asked the price of the couch. She wanted to know the cost.

~Benjamin Champagne

This short story earned first place in the annual student contest for the Liberal Arts Network for Development (LAND). LAND provides a network for the development of the liberal arts in Michigan’s community colleges.

The Call of the Void

.Reading time 16 minutes.

It was just a tiny pinprick, a little black dot, smaller even than the tip of a well-sharpened pencil. “Black as a vulture’s claw,” the doctor had told his patient, shoulders hunched and eyes squinted, staring at the computer screen. “Right over the left ventricle. A curious thing, that is. And you say you can feel it?”

“It pulsates,” his patient answered. “Not like my heartbeat… but like its own. Intermittently. And… it’s strong. Like when someone plays a bass drum and you can feel it all the way through your chest.”

“Is it painful?” the doctor asked.

“No,” the patient said, but added, quietly, after a grim pause, “Not yet.”

The doctor hmmed, focus constantly shifting from the file folders in his hand to the ultrasound of his patient’s heart on the screen to his immediate left. Finally his eyes remained glued to the files, taking a more careful consideration of what was written there.

“Have you experienced any changes in your health recently? Other than the pulsations, of course. Any other symptoms you can think of? Has anything happened recently that might’ve caused you some stress?”

The patient paused. “I killed a man last week.”

The doctor, too, paused, shoulders drawn taut, muscles caught mid-motion from setting the files down. Clearing his throat and gathering his bearings, he turned his eyes to his patient, who began kicking slipper-clad feet restlessly where they dangled from the examination chair.

“I beg your pardon?”

This time, the patient did not hesitate, though his voice was laced with anxiety. “I killed a man last week. He was—I don’t know what he was. But I killed him—I had to—and now this. Now I have this. Have since the moment his heart stopped beating. And I know because I waited—I waited for it to stop beating.”

The doctor was visibly trying to gather his bearings, to sort through the words his patient so desperately spilled, in two entirely different manners: to understand the gravity of the situation, and to understand what the situation was.

Adjusting the gray-framed glasses hooked on his nose, the doctor cleared his throat once more. “So—so you say you… killed a man? And this pulsation, this beat coinciding your own heartbeat, occurred immediately afterwards?” Though forcibly imbuing a sort of curious question to his tone, the nervous tremor underlying his words could not be helped.

“Yes,” the patient said, grasping on to the doctor’s temporary understanding. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

“And you… believe these two events are related?”

“You must understand, doctor—this was not any ordinary man. I can’t even be sure he was a man.”

The doctor was caught between hearing his patient’s words and the new image that greeted him on the ultrasound monitor.

“Oh my,” he murmured, stepping closer to the screen.

“What—what is it?” the patient demanded.

“The spot. Before, it was a mere pinprick. Now, I think—I think maybe it’s more of a speck? As if it’s gone from the size of a needle tip to the size of a freckle.”

The patient moaned in fear. “It’s grown?”

“It appears that way.”

Having been presented with a more pressing matter than week-old murder—the life of a patient directly in front of him—the doctor’s thoughts were more easily assembled. The anxiety and hesitation he’d portrayed not a minute before had faded into a sharp sort of curiosity and a desperate need for answers.

“You said—you said he was no ordinary man?” the doctor questioned, unwinding the stethoscope from where it had been draped over his shoulders and approaching the patient to listen to his heart.

The patient nodded quickly. “He could do things. Things I’ve seen no other man do. I think he could read my mind, too. He knew what I was going to do before I even did it. I only managed to disable him by pure whim—he couldn’t anticipate what I, myself, didn’t know I would do.” Swallowing loudly, the patient looked to the floor. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

The doctor continued pressing the stethoscope around the patient’s chest, listening intently, attention divided between the strange-double beat within the patient and the words pouring without the patient. “And what other things could he do?”

“I don’t think I know all of them. He moved fast—I could only really see him if I blinked rapidly, the way you can see the individual prongs on a fan if you stare at it and blink. It was disorienting. And he could move things. Without touching them.”

“Telekinesis?” the doctor murmured in wonder. Was he beginning to believe his patient? That, last week, there had been a man on this earth that was not a man?

“But you must believe me,” his patient pleaded, eyes—a stark blue, the color of the morning sky in mid-winter—searching the doctor’s own, as if the patient could see his very own fate in the man examining him.

The doctor stiffened, hand paused over the patient’s pectoral muscle, where the cold bite of the stethoscope pressed against the patient’s skin, directly alongside the ultrasound mechanism somewhat suctioned to the chest. “I—I didn’t—“The doctor paused, sucking a breath of air in to force the words out. “I didn’t say that out loud.”

The patient’s breath caught in his throat—the doctor knew because he could hear no rasp of air entering the lungs with the stethoscope pressed near those organs. Other thoughts seemed to flit into the patient’s mind, for in the next moment, he had the doctor’s wrist gripped, like a vice, between his hands. “You’re—“ the patient stopped and looked into the doctor’s eyes in confusion, as if he could see right into the doctor’s head. “You’re thinking of calling the police. Or the FBI. You’re not sure yet.” The patient’s grip on the doctor tightened infinitesimally. “But you can’t. You can’t.”

Just then, the patient’s eyes were drawn by something over the doctor’s back, which he quickly realized would be the ultrasound monitor. The doctor swiveled on his feet and examined the monitor, adjusting the glasses on his nose as if what he was seeing was merely a product of glare from the lens.

“It’s—it’s growing again!” the patient exclaimed, clutching at his chest. “And I can feel it. I can—what’s happening to me?”

The doctor stood frozen, half between the patient and the monitor, unsure of which to go to. The patient caught his eyes again, reading the doctor’s expression once more as if reading a mind. And the doctor realized, with a sudden jolt of disbelief at himself, that the patient was reading his mind.

He could feel it. It was like a skimmer over a pool’s surface, a feather duster over a cherry-wood bookshelf, a fly landing on a lake, a raven’s wing brushing a maple leaf—just barely there, just enough to sense something.

The patient spoke, edging closer towards hysteria: “You think I’m becoming him, becoming like him—the man I killed. You think I—you think there’s something wrong with me, really wrong with me, and I—“but he broke off and clutched his chest once more, sputtering a gasp. “Am I dying?”

The patient stood, now, and by glancing once more at the monitor, the doctor watched as the dark void, the shadow over his patient’s heart, began to grow exponentially. One moment, the patient was standing over the examination chair, and the next he was across the room with his hands pressed to his head, the veins protruding in his arms, as if by sheer force he could push whatever was occurring in his head right back out.

“I can’t—I can’t even—“and the patient was across the room again, again, and again, never staying in one spot longer than a second.

The doctor blinked, fluttering his eyes opened and closed so rapidly he couldn’t be rid of the shadow of his eyelashes even when his eyes were completely open. He staggered back against the countertop, checking the machine once more for the shadow’s progress over the heart, but, of course, the chords had been ripped from the patient, the device used to create the ultrasound image lay at the foot of the examination chair, discarded.

“I can’t—I need you to stop thinking so loud,” the patient was saying, darting here and there. “I just—I need—quiet!”

The hysteria in the room was escalating, gathering as if for some great climax. The doctor, without even a thought, grabbed a scalpel from the cabinet’s drawer behind him, wielding it like some grand sword rather than a thing with a five-inch handle and a one-inch blade, the most basic instinct of self-protection eclipsing much of the reason in his mind.

“You must calm yourself,” the doctor was saying, watching with pale lips and wide eyes as the patient began thrashing things. The examination chair had been ripped from its metal base; a dent was cut deep into a cabinet. A nurse could be heard knocking outside the door, asking in a rather high-pitched voice if someone should call the authorities, and then presumably running to do just that.

The doctor was given no chance to react, for the next instant brought the patient to a stop just before him, hands still pressed firmly to his head, face awash in tears, eyes painting a clear picture of agony.

“I need quiet,” the patient said again, though the quiet only registered briefly with the doctor, for words that had been uttered a mere minute or two ago now seemed like a lifetime in this madness.

And just as the patient lunged towards the doctor, the doctor’s hand—the very one wielding the diamond-tipped scalpel—was reaching towards the patient, hand set in a placating motion despite the obvious weapon held within its grip, and time slowed once more as the doctor watched the tip of the scalpel breach the soft neck of the patient, watched as the blade sunk right in, up through three inches of the handle, even, and as blood flowed, first like the beginnings of a newborn waterfall, and then in an angry current, spilling out over the patient’s hospital robes like paint, thick but slippery.

Slowly, the agony in the patient’s eyes softened to a lesser sort of pain, and his eyes once more rested on the doctor’s. The skim through the doctor’s mind halted as the patient dropped to his knees.

The doctor followed him there, folding his own legs beneath himself almost painfully. His hands reached for his patient’s throat, assessing the damage, trying desperately to hold the skin together so no more blood could slip past, but the reasonable quadrant in his brain told him it was already too late for that.

He, too, crumpled when the patient fell back to the floor. Blood looked almost black in its density as it surrounded the doctor on the floor, and the stethoscope that still hung from the doctor’s neck, like a noose, was pressed hesitantly against the patient’s now-softly moving chest.

The doctor listened for the heartbeat from the life he so hastily took, the thathud, thathud, swimming through his ears, until all at once, it stopped.

And started up again right in his own chest.

~Kayla Grose

The People I Have Hurt

.Reading time 1 minute.

That boy I stole crayons from in the first grade,
That girl I told I didn’t like her dress,
The women I cut in front of at Forever 21,
That girl on my swim team when I hit her on accident,
The stranger I cut off driving down Park Avenue,
That man I puked on in the airplane to Atlanta,
The boy who was in love with me in eighth grade,
The girl at Meijer who went to grab the scarf I bought,
My neighbor when I left my dogs shit in his yard,
My coach when I refused to swim,
My dance teacher when I wouldn’t point my toes,
My 7-year-old cousin when I told him he smelled bad,
My great aunt when I rolled my eyes at her prayer,
My grandma when I wouldn’t play cards,
My brother when I called him a jerk,
My sister when I told her she looked fat,
My aunt when I called her ugly,
My grandpa back in 2000 when I wouldn’t help with the garden,
My mom when I called her a freak at church this morning,
My dog when I tell her to shut up,
Myself.

~Keygan Galloner

Envelop(e)s

.Reading time 1 minute.

Winter began with a sense of closure;

December 4th: driving until 4 in the morning.
I always hoped hope would stop this.
I didn’t know that night I told you I was lost stayed with you like it did.
I’m writing letters to a past on the back of tattered photographs.

and she said “you scare me in the most beautiful way.”

The rain on the window says things never end after they begin.
There’s constant reminders that distance took her.
Hair ties on the floor, there’s still pictures in the drawer.
I’ve got a pile of clothes that I wish was yours.

sometimes we have to be ruined so we can start over.

Things you’ve never seen remind me of you, I look at them and know what you’d say.
Late night drives and I’m at the church again.
This is sorry for leaving. This is sorry for making it seem-

i don’t believe in God, but there’s grace in everything.

i stop thinking and that feeling of you echoes through my head

this is sorry. this is sorry.
this is

Jack Rechsteiner

Ramblin’ On

.Reading time 27 minutes.

“We got it,” came Casey’s voice over my work phone, interrupting my answering spiel. She skipped right over a greeting, instead speaking with the firm resolution of a person who had spent days begging for something thought to be nearly impossible.

“Tim said yes?” I asked. I glared as a customer dared to approach me at my station at the register, box of shoes clutched in hand.

“Of course he did. I owe him some giant tattoo now as payment, but whatever. Operation is a go.”

I perceived that my reaction should swing upwards, somewhere in the vicinity of “noticeable excitement,” so I corrected my tone. “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said. The impatient customer gaped at my vulgarity. I ignored her as I hung up the phone and wiped my eyes, escaping to the break room with the knowledge that someone would pick up my slack on the sales floor. Maybe they’d even apologize for my behavior.

It didn’t matter – the customer, the job, any of it. The Live Music Capital of the World suddenly felt closer than its fourteen-hundred miles.

***

Tim, the delightful little redneck that he was, had a very sketchy-looking CD player hooked up to the stereo inside the ’89 Rambler he had begrudgingly lent us. Casey and I, in the beginning stages of prepping for our trip to Austin, Texas, had decided against any “sad music” being brought along. “Nothing newer than the eighties,” I had said. “In honor of the dear Rambler.” But it wasn’t a foolproof plan, merely denying the Band of Horses and City and Colour albums access to our luggage. Little singles like “Patience” by Guns ‘n’ Roses and “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You” by Zeppelin can easily bring a person to tears when the circumstances are just right.

And, god, were they ever right.

We had each broken down twice before we even made it out of the state, the Michigan trees zipping by in a blur of green and brown obscured behind the tears we were attempting not to excrete for fear of causing the other distress.

Somehow, it was easier to smile as I cranked up “Fred Bear” when we entered Indiana.

It made me wonder how state borders could have such an effect on us. After crossing it I was still the same person, with the same problems, with the same vibrant loss shooting through me with every beat of my stuttering heart. But I could tell with a glance into the driver’s seat, where Casey sat with her brow relaxed, hands at a casual noon and five grasp on the steering wheel, that she was feeling the same way.

We felt lighter than we had in weeks.

***

We belted out “Love is a Battlefield” too many times to count as we cruised through Kentucky, neither of us particularly interested in what the state had to offer.

Feeling safe with so much space between us and Michigan, I spoke. “Do you think the boys are pissed that we didn’t wait for them?”

“No,” Casey answered immediately. “They have their own ways of dealing with this. You know, crying into their beers and passing out in their own vomit.”

“That isn’t what our plan is?” I asked, eyes wide.

She snorted. “Of course it is. But we’re on a road-trip; it’s classier. Besides, we can play a couple acoustic shows, the two of us, earn some beer money.”

“I like where your head’s at.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us does. Are we almost to Tennessee?”

I glanced at the iPhone in my hand and watched as the little blue dot progressed across the screen, moving further and further into the unknown, away from our problems. I wasn’t so sure we were going to outrun them, but I was positive that the Tennessee border was a scant half hour away.

***

We stopped in Nashville for dinner, parking the Rambler and mocking the tourists wearing cowboy hats while we weaved through them to find something that didn’t resemble a chain restaurant. Eventually we found ourselves in a suspiciously dark pub. Nearly empty at the early evening hour, it had only a few patrons scattered across wooden booths and stools.

Casey smirked and ran a hand through her dyed red hair while she squinted in the dim light. “Their food must be so spectacular that you aren’t required to view it to bask in its excellence,” she decided.

I grinned as I slid into a booth. My tights snagged on the old wood beneath me, and I jerked them free with a sort of vicious pleasure. A part of me wished the wood had splintered right into my leg, wished for that little pinprick of pain and the small welling of blood, just to show that it happened. That I felt something.

But it didn’t, and my tights were ruined anyway.

After I inhaled an obscene amount of chicken tenders and a few more rum and Cokes than necessarily proper, Casey and I went on our way, looking out over Cumberland River as we drove the creaking Rambler into the growing evening.

“I don’t think Chelsea would have liked that place, even with her godawful appreciation for country music,” I said while we merged onto the highway, band equipment rattling as we accelerated with the traffic.

“No,” Casey agreed. “And Dusty would have fucking hated it.”

As we laughed neither of us noticed the city of Nashville fading from our side mirrors.

***

Casey made it another hundred miles before she abruptly slammed on the brakes and swerved the top-heavy camper to the shoulder of the road. She was gasping wildly – the sort that precede sobbing – and her hands were clutching the steering wheel, immobile.

“Case?” I turned down the stereo and studied my friend’s profile in the faint light from the expressway cars, but I couldn’t see much.

Gradually her breathing slowed, but she kept her gaze rooted straight ahead. The only noises heard in the Rambler were Casey’s harsh breathing and the intense thrum of the traffic a mere few feet to our left.

“I’m okay… just,” she glanced down at her lap, then began smacking the wheel with the heel of both hands. “Fuck! Just fucking… fuck.”

I flailed for the right thing – or anything – to say, to help bring her back. “That Halloween show at the Pub, you remember that?” I asked.

A long silence passed and I feared that she was slipping away from me, falling down into the abyss we had tried so hard to avoid. She finally spoke. “The one where Tim rode in the trailer with the equipment because he was too pissed at Dusty to ride in the truck with everyone else?” Her voice was strained, but whole.

I laughed. “Yeah, and when we got to the Pub, he flew out of the trailer and accused Dusty of taking corners too sharp on purpose-”

“He got his ass kicked by his own drum-set,” Casey cut in as she scrubbed at her eyes, grimacing as her grief and laughter fought across her face. “Why anyone would sit in a trailer full of loose musical instruments, I’ll never know.”

“Because he’s Tim,” I replied. “You sang great that night, though. Fucking nailed that ‘Crazy on You’ cover.”

Casey shrugged, and despite her puffy eyes and blotchy face, she still had that sense of front-woman pride about her. Stroking a singer’s ego was never the wrong way to go. “And almost nailed that blond guy, too, till Dusty went all apeshit over me trying to hook up with a guy wearing a Romney shirt. He didn’t believe that the dude was dressed as a Republican for Halloween.”

“I agreed with Dusty,” I said. “He looked like a Nazi.”

Casey huffed out a laugh.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Casey replied. She rubbed her eyes one final time and sniffed hard before throwing the Rambler back into drive. “I’m good.”

“No, you’re not,” I said.

Casey flashed me a weak grin. “No, I’m not. But don’t tell anybody.”

***

Despite the desire to move forward, Casey and I decided to stop after midnight on the outskirts of Memphis. She had been driving all day since she claimed her experience at drunkenly carting around our friends at sixteen in her family’s Astro van had qualified her as the “Rambler Operator.” I hadn’t argued for two reasons; Casey was absolute shit at directions while I was spectacular, and I loved being able to strum my guitar in the passenger seat, playing along with whatever we had blaring on the stereo, letting Casey’s rich alto sweep together with my chords.

It worked well, me playing the Chewbacca to her Han.

Casey jerked the Rambler to a stop near a few semis parked at the edge of the Walmart parking lot we had chosen to crash in for the night, gypsy-style.

There wasn’t a single person wandering the parking lot; that particular Walmart had operating hours, and twelve AM didn’t happen to be one.

Both of us scrambled out of the motor-home, desperate to stretch and pee. With the amenities locked up within Walmart, and the toilet in the Rambler out of commission (somewhere around 1991, I guessed), we made do in the field next to America’s grocery store as we listened to the crickets and the faint hum of traffic through the woods.

Abruptly, I burst into laughter and stood to pull my pants back up. “I really hope all of those truckers are actually asleep. I’d rather not have my bare ass enter their spank banks.”

“Hmm, I like the way you piss in that field, girl,” Casey said, morphing her voice into a poor resemblance to that of a gruff-spoken trucker.

“Shut up!” I laughed and raced back to the Rambler, but had to wait for Casey anyway, as she held the keys and it was locked.

Once inside, I dug through a bag until I uncovered a pint of rum – the expensive coffee one that Dusty had favored when he wanted something other than a Bud Light. I swiped the blanket off of the bed as I walked past, climbing back into the passenger seat. Casey was already seated behind the steering wheel, legs pulled up on the seat, chin rested on her knees. She was staring out at the field, into the impermeable darkness that the parking lot lights couldn’t dampen.

I threw the blanket over both of our laps, stretching it awkwardly across the center console. As I twisted open the rum bottle and heard the distinct crack of the seal breaking, I asked, “Not ready for sleep?”

She shook her head, wordlessly taking the pint when I offered it to her.

“Don’t hog it,” I said, fiddling with the CD player until “Wild Horses” started winding its way out of the ancient speakers.

“You had a shit-ton of drinks at dinner!” Defiantly, she took another swallow.

I smiled at her and pried the bottle from her chilly hands to take a burning swig for myself. “And I plan on having several more.”

Before the next drink, Casey paused and let her eyes focus on the darkness outside of the windshield. “To Dusty,” she murmured, and drank.

I took the bottle and mimicked her. “To Chelsea.”

After a while I pulled my guitar back into my lap and began the chords to “Lonely is the Night” while Casey sang along, tapping her fingers along the steering wheel at all the right places.

“Lonely is the night when you find yourself alone. Your demons come to light and your mind is not your own. Lonely is the night when there’s no one left to call…”

Casey’s voice broke off, and I wordlessly handed her the pint.

***

We woke up in the Walmart parking lot sprawled haphazardly in the same seats we left Michigan in the previous morning, with the addition of a mild hangover and the unfortunate desire to rid our bladders of the night’s rum.

“I’m not pissin’ in that field in broad daylight,” I mumbled, squinting at the offensive sun. I scrabbled for my fake Raybans in the cup-holder and slid them onto my face with a sigh.

“I’m fairly sure Walmart is open now,” said Casey as she cracked her neck and shifted the driver’s seat back into an upright position.

“Ugh.” I glared at the offensive building in the distance. “It’s fucking far.”

“Let’s get breakfast,” Casey decided as she turned the ignition. The Rambler roared to life. “Something greasy. Where’s the nearest McDonald’s?”

“It better be within not-pissing-my-pants-distance,” I said, typing into the GPS on my phone.

Casey slid a mock glare my way. “What did Tim say before we left, Liz? No pissing, puking, shitting, pop music, or fucking in my goddamn motor-home.'”

“Hundreds of miles away and that guy is still ruining my good time. Turn left outta here.”

With a squealing of tires, we left Walmart behind in favor of America’s favorite restaurant, Tim’s drum-set banging noisily above the music.

***

Led Zeppelin coaxed us into Arkansas and influenced us to leave the highway. We followed Route 7 through what people from Michigan would call mountains. The curving road took us near a lake, so I urged Casey towards it. She glared at me, annoyed at taking the Rambler through the excessively winding roads.

De Gray Lake turned out to be incredibly worth it.

We parked as far out on the peninsula as we could and stumbled from the Rambler, ignoring the stiffness in our legs to wander towards the long strip of beach. All around us was the lake – dark, shining blue, reflecting the late morning sun like a million jewels on the surface of the water. And across from the lake – as far as we could see in any direction – was lush, green forest.

There wasn’t a single person utilizing the park on that fine Tuesday morning, other than ourselves. It felt like a gift – something precious.

“Who knew Arkansas had something like this, huh?” I asked, stripping off my shoes and socks before they got too sandy.

Casey was already down to her underwear next to me, her face lit up like a flower that had been away from the sun far too long.

I wasn’t sure if my own expression differed much.

We raced one another across the sand, splashing into the lake with a lack or reservation usually only existent in our drunkest moments. Casey squeaked as she tripped over a rock, landing awkwardly in the water on her knees. I followed her down, laughing and breathless, sunglasses halfway down my nose.

After a moment the only sound for miles, seemingly, was the lapping of the water against the shore. And for the first time since a car accident in Saginaw, Michigan took two people away from us, the silence wasn’t unbearable.

It was refreshing.

“Remember,” I started, but had to pause and swallow, “When we were all at Dusty’s grandparents’ house, on the beach, and Randy Akers was teaching Chelsea how to shotgun a beer?”

Casey’s eyes widened with glee. “And,” she laughed, “and she turned out better than him, despite being, like, half his size! That’s when I finally accepted her as good enough for Dusty.”

I rolled over in the shallow water and floated on my back, eyes closed against the glaring sun, hearing dulled from the water caressing my ears. “It’s better that it was both of them,” I said, my own words echoing strangely in my head.

Casey didn’t disagree; she merely tilted her face up to the sky and closed her eyes against the sun and tears.

***

We arrived in Austin, Texas later that night, as the sun was beginning its descent. I rolled down my window as the outskirts rolled into sight and took a deep breath of the air surrounding the Music Capital of the World. I remembered all of Dusty’s rants about this place and how we had to get there, and there I was. It felt a bit like victory.

I checked my phone, flicking through text messages quickly. “Tim and Mike’s flight will be here on Thursday.”

“They should have just came with us,” Casey griped good-naturedly. “Barely making it in time for the weekend.”

“Summer classes!” I reminded her.

Casey waved her hand in a manner to seemingly dismiss Tim and Mike’s lack of brilliance when it came to their dedication to furthering their education. (Music would always trump college with Casey.) “Hope these crowds don’t mind our lack of bass player.”

I sucked in a breath, wincing as I glanced out the window. “They won’t mind it as much as we do, I’m sure.”

Casey sighed. “I cannot wait to eat some food and go to fucking sleep.”

“Wait – I have somewhere to go first,” I said, stressing the importance as best I could to someone who had been trapped in a motor-home with me for two straight days. “Believe me, you’ll wanna see this.”

I directed a quickly-flagging Casey through a series of annoying stops and turns, winding our way through a neighborhood in northeast Austin. The homes were of the southwestern flavor; charming and modern all at once. We admired them despite our exhaustion. It felt like Michigan was a million miles away.

“Up here on the right,” I finally said, indicating the row of cars parked neatly on the side of the road. “Just park.”

Casey did so, too tired and too curious to worry about the girth of the Rambler hanging out into the narrow incline of the street. “This better be good, Liz.”

“Just,” I glanced around, noticing an older Asian couple as they mounted the stairs ahead, “up the stairs.”

Ignoring the glare Casey shot my way, I grabbed her hand, pulling her along with an energy reserve that surprised even me.

“What is this place?”

“Mount Bonnell,” I replied, breathing heavily as we trotted up the stairs, urgency thrumming under my skin. I didn’t want to miss it. “The highest point in Austin.”

“What’s so… special about… the highest point?” Casey panted next to me.

“That,” I said as we reached the top, joining a small group of people scattered across the rock platform.

I took in the expanse of the sky, all shades of darkening blue faded to a bright orange at the horizon, and the silver of the Colorado River winding beneath it, glittering with the lights that inhabited both banks.

“Holy shit.”

A sharp breeze blew across my face, warm and fresh. The people around us murmured and took pictures and exclaimed how beautiful it was. But Casey and I stood stock still, as close to the edge of the rock that we could, and thought of everything that took us to that place.

I remembered the flyers littering the walls of Dusty’s apartment, boasting of venues mere miles from the very ground we stood on. Shows that he had never seen, but consisted of music that Dusty had known as well as his own.

“Dusty would have loved to play here,” Casey said, her voice quiet but firm, like something had just been proven to her. “He always wanted to.”

“That’s why we’re going to,” I said, taking in the expanse of everything Dusty had striven to get to, the goal Chelsea had supported from the start. My hands twitched at my sides, longing to clutch at Dusty, or throw an arm around petite Chelsea and revel in this moment. Instead, Casey stepped towards me and slipped her hand in my own shaking fingers. I squeezed her hand. “I think I’ll stay,” I said, staring straight ahead.

“Okay,” Casey said. I wasn’t sure if she meant it to be pacifying or patronizing, but then she said it again. “Okay,” and it sounded like agreement.

 

Kayla Shifter

Tougher Than Titanium

.Reading time 15 minutes.

“Katelyn, can you open your eyes for me? I need you to wiggle your toes.”

Opening my eyes had never been so hard in my entire life. I slightly wiggled my toes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to know I could still move my legs. In that moment the feeling of relief that flushed through my entire body was enough to mask the excruciating pain that was running frantically up and down my spine. However, it wasn’t long before the pain returned.

It had been eight and a half hours since I was wheeled back into the operating room when I awoke. My clouded memory had me wondering what exactly happened after the anesthesiologist slid the needle of the IV into the top of my hand. It all seemed to happen so fast after saying my goodbyes to my mother, and I can remember that it was in that goodbye-moment when I had realized my life was about to change forever, and I wondered if I was strong enough for this. With a nurse on each side of my bed I was wheeled away. In my mind I was reminding myself, I can do this, after all this is god’s plan for me.

The room smelled sterile and the color blue seemed to be so prominent. It was the gloves, the gowns, and the paper that wrapped the tools used to operate. All of it was blue, and I realized that this had to be the operating room. As I lied there the IV continued to drip. Drifting off I vaguely remember the doctors instructing me, “Just relax, lay back and start counting back from 100.” The very last thing I remember was the reassurance of a happy ending in the warm smiles of everyone surrounding me.

I woke up in recovery with tired heavy eyes. In a weak and raspy voice I quietly asked the nurse checking my blood pressure, “Where’s my mom?”

The pain that overwhelmed my entire body made it difficult to speak. She answered, “She’s in the waiting room. We aren’t ready for her to come back yet.”

Being in such a helpless state, I really needed my mom. The nurses had lost all control of the pain and weren’t letting her come back until it was under control. With pain so extreme my body was being sent into shock. I was shaking in a way similar to someone with low blood sugar. Finding myself struggling to breath I was on the edge of giving up. I repeatedly asked for my mom. What felt like hours of lying in recovery drowning in the pain seemed to pass so slowly before my mom appeared through the strangely patterned baby blue and mint green privacy curtain that separated me from the patient staying in the room next to me. Following close behind was my surgeon, Dr. Farley. She immediately began asking questions. “What is going on?”

With nothing but blank stares coming from the nurses standing around my room, Dr. Farley began giving orders. Quickly the nurses did exactly what they were told. With one hand on my hip and the other on my shoulder, slowly and carefully, I was rolled onto my left side. I closed my eyes, my face cringed, and I let out a quiet painful groan. Lying limp in the white-sheeted twin-sized hospital bed, I couldn’t find the strength to assist in being rolled over.

The pain was excruciating, and I couldn’t breathe, but the helpless feeling that lifted from my heart when my surgeon had finally discovered the problem gave me hope. The epidural that was inserted directly into my back during surgery had formed a blood clot preventing the pain- lifting morphine from entering my body. I was given fair warning by Dr. Farley before the tubing was pulled out: “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

As I exhaled the shallow breath, which I considered to be deep, I could feel the tubing slip out of my back. It felt very similar to the warm, smooth, yet slimy feeling of licking your lips. As I returned to lying flat on my back I helplessly pleaded, “Mommy please help me…”

I watched a tear roll down her face as she held tightly onto my hand and IV medication was finally being started. I was given what the nurses called a “drug cocktail,” slang for a few different medications that were mixed to knock the pain completely out. My mom still holding onto my hand gently ran her free hand across my sweaty forehead. With the drug cocktail and the morphine pump that I could give myself every 30 minutes by simply pressing a button, I once again, much like before surgery, drifted off.

I was at peace in a sleep so deep that I had my nurses worried. Finally, in my room, I could hear my nurse and mother standing over my bed talking to me. However, their voices seemed to blend together.

“Katelyn, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes.”

“Honey, just look at me.”

“Katelyn…”

I was trying so hard to open my eyes. They felt as if they were glued shut, and opening them seemed to be impossible. I fought and failed to get the words “I can’t” out. When I finally got them opened a crack I was told I needed to keep them open, but I couldn’t, and again they closed. I quit trying, it was too hard, I was too weak, and I really couldn’t do it anymore. For a split second I caught a blurred glimpse of the wall behind my mom. There were colorful cut-out butterflies – an image forever engraved in my memory. With my eyes closed in the midst of the darkness I could still see them. In my mind I questioned, why me? I felt so weak, yet relaxed and with the simple orders from my nurse to keep my eyes open repeated I finally mumbled, “I can’t.

I really can’t do this anymore.”

My body was no longer in shock. In fact, it was in such a state of peace that it didn’t feel the need to function. With my eyes still closed an oxygen mask was placed over my nose and mouth. Involuntarily, I didn’t want to breathe and my heart didn’t feel like beating. Down to six breaths and twenty-one beats a minute, my nurses were on a fine line of waiting it out or treating me for an overdose. They decided for me to wait it out. With all medication shut off and the oxygen mask on my face I went back to sleep.

The next morning I woke up a new person. I don’t know what happened, but my entire mindset changed. Maybe it was the fact that just lying there I felt my back flat against the bed for the first time in six years. There was no lump, no twist, and as I ran my hands down my body I felt no right rib or left hip prominence. The pain returned with a vengeance, and medications were turned back on, but one thing I knew for sure was that I had defeated scoliosis. With two rods, two hooks, and nineteen screws I considered what I had to be a brand new spine. A nice, stiff, straight, titanium spine, and I decided that I needed to take this on with a stronger mindset. It had still been less than twenty-four hours after surgery when I was asked by my nurses if I’d like to try sitting on the edge of my bed. After having an evening like I did the day prior, who was I to doubt myself? I listened closely as I was instructed on what to do: “Bring your left hand over here, grab the side rail and try to pull yourself up onto your side.”

The nurse had one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hip assisting me in rolling to my side. From there she explained, “While still hanging onto the side rail with your right hand, use your left to push yourself up.” Just like that I was sitting up. I hung my head and closed my eyes, but I was quickly instructed not to do so. The blackness had become my comfort zone. I lifted my head back up and opened my eyes. There on the wall in front of me were the butterflies. The view from my room was beautiful, the window seemed to take up half my room, and the sun felt so warm on my face. I sat there for a minute and remember thinking to myself, wow, I’m sitting up.

My nurse asked me, “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” I answered.

After sitting there for a few more minutes I asked, “Can I walk?”

The look on her face said it all. “Would you like to try to?” I nodded my head, yes.

It took a moment of preparation to be able to stand. With my nurse’s hands around my waist I stood up. I watched as my mom’s hands covered her mouth in shock. She didn’t speak a word, but I could see the relief she felt through the excitement she showed. The heaviness that took over my body felt like I had a backpack on with every hard cover book I owned inside. I was wobbly, but my nurse loosened her grip she had on me. Once again she asked, “How are you feeling?”

I nodded my head reassuring her that I was okay.

“Would you still like to try and take a couple of steps?” she asked me.

I didn’t answer verbally. Instead I slightly and slowly lifted my right foot and put it in front of my left. Just like that I took my first step. I did the same with my left. I lifted it and placed it in front of my right foot. I heard my mom’s voice clearly for what felt like the first time since we had said our goodbyes going into surgery the morning prior. “K-Kate-Katelyn you’re walking… Are you okay? Oh my goodness, honey, you look amazing!”

I looked at her and smiled. She was already smiling. I couldn’t believe it; just the day before I was giving up on simply opening my eyes. I settled for I can’t and now today I was walking. It took that much, but just like that I learned to not doubt my strengths. I’m nowhere near the average person with a titanium spine, but when given a challenge I take it with a “bring it on” type of attitude. After all, “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:13).

 

Katelyn Treichel