Pink and Perfumed

I put out the challenge to my women writers group this week to write a story that incorporated certain words in the text.Well, of course, I included myself in the challenge. The assigned words were: magazine, she froze for a moment then, clever, it doesn't matter


Spilling the mail on the floor as she tripped over the entry way rug, Margo cursed under her breath. She watched as the new home design magazine slid across the freshly polished mahogany floor. Flinched inwardly as it ended up against the closet door, cover flipped back, crinkled, and slightly torn.

“Well, aren't you the clever one.” She muttered crossly. “Dan’s bound to be unhappy about that one.” Stomping to the closet, she grabbed the magazine as one would grab an offensive child by his collar. She smoothed the pages down and shoved loose inserts back inside, kicking off her boots as she did so. 

Satisfied with her efforts to restore order to Dan’s precious periodical, she slapped it down on the side table along with her car keys. Shrugging out of her jacket she marched back to the door to gather the rest of the wayward mail. Having grabbed the mail from the outside box on her way up the walk, she’d not yet scanned the contents and now took the opportunity to do so. Flipping past utility bills and bank statements, she smelled it before she saw it. Pink and petite, addressed to Dan in a loopy feminine handwriting, the perfume wafted up and tickled her nose.

She froze for a moment, then using her thumb and forefinger extracted the letter carefully. She flipped it over. No return address. Her golden-green eyes narrowed to slits. What the heck? Margo tapped the letter against the palm of her hand contemplating her next move.

She could set it on the hallway table with the rest of the mail and watch Dan’s reaction when he came home and saw it. She’d be able to tell a lot by his face. Poker-face was not a word you would use to describe Dan by any means. Would she confront him then and demand to know what was going on?

Or she could open it, obviously, and find out just who this brazen woman was and know exactly what was going on. She wouldn’t need to wait for some limp excuse, or worse, something she wasn’t ready to face.

Carefully now she laid the letter down on the kitchen counter and put some water on for tea. Paced back and forth across the tile kitchen as she waited for the water to heat. Picked up the letter. Set it back down. Paced some more.

When the tea kettle began to emit its whistle, Margo snatched the letter back up. Holding the letter in one hand she moved the tea kettle off the burner. What if the seal of the letter just happened to be in the path of hot steam… what then?

Lips pursed, Margo allowed the envelope to dangle in front of the tea kettle. Eyes wide with fascination she watched as the envelope flap curled slightly. Forgetting the tea making, she slipped one perfectly manicured finger against the flap and slightly under. With just a little more pressure the seal would give and the letter would be opened.

Aware she was about to cross a line she forced herself to take a deep breath and reevaluate the situation. Was not her and Dan’s relationship built on trust? Did she really believe something less than honorable might be going on here?

Yes, she reasoned, she did trust Dan. It was the sender of the fragrant letter that she wasn’t sure about. She laid the card back on the counter and crossed her arms.  

Slowly she began ticking off all the reasons she could think of that someone would write to Dan using pink and perfumed wiles.

Perhaps it was a thank you note. Dan volunteered often with Habitat for Humanity. It could be from one of the office gals. Or maybe it was from an aunt. She couldn’t remember Dan mentioning an aunt but she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt here.

After that, Margo was stumped. Suddenly her face brightened. “Oh! I know! Maybe it’s a gift card for me and Dan wants to surprise me with it later!” Then, “But why would they send it looking all girly-girl and smelling like…” she took a closer whiff. “… Vanilla Musk”

She slapped her hand against her forehead. Of course. Vanilla Musk. Her favorite. Available only from the Secret Pantry, where she had added Dan’s name to their mailing list a few months ago to help him remember upcoming events. Like their anniversary.

Her cheeks flushed, she hastened to the hallway table and laid the letter carefully among the rest of the mail.

“And if I’m wrong, it doesn’t matter. I trust Dan.”

Her decision made, Margo returned to the kitchen for her forgotten cup of tea. 

Colors

Down deep in the pit, I strain my eyes upward, hoping for even a sliver of light to penetrate. I hold my hand in front of my face, trying in vain to make out the shapes of my fingers but it is useless. My back is against the wall, knees drawn up close to my chest. Arms wrapped around them, hair falling into my face as I lay my cheek against the soft fabric of my jeans. There are no tears but a choking tightness stretches across my chest. A knot twists in my stomach and panic rises within me. God feels so very far away. 

Depression. Chronic depression. Debilitating. Painful. It clouds my mind, it steals my joy. I slouch in the recliner, playing endless games of solitaire on my laptop. I open a word doc and stare at a blank page, the cursor taunting me. I pick up a book to read but cannot focus. I wander into the kitchen and stare at pantry shelves, looking without seeing. Mindless eating, then feeling ill, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I turn with a shudder. Maybe I really am as worthless as I feel.

Days pass. Desperation claws at me and I know I have to do something to break this cycle. It takes every ounce of strength within me to pick up the phone and make the appointment. Still, it will take weeks before the antidepressant kicks in and any change is noticed. In the meanwhile, more solitaire, more mindless eating, more staring at the walls.

There comes a day when something different happens. It's subtle, it's small but I find myself thinking about what is going in my mouth, in my head. I can read a whole chapter instead of quitting two or three sentences in. I think about cooking something for dinner instead of a last minute can of soup being opened.

But life is... beige. There is no other word for it. Black has faded and I can see my hand in front of my face now but there is no kaleidoscope of colors bursting on my horizon. Just beige....a calm, smooth beige, but beige none the less. Like an uninterrupted ride down a flat road, no bumps, no highs, no lows. And I am grateful. Because, right now beige is painless.

My back is against the wall, knees drawn up close to my chest. Arms wrapped around them, hair falling into my face as I lay my cheek against the soft fabric of my jeans. I rest in the moment, letting solitude comfort me. There are no tears and I feel my chest relaxing. A knot unfurls in my stomach and my breathing has slowed. I sense God's presence and the calm envelops me. 

The day I decide to find my walking shoes and venture outside for no other reason than to walk, is the day I know a change has occurred. I make note of it; to me this signifies something is working. My world is still monochromatic but its lighter. Brighter. I can wear a pink shirt and not feel like the rosy hue is hurting my skin. I can look at my reflection and see some spark in those eyes that once were hooded.  Maybe I'm not as worthless as I thought.

It takes a long time to get there and maybe I don't really know when it arrived it's been so gradual, but I can see that the tints have grown in depth. I can make out the tones and see the varying shades. Beige has been replaced by pale pinks and soft yellows. I can make out a shade akin to orange on the very edges and I feel a warm earthy red rising with in me. I feel like singing.

My back is straight and I stand tall. Arms wrapped around my bible, hair brushed back so that the sun may kiss my cheek, I lean into the vibrancy that surrounds me. A bubble rises, slowly--champagne released by the cork-- it works its way to the surface and then EXPLODES into a poly-chrome, a rainbow, its palette expanding, mounting, sustaining me as it fills me. God is alive within me and I find all my worth in Him. 

Choices

 The set up:the women's writing group I belong to offered me a challenge with a writing prompt via a selection of photographs. Instructed to choose one picture and write a story about it led me to this.(photo credit Anita van der Elst) 

Shandy was walking across campus when she saw the reporter setting up. Instinctively she ducked her head, hugged her bag of textbooks closer to her chest, and picked up the pace. She’d seen the journalist around the campus earlier; her political agenda crystal clear as she’d barraged some of Shandy’s friends with questions about pro-choice vs pro-life. The last thing Shandy needed was to be intercepted by this reporter.

Then, out of the corner of her eye she saw something then that gave her pause. Stopped in her tracks, she let her book bag sag beside her. Why in the world would Drew Kirkland allow himself to be pigeon holed by the reporter?

She didn't know Drew very well. Which was a shameful thing to say considering the one night they’d spent together several weeks ago. The party at a friend’s house off-campus had been exactly what you might expect for the college crowd. Shandy was introduced to Drew and there seemed to be an immediate attraction on both sides. Drew was attentive and kind, bringing her drinks and engaging her in enthusiastic conversation. There had been a lot of laughter, Shandy recalled, then kissing but after that things got hazy. Waking up the next morning with a cotton mouth, a pounding headache, and her clothes in disarray had been confusing enough. Realizing Drew was snoring next to her wearing even less than she was, was horrifying. Unsure at that moment of what had really taken place, she’d gathered her things and made a hasty escape, too mortified to face him.

Since then, whenever their paths had crossed, Shandy had avoided eye contact. Drew had made no attempts to interact with her and for that Shandy was torn. Embarrassment and disgust over what had obviously taken place that night won out over any desire to reconnect with Drew. The fact that she didn't seem to register on his radar told her he must feel the same way.

When the test result came back positive there was only one solution Shandy could think of, devastating as that seemed. But how could she tell anyone she was pregnant when she couldn't even recall the night it had happened? Forget about telling Drew. There was no way she could broach him about this!

And, now, here was Drew engaged in conversation with the reporter, presumably about the very thing weighing so heavily on her own mind and heart. Judging by the look on Drew’s face he felt passionate about whatever he was saying. Shandy wished she could hear him. Maybe she’d hear something that would give her direction about her pending decision. Something that would offer her even the slightest sliver of hope.

Cautiously she dared to come just a little closer.

Bookworms and Blueberries

“Mom, what does ‘i-dee-lick’ mean?” I looked up from my bread dough to meet the chocolate brown eyes of my youngest daughter. Slightly confused by what could only be incorrect pronunciation, I requested she spell it.

“Idyllic.” I said. “It means peaceful or calm, pleasant.” I paused, thinking. “I spent an idyllic afternoon in the hammock.” Satisfied, Tessa returned to her book and I, to the pounding of the dough.

Tessa was a reader. While her older brother and sister were usually found outside chasing butterflies or playing catch, I could count on finding Tessa curled up in a chair, book in one hand, the other one twisting a lock of hair.

I certainly didn’t mind! I was an avid reader myself. Todd and Tara were too, but they much preferred the outdoor activities of the farm and helping their dad during the day. Save the book reading for evenings when daylight was gone, or the weather too unpleasant to play in. 

Ours was a good life, this one my husband and I had carved. Country kids, both of us, when the McGregor Farm came up for sale, we couldn’t think of a better place to raise a family. We doled out chores along with discipline and manners. It was the way our parents raised us and their parents had raised them.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched my eight year olds mouth work its way around another unfamiliar word. My heart surged with pride for her independent streak that would not allow her to ask for help until she had exhausted her own efforts. Sure enough I saw her face alight with comprehension and she sank deeper into her little world.

I moved the bread dough to the warming oven and wiped my hands. “Tess, tear yourself away from your book a minute and come take a walk with me.”

She groaned but obeyed. While I was glad she loved to read, I worried that my little bookworm wasn’t getting enough physical activities. As we made our way down the worn path to the garden, I looked closely at Tessa. In the sunlight, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes and wondered how long she’d stayed awake the night before, reading under the covers. I circled my arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to me. Instantly she stood straighter.

It had been a busy productive summer as usual and perhaps I had been too busy to really pay attention to my quiet compliant child. With a rowdy thirteen year old son and a precocious eleven year old daughter clamoring for my time, Tessa was the easy one. Maybe too easy, and too often overlooked with all these things demanding my attention. I resolved to spend some extra time with Tessa before school resumed next month.

We had reached the blueberries and we knelt together as I handed Tessa a bucket that rested against the fencepost. For some time we picked berries in companionable silence, enjoying the plinking of plump ripe fruit as it landed in the buckets. The sunlight danced across the burnished red of the blueberry bush. The cooing of a dove lulled us.

“Mom?” Tessa’s voice broke the stillness. “Is this an i-dyl-lic moment?”

Sitting back on my heels, I studied her small face for a moment, brushing a strand of hair so I could see her eyes better. A memory floated to the surface like a picture from a storybook. I was a child picking vegetables from the garden with my mother. It was a memory awash in sunshine, fragrant and rich. Tessa grinned at me. A wave of love rushed over me, a love so fierce, so pure. I wished I could freeze frame this moment.

"Idyllic? Yes, Tessa, I believe it is.”

* this story will soon be appearing in an upcoming publication, "Mixed Blessings, Simple Pleasures" a series of anthologies brought to you by Breath of Fresh Air Press. For more information on Breath of Fresh Air Press please like their Facebook page or look for them on the Faithwriters website.