Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
ALEIDOSCOPE
EXPLORING THE EXPERIENCE OF DISABILITY THROUGH LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS
Number 70
Winter/Spring Online 2015
Journeying To Acceptance
"A Different Direction" by Jenny Patton
"Mother's New Leg" by Jeffrey Boyer
"To Master Blindness" by Dr. Elishia Heiden
ALEIDOSCOPE
Winter/Spring 2015
Number 70
EXPLORING THE EXPERIENCE OF DISABILITY THROUGH LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS
Contents
47
Freight Train
EDITORIAL NOTE
4
Kellie L. Thurman
Gail Willmott
53
Blue Rose
Ellen Dawn Wilder
FEATURED ESSAY
6
A Different Direction
PERSONAL ESSAY
Jenny Patton
12
FEATURED ART
Slices of Life
32
Sandy Palmer
POETRY
18
30
Desert Baker
FICTION
To Master Blindness
11
Joan Mazza
24
Anne E. Johnson
Super Bowl
17
Sarah Key
38
29
Hal Sirowitz
31
Clueless
Joanne Faries
36
Anita Stienstra
37
Goodbye
Tony Gloeggler
44
Love Poem
Andy Roberts
45
46
50
Walking Aids
51
Alan L. Samry
Portrait of a Woman
Drinking Coffee
Shannon Connor Winward
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
52
63
Staff
PUBLISHER
Gary M. Knuth, President/CEO
United Disability Services
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Gail Willmott, M.Ed.
MANAGING EDITOR
Lisa Armstrong
ART COORDINATOR
Sandy Palmer
EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS
Lynne Came
Paul Gustely
Kathleen Sarver
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF EMERITUS
Darshan Perusek, Ph.D.
HONORARY EDITOR
Phyllis Boerner
ART CONSULTANT
Jennifer Wexler
Director of Visual Arts
VSA, Washington, D.C.
Poetry Review
Sandra J. Lindow
University of Wisconsin-Stout
Menomonie, Wisconsin
EDITORIAL NOTE
made that in order to attend the university I would have to give up walking
on crutches in favor of using a manual
wheelchair (a transition that was not as
easy as one might think). In addition to
learning to push a manual chair, there
was for me, an internal debate. As a
young child there was major effort put
into achieving the one goal of walking on crutches and walking seemed to
represent a step toward greater normalcy and independence. Therefore,
was opting to use a wheelchair a major
regression, a significant surrender, a
movement in the wrong direction?
It quickly became apparent that if I
wanted to attend college, the crutches
would have to go, and I would have to
modify my self-perception. This change
represented a new definition of independence and forward motion.
In the last ten or twelve years, I have
experienced more physical losses. After
months of a serious illness, my ability
to stand and to transfer independently
disappeared, despite three months of rehabilitative therapy. I now use a Hoyer
lift with the assistance of an aide for all
Gail Willmott
FEATURED ESSAY
A Different Direction
Jenny Patton
proteins. Unable to stop crying, I experienced darkness when the lights were
on and heaviness though Id lost twenty
pounds overnight.
I remembered reading
that doing the same
thing over and over yet
expecting different
results is a mark of
insanity.
When I took him to the mall playground, I fantasized about buying Ann
Taylor suits and heels instead of gym
clothes and Nikes. I thought about going back to my marketing department,
back to where I knew what to do.
At Gabriels annual check up, I confided my frustrations to his pediatrician.
I felt ill-equipped to handle him and
asked her for tips on how to be a better
mother. To my surprise, she set up a
session for him at the Nisonger Center,
a developmental disability facility, to
rule out any issues. I worried for
weeks, not knowing what to expect.
On a Thursday in October, Gabriel was
diagnosed with Aspergers syndrome,
which was on the autism spectrum, by
a team of four doctors and three therapists with whom my husband, son, and
I spent five hours. I learned that the
traits I admired were in fact signs Id
missedthe crab crawl, arm flapping,
lack of pointing, sensitivity to clothing textures, oversized head, obsession
with train wheels, tendency to walk on
tiptoes, and fixation on light switches
and ceiling fans. I learned that all of
thiscombined with his noncompliance, delayed speech, poor fine-motor
skills, noise sensitivity and social anxietyhelped the doctors confirm their
suspicions. I learned it wasnt my fault.
I learned how to help him. I learned
new ways to measure his development.
I learned that the part-time summer job
in which I worked with special needs
children trumped all my other logged
childhood development training hours.
I learned how to be a better mother to
him. I learned I didnt want to leave
him.
and covering his ears, to follow instructions, to ease up on his fascination with
ceiling fans, to play with toys instead of
inspecting them, to be normal.
Does Aspergers
have a positive
connotation? Gabriel
asked. It was his only
question that evening.
dont. Well before Gabriel spoke, Robert was better at decoding our childs
sounds, knowing what Gabriel was trying to tell us he wanted.
One summer night before Gabriels
sophomore year of high school, it was
time. Robert wanted to tell him while
driving, since eye contact makes both
of them uncomfortable. And he wanted
to avoid the word disabled. On the
way to Coldstone Creamery, Robert
referred to a movie in which a son
inherits time travel abilities from his
father. He told Gabriel he himself was
special, in a different way. I talked
about how I am different from ordinary
people, Robert told me afterwards.
Then I pointed out that he has inherited my abilities. He said their condition
is called Aspergers syndrome, named
after Hans Asperger who noticed all
these highly intelligent people with
similar quirks. To explain it in terms
Gabriel could understandsuperhero termsRobert said, Evolution
works in groups, like the X-Men and
X-Gene, to let him know there are
others like them, other people who are
more sensitive to input. Other peoples
minds block out lots of noises, textures,
smells and sights, but our minds take
in much more, sometimes causing us
to miss the obvious and other times
picking out the completely obscure.
Gabriel nodded but stayed quiet. Robert
said the reason Gabriel worked with
therapists Lindsay and Laura for so
many years was to help him learn how
to manage the sensory overload. You
used to be scared of the ocean and of
dark rooms, Robert told him, something Id forgotten.
Does Aspergers have a positive
connotation? Gabriel asked. It was
his only question that evening. Robert enthusiastically responded, Yes,
its associated with genius. Gabriel
learned people like Albert Einstein,
Thomas Edison, Mozart, and Abraham
Lincoln are believed to have had Aspergers. Robert then explained that
since Aspergerss affects socialization,
We tend to have fewer friends, but the
friendships we have are very intense.
9
He felt having few very strong friendships outweighed having many surface
friendships. Gabriel has long known
Roberts best friend Will, who was the
best man at our wedding as well as Gabriels godfather.
Robert addressed the question I imagine I wouldve asked, had I been in
Gabriels shoes: Why didnt you tell me
before? He explained that we didnt
want his teachers to know because we
didnt want Aspergers to be an excuse
for him not to have to learn to adapt to
rules and social conditions like everyone else. It might have been harder
and less pleasant for you, but you did
it, Robert said. Since Gabriel has
been in high school, it seems that hed
benefit from more time to complete
testssomething built into Individualized Education Plans for many students
with Aspergers. Not only did Robert
think Gabriel was old enough to understand Aspergers, but that it was time
to speak to his counselor to request
more test-taking time, and he wanted
our sons permission to do so. Gabriel
agreed that more time would be helpful.
A few days later, Gabriel and I walked
in the woods. Though I knew better, Id
imagined hed fire off questions about
Aspergers when I brought up the topic.
This discovery must have been a lot for
him to take in, and I wanted to help him
process it. I liked Dads idea of looking at peoples noses since I dont like
looking at peoples eyes when we talk,
he said. He was quiet after that.
Gabriel didnt remember his five-hour
appointment at Ohio State Universitys
Nisonger Center Autism Clinic where
he was evaluated by a pediatrician,
speech therapist, occupational therapist, and psychologist. But he knew, of
course, about the therapies hed been
through, knew about his auditory-processing challenges, knew I made sixty
Social Story booklets for him with
drawings that show step-by-step behaviors for certain situations, construction
10
POETRY
Joan Mazza
11
PERSONAL ESSAY
Even in music, their tastes were completely different. Samantha loved Linda Ronstadt and Broadway show tunes,
while Matt listened to rap and rock and roll.
In order to bridge the gap in musical preferences, the adults
tables featured pictures of the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, the
Beach Boys, Elton John, and the Rolling Stones. Matts tables sported Blink-182, G-Unit, Beyonc, and Snoop Dogg;
Sams were Linda Ronstadt and Bette Midler.
What made our bnai mitzvah so challenging was the extreme diversity of guests, who were so different from one
another, not just in age, but in their ability to enjoy a party.
Unlike Matts friends, Samanthas guests could be overwhelmed by loud music, flashing lights and crowds. Most
of these vulnerable kids were not friends with each other
and tended to retreat to the sidelines. Those who danced,
danced alone. Others became fixated on one activity, to the
exclusion of everything else.
The party had barely started when Becky, a petite, freckled ten-year-old, ran out of the main room with her hands
pressed to her ears and her eyes squeezed shut, begging
me to go home. Skinny, dark-haired Jason, who had loved
watching movies with Samantha, sat glumly in a corner
tapping his foot. Even Aaron, a handsome, muscular boy,
whom my daughter loved, stayed close to his mother. Christy and Amanda, younger camp friends from out of town,
arrived late. Christy, who was slim and dark-skinned with
blinking frog-like eyes, had many food allergies, and so her
mother explained theyd stopped for dinner beforehand, just
13
You saw us every week till we were four.
You played with us on the floor.
You took us to California Pizza and the Central Park
Zoo.
You even told Mom to give us our own birthday cakes
too.
We will always miss you, but especially tonight.
Not having you here just doesnt seem right.
You would have loved this party and had lots of fun.
So in your honor, Papa, we light candle number one.
I saw my mother wipe her eyes and exit the room. As Matt
dedicated the second candle to Grandpa George and Grandma Sylvia, I stared at the doorway. My mothers candle was
next.
Matt handed the microphone to Samantha and looked at me
helplessly across the dance floor. Wheres Grandma?
I ran across the dance floor to my twins. The ladies
room, I whispered. Papas candle was too much for her.
Where are you, Grandma? Samanthas voice caromed off
the walls; she held the mike too close to her lips. Grandma,
its your turn. We need you here!
An awkward silence followed as everyone waited. Then
I noticed my friend, Paula, leave the room to look for my
mom. In the meantime, my twins stood before the candles,
while our guests were growing restless.
Samantha, why dont you start? Im sure Grandma will be
back soon. I returned to my seat.
Grandma is in the bathroom, Sam announced over the microphone. But Mom says shell be back, so I should start.
The tension was broken and everyone laughed.
Helluva time to powder her nose, Howard grumbled as I
sat down.
We love Grandma.
Shes really fine.
She laughs at our jokes and enjoys all our songs.
She listens to our stories, no matter how long
My mother entered the room just in time to light the third
candle as You Are the Sunshine of My Life played
through the speakers and filled the room.
Slowly, Samantha handed the microphone to her twin
brother. He looked at Howard with his earnest blue eyes and
called us up to the candles.
14
Sam kissed him and lit her candle. Then slowly, grinning,
she turned to her brother. The song switched to Born to Be
Wild.
Its fun to have a twin brother to share things with one
another:
summers in the Hamptons, falling off our bikes on
Peacock Road,
and sledding in Central Park when it snowed.
And keeping our light on when you wanted it dark.
So for being mostly wonderful and only a little bit mean,
Matthew, please light for good luck candle thirteen.
Our twins hugged to laughter and applause; the camera
flashed, and for an instant my twins were surrounded by a
halo of light.
15
She wasnt just singing the words; she was sending them
out as a special thank-you to me, and tears streamed down
my cheeks. Howard gently brushed them away with his fingers and kept smiling.
Phil finished the last few notes on the piano, and Oz called
out to the audience, Lets hear it for Samantha and her
fabulous voice!
A roar of applause followed. Glancing around, I noticed a
few people fumbling with tissues as Samantha left the stage.
Matt hugged her on the way over to our table as I tried to
compose myself. My last Kleenex was already soaked and
stained with mascara, so I must have looked like a raccoon
as I embraced Sam. You were fabulous, sweetheart. I
kissed her, and her face smelled like fresh caramel.
I was fabulous? Why are you crying? Are those happy
tears?
Very happy tears. Sams question showed she was finally
understanding deeper emotions. Now, Mommy has to escape to the ladies room to fix my face, so I can look happy
again without the tears.
You were great, Sweet Pea. Howard kissed her. Daddys
very proud of you.
And Grandma too. My mother hugged her, also tearyeyed. As Samantha scampered away smiling, Mom added,
Sam was sensational. Really special. Shes going to be
fine, youll see.
In the ladies room, I cleaned up my eyes and tried brushing on mascara the way the makeup artist had shown me.
Unable to restore my face to the way it had looked at the
beginning, I smiled at my makeshift reflection. I was glowing inside.
16
POETRY
Sarah Key
Super Bowl
We gals gather round the dip, chips, subs,
as the men crunch popcorn in front of the TV.
It sounds like the fifties, but its the aughts
in the Big Apple, and Richard the adman is here
with a thumbs up or down for each commercial,
his son Thomas front and center in his own chair.
The other boys race up and down the room,
pile six-deep when the Giants score.
Richard speaks to his boy in a low voice
I strain to hear. I am lured from snacks
to watch them pass words back and
forth without a sound,
heads bowed in huddles hush.
I scoot closer and closer, but cant follow their flow,
invisibly quiet, its like electricity
Richard lifts his son out of the
wheelchair after halftime. They lounge on the floor
beside me. What a tackle! The Maltepoo pounces on
Thomas helpless to push its paws off his chest,
or stop dog-tongue lapping cheeks, lips, nose.
What a catch! Thomas explodes in giggles.
The fathers jump and scream at the flat screen.
Richard rubs his sons chest, back, arms,
fingertips whispering the plays.
17
FICTION
To Master Blindness
Dr. Elishia Heiden
When Clara first began seeing the black dots and the vague
areas of filmy color, she told her mother who, in turn, called
the optometrist who referred Clara to a local ophthalmologist. Dont you worry, said Claras mom as she patted
her leg in the car on the way to the appointment. Im sure
everythings going to be fine. Its probably just a short-term
thing that will clear itself up.
But, somehow, Clara was not surprised when Dr. Richardson placed a globed magnifying glass on her eyes, one at a
time, shined a bright light into each eye, and announced that
Clara had lattice degeneration.
18
Not until her piano lessons the next week did that incessant
phrase leave her.
I can tell youve been practicing your piano, Clara. Mrs.
Cook, Claras piano teacher, encouraged her from the
couch where she always sat when Clara played her pieces.
Thank you. I do it every night.
The more time the better. You know what people say about
practice?
What? Clara questioned out of politeness.
It takes 10,000 hours of practice to master anything. Practice one hour for 10,000 days, dear Clara, and you will be a
master of the piano.
Claras mind was struck with brilliance, That works with
anything?
I believe so. Thats what they say.
Right then and there, on Mrs. Cooks piano bench, Clara
Moore knew that if she could not stop her eyes from going
blind, then she would practice being blind, as much as possible. Her mission, she wrote inside of the front cover of a
notebook that night was to become a Master of Blindness.
In a very short time, she had almost every detail of the walk
to school memorized even though she had only stopped
riding the bus at the beginning of fifth grade a couple
months before. West Lane Elementary was rather close to
her house, only a few blocks away, otherwise, her mother
wouldnt have given her permission to walk to school. On
especially cold days, or whenever Clara spent too much
time reading her books in the morning or staring out the
window, her mother drove her to school, but on most occasions, Clara walked to school and did not mind it at all because she was determined to learn to see without her eyes.
When walking to school, shed close her eyes for a few
moments at a time and attempt to take normal steps, timing how long she could go. Initially, her steps shortened
involuntarily and her hands reached in front of her for fear
that shed run into a stop sign or tree or fall into the road.
Memorizing the outside world seemed too difficult, but
soon enough she could tell whether she was walking on the
sidewalk, over driveways, or on the road. All of the surfaces
put unique pressures beneath the soles of her feet, depending on any slant or cracks in the pavement. She counted the
19
paces from one stop sign to the next and only occasionally
walked into the bushes that lined the sides of the sidewalk.
Each walk to or from school allowed Clara to record 15
minutes of practice in her notebook.
The outside world did prove to be more difficult to memorize than the inside world, but she encouraged herself
because at home she quickly trained herself to maneuver
everything with her eyes closed. She memorized the grain
of the hardwood banister beneath her palm and the scratchiness of the carpet on the stairs. It took her exactly six paces
to walk from her bedroom door to the top of the stairs.
Clara didnt want to upset her mother and figured that most
people wouldnt understand her need to master blindness,
so she kept it to herself. But twice she got caught, once by
her mother and once by her teacher. Her mother found her
practicing being blind while Clara took her evening bath.
Clara began the habit of plugging her ears with her thumbs,
holding her nose, and closing her eyes all at the same time
and then immersing her entire body under the surface of
the water. She wouldve preferred to keep her nose and ears
open, but also didnt want to chance water getting stuck in
her ears again. Her mom forced drops into her ears whenever this happened, and she couldnt stand the echo of the
added liquid in her ears.
When her entire body was under the water, shed concentrate on the tickle of liquid moving in currents around her
body until it settled again to a flat surface. The curls of her
hair softened and moved as tendrils around her face, lightly
brushing her cheeks. She imagined herself as a mermaid
at the bottom of the ocean. Sometimes she pretended to
be a sailor in a submarine. If she left the water running in
the faucet, the sounds echoed off the porcelain, making
such a whir that she could almost see the lobster or sailor
friends in her mind. One night, as she wiggled four fingers
on her hand to wave hello to them, her mothers real arm
reached into her colorfully focused world and pulled her
body out of the water, forcing her back into reality.
20
No reply. She grabbed her book bag and stomped down the
stairs, Mom, can I
Clara, you sound like a herd of buffalo. Claras mother
stood at the bottom of the stairs with short bushy hair and a
pink ruffled housecoat.
Can I play with the kittens before school?
This explains the panic, her mother hinted at a smile.
Yes, you may. But I expect to see my beautiful young lady
walking to school across the front of the house within five
minutes.
All five of the kittens looked like fluffy balls on top of the
old bath towels in the computer monitor box. Clara sat on
her knees and closed her eyes. She craned her head over
the box and breathed in as deeply as she could. With her
eyes closed, she reached a hand into the box and gently
lifted one of the kittens, trying her best to memorize the
feeling of the soft fur and fragile ribs. She placed her cheek
against the kittens body and heard a tiny squeak. None of
her senses seemed to be more alert with her eyes closed, but
she knew that these amplifications would come with more
practice. In the meantime, shed do her best to memorize
any sensation that she could so she could recognize it even
when she couldnt see it. Later shed pencil this time in her
log: Playing with kittens: 5 minutes.
the stairs and felt for the surface of the floor, found it, and
stepped completely onto it.
Success, she said to herself in jubilation.
With her feet firmly planted on the floor of the lower level,
Clara turned right into the living room, placing her hands on
the bumpy wall and over the wide trim of the arch. Her first
task of the day was to make herself breakfast; cereal and
milk. She flung her stick around from side to side, whapping this and that, until she could tell that she went through
the other door and into the kitchen. She turned right and
swung her arms around, trying to find the refrigerator door.
Her body turned in circles, arms flailing, feet stepping a
few steps right and left and back and forward, until finally
she bumped into the refrigerator. Here you are. Just where
I thought, she said, though the refrigerator could not be
fooled, having seen her entire dance.
She felt around the door for the handle, grasped it, and
pulled on the doorthe suction giving much more resistance than she remembered. Cold, stale air met her face.
She held the door with the hand that held the stick and
felt the contents inside with the other: small bottles, large
bottles, glass bottles, plastic bottles, sticky, soft. What she
assumed to be the milk carton sat next to a bottle of the
same size.
Orange juice she thought. She let go of the door, it swung
back some, and she poked the bottles with the stick, to no
avail.
Soon enough, she realized that one option for deciphering
the difference between the two drinks was to taste them.
She unscrewed a cap, lifted the heavy carton, placed her lips
on the crusty top and delighted herself by having picked up
milk on the first try.
The rest of the breakfast was similar, much reaching and
poking. When all was said and done, she believed she could
write 45 minutes in the logbook. She was excited to have
22
more time in the book, but a bit upset that things werent as
natural to her as she had hoped they would be. Homework
and getting dressed were on the docket next, but she realized she would never do her homework right after breakfast
and decided to watch television instead.
Returning through the dining room into the living room
wasnt much of a hassle, because she had already practiced
this route several times. She searched the couch and the loveseat for the remote. Once she found it, she felt around for
the power button on the remote, not too hard of a feat. The
television powered on and a dramatic male voice filled the
roomshe recognized her mothers soap opera. She flipped
the channel button up and up until she heard the voices of
her favorite sitcom. How are you going to get out of class
to go to the concert?
Dont worry. I have a plan, replied a female voice.
Clara imagined the characters of the show standing in the
hallway of their television school. Shed seen this episode
and had a decent time imagining where they stood, and the
movements they made. Watching television: 30 minutes.
She guessed.
The smell of burning leaves filled the living room, distracting her from the television. She left it on, and slowly
walked through the dining room and kitchen to the back
door, moving her stick about and waving her arm slightly.
The heavy metal screen doors hinges creaked, and the
smell of leaves became stronger. Once outside, the thought
of the kittens distracted her from the smell, and she fumbled
into the garage and shuffled until she ran into the box of
kittens.
She felt the kittens, trying to decide which one was her
favorite yellow tabby. She put her head into the box, trying
to remember which scent belonged to him. She picked each
of them up separately, tried to concentrate on the feel of the
fur and how their weight felt in her hand, but she could not
discern one from another. A small voice of panic entered her
mind, but she ignored it skillfully.
Oh, here you are, she said out loud to the cats, and to herself, trying to believe that she could indeed differentiate one
kitten from the other merely by touch.
She cuddled the kitten close to her cheek and sat with her
legs crossed, Indian style, on the ground, patting its head.
But, surely, she thought, little skill was necessary in order to
pet a cat. She estimated her time with the kittens as merely
Once she found the sidewalk, she steadied the bike, pushed
up, and lifted her right leg over the bike. Initially, she biked
at a steady pace. The kitten squeaked in the basket, the air
still smelled of smoke, and she felt as though she might be
able to accomplish anything today and in the future. But
just as the steps of her walking soon slowed on the way to
school, so did her biking. She began pedaling slower and
slower and, after biking over a crack in the sidewalk, lost
her balance and crashed to one side. Her blindfold loosened
enough to see a black kitten, rather than a yellow tabby,
tumble out of the basket just as the bike landed on the sidewalk. Her elbows and knee on one side throbbed, but she
did not consider her own pain as she scooped up the kitten
and cuddled it in her hands.
Clara Moore placed the kitten in the basket and gave him
the blindfold as a blanket. She took off down the sidewalk,
eyes wide open and glasses perched on her nose, and tried
her best not to entertain visions of Humpty Dumpty again.t
ALEIDOSCOPE
Gail Willmott, Editor-in-Chief
23
FICTION
While Vince was gone, Marjorie made her phone read aloud
the other items in her bibliography. The book of letters
Vince had gone to fetch was the most important document
so far. Marjorie was writing a masters thesis on how women participated in business in nineteenth-century London.
These letters were from various female merchants. It would
be a treasure trove for her research.
24
Oh, Sam, she said, I really need to use this book. The
due date for her thesis was coming up quickly, and Vince
was leaving for vacation. I dont have time to find somebody to read to me, she said. Sam grunted, and Marjorie
longed to switch places with him. Writing a masters thesis
was just too stressful. Not that she thought a service dogs
work was easy, but at least he didnt have a big, scary paper
due in six weeks.
She heard Vinces familiar footfalls before he entered the
room. Any luck? she asked. How does it look?
Vince dropped a heavy tome onto the table and leafed
through the pages. Its a facsimile.
Noooo! Marjorie groaned. So, photographs of the original handwritten letters?
25
Not like you, doing a masters thesis when you cant even
see the books.
Yeah?
For the next ten days, Della and Marjorie worked together
in the little room at the corner of the library. They learned
as much about each other as they did about female merchants in London.
This is amazing, said Della one day after reading aloud a
letter from a woman named Mary Heprin, who ran her own
silk dying enterprise in the 1840s. I always pictured historical women just sitting at home, embroidering. I thought
that business activities started with feminism in the 1970s
or something.
A lot of people think that. But there are records of women
running businesses even in medieval times.
No way!
26
You should maybe just go do your own work today. Marjorie was aware that she sounded curt. Part of her was trying to chase Della away.
Yeah. Thanks.
Nothin.
Della didnt answer right away, and when she finally spoke,
her voice cracked with emotion. Its my dad. Hes in the
hospital. Heart attack.
27
How can you say that? Della did not sound grateful or
pleased. Her voice was pinched with anger. What did I do
thats worth a plane ticket?
Oh, please dont be offended. Marjorie was desperate
to smooth the turbulence. Were friends, right? Youre in
trouble, and I want to help you.
Yeah, but . . .
Determined to make her point, Marjorie interrupted. You
dont seem to understand how important what you did for
me really was.
Ha! The syllable sounded harsh and hollow. I just read
some letters to you. I didnt always know what I was reading, but it was no big deal to figure out the words and say
them. Anybody could have done that.
Marjorie smiled, knowing what she needed to say. First,
not anybody could have. And second, not everybody would
have. Believe me, what you did for me cannot be measured
in frequent flyer miles.
I dont get it.
Imagine you have no arms. You need to get into a room,
but its door is closed. You stand there, frustrated, wondering if you could maybe turn the doorknob with your teeth.
Which you know you cant. But you really, really have to
get into that room, so youre going nuts.
That sounds awful.
Yeah, but then somebody comes along, Somebody nice,
who happens to have arms and hands. They turn the doorknob so you can go in. For them, it was nothing. For you,
it makes all the difference. Thats what you did for me. You
opened the door to that book.
Seriously, it was just . . .
Please believe me, you did me a huge favor. Id like to do
this thing for you, to say thanks.
Giving me a free plane ticket is too huge a thank-you gift,
no matter how you slice it.
Actually, its as simple as turning a doorknob, Ive got
these free miles. Theyre going to expire soon, and I have
no time to travel because of my masters thesis. You need to
travel somewhere right now. Please, Della, let me open this
door for you.
28
POETRY
Hal Sirowitz
29
PERSONAL ESSAY
enerations ago, my great, great grandfather emigrated from Denmark to the United States. Upon
arrival, his last name was changed slightlyrather
than spelling it Jespersen, it became Jesperson.
In the course of time, my grandfather was born, and utterly
refused to spell his name according to the designation his
family had received on arriving in America. He steadfastly
rebelled, spelling his name with an e. My grandfather
rejected the idea that the new culture he encountered somehow trumped the one his forefathers left behind.
In the same way, on December 6, 2005, my daughter was
diagnosed with a significant hearing loss, which spirited my
family into yet another new culture. Just as differing opinions met my forebears at their port of entry, we encountered
the same.
Those who saw my daughter as needing to be fixed insisted that we not throw her into the deaf world with both
hands. Thankfully, we actually found safe refuge in the
Deaf world, where both hands would be used for something
better than wringing in angst. We were welcomed and offered support. We learned the stories of others who had
traveled that same road, meeting some that had accepted the
proverbial spelling change to their last name and others
who refused it. We encountered professionals who used fear
as a weapon against uninformed parents, and professionals
who gave information to help guide us in our options.
30
POETRY
Joanne Faries
Clueless
expectant weary father
rubs his left eye twitch
fatigued, stressed
he awaits the birth
any day now, and he ponders
this stretch of time and wifes belly
impossible to fathom hauling
piles of lotions, diapers, bows,
and Cheerios to placate their
creation. Saying no to willful
tears. Reading Goodnight Moon
with a kiss
what of the five, ten, eighteen,
forever endless years of worry,
wonder, and responsibility
for his challenged child
no matter where or when
shell be his baby girl as
he answers to dad
31
FEATURED ART
Slices of Life
Sandy Palmer
Becki Melchione
32
33
One day, I saw this beautiful butterfly on the charred remains of a small fire. The burst of color against the destruction of the fire drew me in, perhaps reminding me of the
myth of a phoenix rising from the ashes. Thats what I felt I
needed to do, to rise up and create a new life from the one I
had planned that crumbled under the diagnosis.
34
After surgery and radiation she realized that color was affected, even when looking with my good eye because the
input from my bad eye muted everything. I was distraught.
Thats why I started photographing so much and was drawn
to color. I was afraid that Id never see it the same again and
that I was losing something so important . . . All I can say is
that photography helped me capture what I feared I had lost
forever. While she was still receiving treatments, she and
her husband took a cruise to Alaska. We just needed to get
away from New York City and from cancer, so we went as
far away as possible. While walking around the ship, she
noticed the way the light played on the water and says, I
wanted to capture this because I had noticed that color was
fading for me and I wanted to be able to remember it. She
35
POETRY
Anita Stienstra
36
POETRY
Tony Gloeggler
Goodbye
Today, I picked Joshua up
from music group. He said
my name soon as I stepped
through the door, tried to run
to me. The therapist stood
in his way, forced him to stay
until he made eye contact,
said goodbye to her assistant,
the other kids. She slowly
walked him over to me,
assured me how much better
he was doing while he tugged
on my arm repeating home
louder and louder. I thanked her
while we headed out the door,
tried to keep him from jumping
into every puddle, steer him
from bumping into people
as we turned down subway stairs.
Joshua took a window seat,
got on his knees and traced
the outline of his face as we rode.
I finger counted the six stops
to Hamilton Parkway, promised
that his mom would be waiting
for him. When the train rose
out of the ground, climbed up
into the cloudless sky, he ran
to the front door. I stood behind
him, played with his hair as all
of Red Hook spread beneath us.
I glanced at the other riders,
curious whether they could tell
something was wrong with Joshua
then wondered what he was thinking,
if his brain could hold anything
other than shapes and colors
flying past, the feel of glass
against his fingertips, the thought
that his mommy would be waiting
three, now two, stations away.
I imagined what he would do
if we stayed on longer, rode out
to Coney Island. Would he stop
crying and fighting long enough
to see or hear, smell, the ocean?
Would he run across the sand
like the summer before, strip
down to his shorts? Jump
and play in the waves until
the last light left the sky?
Previously published
in The Ledge No. 29, Fall 2006.
37
FICTION
not toeing in. My mother always answers her own questions. She keeps her back straight, her hip dipping at each
step, but as she transfers her weight I can see that the artificial leg gives only momentary support. My PT man made
final adjustments. He said Ill be dancing in no time.
The new leg is made of fiberglass and wood. Its dark pink
paint is only a gesture at realism but better looking than her
old ball-and-socket steel training leg. I drop a tea bag in her
mug. You were goose-stepping before. When I pick up
the kettle, my bandaged forefinger twinges. Yesterday, she
sharpened our ever-dull knives and did not tell me. I pour
boiling water into her mug, take the kettle back to the stove,
and fetch a paper napkin.
38
The second casting made a better fit. She pivots to demonstrate. After the first casting, my stump got smaller, and
as the cup started slipping my foot turned out. This ones
more snug. She lifts her right foot in its scuffed black
loafer and extends her arms so that her cane points at the
window. My PT man said that this exercise builds up my
stump.
Her effort looks tremendous. You look like youre on the
high wire. You should have a parasol. She should sit down.
Okay, Im convinced. Drink your tea.
She grins. Start selling tickets; Ill put on a show. Do the
hokey-pokey and turn yourself around . . .
Her mezzo-soprano has cleared in the months since the operation, though occasionally I still find cigarette butts in the
toilet. When she was young, before she went to college, met
my father and received a library science degree, she studied
to be an opera singer. Accompanying herself on a guitar, she
still sings folk songs like Black is the Color and Donna,
Donna, and tends to over-enunciate certain words. I keep
reminding myself to make a tape of her singing to remember.
Red or white?
Red. He looks like a red wine man. She tugs at the waistband of her shorts.
Ill go to Krestons and get him a French burgundy, but
itll cost you. Something mid-range, I think. It is not as if
the therapist is doing any more than his job.
She unlocks the wheel rims and turns the chair to face the
table, which comes up high on her. Whatever you think
best. A wine he can serve to friends: One of my amputees
gave me this bottle. Shes a funny old bird . . . . She fishes
out her tea bag, winds the string and presses it dry against
the spoon, picks up the honey bear and squeezes a golden
loop into her mug. We had a good session today. She
reaches for the jar of last years mint, picks out a few leaves
and drops them in. If I had a hydraulic leg, I could pogo
around, but Im too decrepit for that. They dont expect me
to go skiing or anything. She stirs her tea and licks the
spoon.
That seems unfair. She deserves the best leg possible.
The backyards too uneven for this one. She raises the
mug and slurps, looking out the window. The garden is
such a tangle. She wipes her mouth on the napkin and
stuffs it in her jacket pocket where half a dozen tissues
bulge. The pinks are almost done, but arent the evening
primroses beautiful?
They are. Like fluted pats of butter, the yellow blooms are
a favorite. I like that they close at night. It would be nice to
know what will flower and when. You could draw a map.
She shrugs off the suggestion. I know the flowers when I
see them.
In fact, the garden has never been in such good shape. Before her surgery in December, she sent handwritten notes
to her many friends and her few clients announcing that
she was taking a leave of absence from real estate to grow
flowers. She sold her sedan and bought a cheap compact
with an automatic clutch and a low doorsill. Back home
after the surgery, she moved downstairs to my old bedroom
suite, and for a month a residential nurse slept on the pullout bed in the study. Slowly, my mothers stump healed.
39
She started chemotherapy and learned to walk with crutches, then later with a poorly-fitting training leg. Once the
nurse left, I sublet my apartment and moved home. Now,
with her final leg, my mother can start learning more difficult maneuvers in her twice-weekly PT sessions.
Friends bring plants for her garden. They never stay long,
but during their visits they often draw aside the daughterwho answers that new X-rays are scheduled on the
operations six month anniversary. The friends know what
that means, and they respond with the usual vague words,
prostheses of hope offered on the sly because my mother
refuses to discuss it. She is going to beat this disease, she
says. Unlike her daughter, she is not one to worry or regret.
She has forgiven the doctor who drained but did not test the
fluid from the swelling on her left knee, which at this time
last spring she believed she got from kneeling in the gardens wet soil.
She prefers other peoples problems to her own, and for the
past few years it has been the Palestinian question. When
you take peoples land, you take their dignity, she says.
She types out letters to Congress, signs petitions. She trusts
in the United Nations but calls our president a stubborn,
ignorant man. As for the Israelis, they are militaristic and
high-handed. When I tried to argue that the Palestinians deserve blame, too, she responded, What else do you expect
from people cooped up in refugee camps for forty years
since 1947? I reserve judgment on whether my mother is
anti-Semitic, but she complained when I brought home a
loaf of Grossingers Seeded Jewish Rye.
She sets down her mug, locks her elbows, and half-rises to
gaze out. Somebody should stake the bee balm, and the
azaleas downstairs need transplanted.
I guess that means me.
40
ing on stairs, Im afraid that I could fall face first and hit my
chin like you did that summer before you started kindergarten. She holds onto the back of the chair. They wont let
us use a railing.
I articulate the leg to work the knee. A butterfly of fleshcolored leather folds and unfolds across the knees hollow
back. Superfluous, it is the only thing delicate about the
limb.
You yelled and fought, she reminisces. They had to hold
you down to swab the cut and inject Novocain before stitching it up. I apologized to the doctor and nurses.
I rub the scar under my chin. I guess its good that I dont
remember.
She takes the crutch habitually left at the top of these stairs
and tucks it beneath her left arm. Her right hand on the
banister, she places the crutchs rubber tip on the first stair
down. One. . . Two. . . Three! At the bottom, she pivots
to reach the second wheelchair, an old monster on loan
from the Lions Club with a tan vinyl seat much polished by
previous occupants.
Friends planned to install a chair lift, but when I sounded
her out she refused to consider the idea. Im not a cripple!
Its enough that I moved down from the second floor. If I
cant manage three little stairs standing, Ill use my butt.
She likes to repeat the story to show how independent she
is, and it is true that were I not here she could manage quite
well alone, with groceries delivered and weekly visits from
a maid and her outpatient nurse, not to mention her many
friends. With this new leg, she will soon be able to drive to
her physical therapy sessions or anywhere else she wishes
to go.
Back bent, craned forward, she rolls past the doors to the
basement and her study. As she passes from view down
the hall, her voice floats back. Did I tell you? I called the
City, and theyre coming tomorrow for that special pickup.
Somebody should take the stuff we piled in the garage out
41
She looks out the window to the patio. Ill be just a minute. Then we can go out to the garden.
Thats fine. I turn the chair, line it up with the bathroom
doorway, and give it a push that sends her rolling backward.
I close the door after her, but her voice comes through.
Wait, I forgot my leg. A footrest bangs into porcelain.
No, you didnt, I call back. I have it here. Its under my
arm. I knock on the door with the shoe.
Oh. Thats right. Laughter echoes off the tiles. Get rid of
the thing, will you?
I carry the leg into the yew-shaded bedroom that used to be
mine and stand it in the closet next to the pile of left-footed
shoes she could not bear to throw out. And a good thing,
too, my mother said. Now I can wear them with my new
leg. A souvenir of her latest chemotherapy cycle, the harsh
metallic odor of night sweats lies so heavy upon the neatly
made bed that it smells as though her suffering has created
its own body to afflict. A body with pains and desires, and
pains like desires.
Stupid leg. Anyone can see that it is nothing like her blueveined and black-whiskered original, with its tiny-nailed,
hammer-toed foot and callused yellow heel. How can she
act as though this clumsy device were a part of her? Something she lost and has miraculously recovered?
She always said her legs were her best feature. Family
legend has it that when my father first saw her, she was
dancing with her roommate at her college freshman mixer,
he said, Thats the girl Im going to marry, and in his
stubborn way set about making his prediction come true.
Thats the girl Im going to marry and divorce twenty
years later to marry my secretary, he should have said.
The sunny backyard looks as it did yesterday, but time
moves on and with it approaches dread. So tired. Daily,
this need to remember and pretend sweeps out further and
42
I already have two gardening chores. Any sign of weakness, and she will have me weeding, besides. I agreed to
stake the bee balm and transplant the azaleas, and thats
what Im going to do.
She sniffs and folds her shirt cuffs higher. All right. You
can help weed another time.
I set down the stool and lock the wheel rims. She grasps my
arm, pulls herself standing, and I lower her to the stool. She
hikes her shorts and braces her stump upon her right thigh,
her sneakered foot providing leverage.
Im all set. She holds out her hand for the asparagus
knife.
In the garage, I collect a hammer, stakes, and twine. On the
way back, the gentle slope funnels my view of her seated
before daylily spikes a month from flower, hunched over
and reaching into the garden fringe of alternating red and
white salvia. She loosens the soil about each wild onion,
crab grass or clover intruder, uproots and tosses it aside,
then hops the low stool forward. Her face has gained some
color.
I side step the bed of primrose and over a variegated hosta
to the rear of the garden by the fence, and hammer four
bamboo stakes to support the drooping bee balm. It has not
rained recently, or their hollow stalks could have broken.
Twine circled one stake to the next embraces and supports
the top-heavy blooms. I loop the twine about the first stake,
pull it tighter as the flowers stand up, and tie off the big
bouquet of nubby bronze heads and needle red blossoms
with their sweet-acrid scent, a relative to mint.
What do you think?
Perspiration has darkened the curls above her forehead to
their original brown. She nods her approval. Thats much
better. Sometimes Monarda need support. She returns to
weeding, and within a moment she has forgotten me.
Back inside, the three white azaleas sit on a table by the
patio window. I strip the foil wrappings and carry the pots
outside, where I pick off the spent blossoms that cling
tissue-dry to their calyxes amid the new lime-green leaves.
I take the pots along the house to the garage and place them
in the wheelbarrow with the shovel.
The front yard lies featureless but for yews about the
foundation and a young lightning-scored maple that needs
pruned at the far end. For now, passing cars have an unobstructed view, but a shelter belt of evergreens and flowering
shrubs could make a garden refuge, though it would take
years for them to grow tall enough for privacy. In the upper
right corner between the driveway and the neighbors chain-
43
Me, too!
I walk down and hoist her onto the chair, take the asparagus
knife she holds out to me and put it in the carryall pocket on
the chairs seatback. Once she is inside, I will return for the
stool. The annuals look happy, I observe.
She glances around. Half the gardens a mess, but at least
the front is weeded. She sounds satisfied with her work.
She takes the tissue from her cuff and wipes her face.
The bee balm looks good, too.
It does.
Well, lets hear you say so.
Andy Roberts
Love Poem
44
POETRY
Elizabeth Meade
45
POETRY
46
FICTION
Freight Train
Kellie L. Thurman
It was as if the kid were on the verge of going into the DTs.
Hair a fly, eyes wide, and then the sudden intake of air . . .
fuel for the rant.
a halt.
You HATE red grapes too, Natalie. You can ONLY eat green
grapes, never red. You also HATE square pizza. You can
ONLY eat pizza sliced in triangles. But the cell phone
oooh, the cell phoneour hot pink, horse pill of a narcoticthat is your true lovenever without it. And if you are,
its never for too long. God help us all, if its for too long.
As if it were a heifer lost out in the back forty, I could hear
the phone lulling againmilk me, feed mefind me. I
could tell by the vibrations that she was receiving numerous
text messages, not real phone calls. Teenagers these days
dont really talk on the phonebedroom dark, records spinning, laying back on the bed, one ankle resting on the other
knee, phone cord twisted around the wrist, gum popping,
mouth floppingtalking about nothing and everything to
your best friend. Nope, its all so word tapping, impersonal
now.
You were just in here, Nat. You left it on the table. Dont
you hear it?
I KNOW, God dang. I found it! She spat, as she plucked
it from under a dishtowel. I could see instant relief flood
across her face, as she held what appeared to be the secret
of creation in her hands.
Her thumbs started to fly at record breaking speeds.
Language, please, I calmly reminded.
Whens dinner gonna be ready? She asked, absently,
never taking her eyes from the phone.
About 15 minutes.
No answer, but it must have satisfied, because the train
pulled out of the kitchen, softly chugging to her room.
Mood different, always different.
I scraped the veggies into the hot skillet and thought about
my daughter, back in her world now, texting the latest,
breaking news to the latest, breaking crush.
When did all this OCD business begin? I wondered.
As dinner sizzled in the pan, filling the air with the aroma of
garlic and olive oil, I thought back to her being two and in
the back seat of the carstrapped into her big girl booster
seat, chubby cheeks scarlet red, wailing her head off.
48
49
POETRY
Alan L. Samry
50
Alan L. Samry
Walking Aids
They lean against the wall next to the bed.
No laminate, press, or particle board.
Real pine, circa 1989.
Galvanized, not stainless steel, screws and wing nuts
Hold my sticks together.
Frames with adjustable pegs for height and hand holders.
Underarm and hand grip pads are original software
Still smelling better than my stump after a day
In a carbon fiber socket in the Lower Alabama humidity.
The empty leg leans against grandmas rocker
Titanium hardware clamps carbon fiber
foot, post, and socket together.
Allen wrench screws tightened after a
Dip in Locitite 242 Blue.
A new rechargeable vacuum,
with Bluetooth capability,
strapped to the post with zip ties,
keeps my gel-lined stump sucked
securely into a diamond-planted socket.
51
POETRY
52
FICTION
Blue Rose
Ellen Dawn Wilder
When she wandered into the School of Continuing Education at Scarborough College for the third time that afternoon, she didnt think shed go through with it, jumping in,
signing up for class. And an acting class, no less. But when
she heard the lady behind the registration desk say something about there being only one spot left, impulse took
over.
Laura stuffed the papers into the pocket of her white Michelin Man parka before venturing out into the frigid January air. When she stepped outside, it felt like someone was
stabbing thousands of tiny needles into her chin. Holding
her dads Minnesota Timberwolves scarf close to her face,
she walked briskly to the arts and science building. The
only thing that mattered to her now was getting someplace
warm.
53
Jim scooped up the ball and had everyone sit on the floor.
Starting with the busty, thirtyish woman to his left, wearing a Springsteen T-shirt, he went around the circle asking
everyones names and what he or she expected to get out of
the class.
Emily West Those were about the only words Laura
heard, coming from the dark-haired beauty on the other side
of the Springsteen fan. She tried to listen but became too
distracted by the thoughts swirling around her head, wondering what shed say when it came time for her to speak.
Just as she felt dampness creep underneath her arms, the
room exploded with laughter.
. . . Im excited to be here, Emily gushed, leaning forward to make eye contact with Jim.
Enchant, Mademoiselle, Jim responded, standing up
suddenly, walking slowly around the circle, before returning
to his original spot.
When Lauras turn came, it felt like someone twisted a
rope around her vocal chords. She said her name was Laura
Blume and that her mother had been encouraging her to
take the course for monthsto deal with her fear of talking
to people, she quickly added, regretting her words as soon
as she said them. She could tell by the way the students
stared down at the floor, they thought this was strange.
55
56
If you start your performance off as woe is me, then I already know the ending. Bellas having a tough time. What a
bummer. I think I better do my laundry when I get home. I
dont think I have any clean underwear to wear tomorrow.
Everyone laughed.
Get the picture? Id like to see you put up more of a fight.
Do you think you can do that?
Laura tried again. Her voice still wavered, but this time it
felt a little better.
I think so, Laura said, covering her mouth with her hand.
in front of the room, hoping Jim would call on her first. But
her thoughts began to wander, remembering her mothers
cold, bony hand on her shoulder as she lay in bed, facing
the wall. Im just trying to save you from heartache. Bad
impressions, they can last a lifetime. Take it from someone
who knows.
want you to try the scene you did last week, keeping in
mind that your character wants something and is willing to
fight for it, otherwise why bother.
The stakes in here arent high, Jim said to her, but they
are for Bella. Try redirecting all that energy away from
yourself and back to where it belongs, on your character.
58
Looking away, she tried to read her script but couldnt absorb any of it. The room suddenly grew quieter. She closed
the book, noticing that the only ones left were Jim, Nick,
and a strawberry blond named Cassie. Nick and Cassie
were exchanging phone numbers.
Not even a minute after Laura took off her coat, Jim raced
up to her, his barely contained excitement bursting through
the flecks of his blue eyes.
When she saw Jim approach, she dropped her script on the
floor.
Laura crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head.
Are you cold? He pulled his sweater over his head and
handed it to her. Go on.
Laura noticed a faint scar just above the opening of his
button-down shirt. She threw the burgundy pullover over
her head, taking in Jims scent. Sweat? Salt? She wasnt
sure what it was, but wearing something that belonged to
him felt intimate.
When she saw Jims face, she wondered whether she had
the sweater on backward. She reached back, feeling for a
tag.
It looks better on you than it does on me, he said, holding
her gaze. Laura felt her body tense with excitement, and she
quickly looked away.
Do you have something to write with?
Laura handed him a pen, trying in vain to steady her uncooperative hands. She watched him thumb through the pages,
making notes.
I want you to read the entire play, paying close attention to
the gentleman caller scene. There are two female characters.
I want you to take a look at Laura. Take it home and let me
know what you think.
After class, Laura came home so wound up, she couldnt
sleep. She stayed in bed tossing and turning, thinking about
Jim, about the scar on his chest, neat and tidy like a railroad
track, almost one-inch long. She wondered why sometimes
his voice grew raspy, like he was gasping for air. When she
finally stared at the clock, it was 1:16 a.m. Turning on the
lamp, she picked up her copy of The Glass Menagerie from
the nightstand and started to read, resigned to a sleepless
night.
The next week Laura showed up ten minutes early, examining her script again before her scene partner, Mike, arrived.
She underlined a passage, remembering what Jim said to
her about paying attention to what happened earlier in the
play.
When Mike finally showed, he took the book from Lauras
hands.
The important thing is to stay in the moment, he said to
her when Jim was out of hearing range. When I was a thespian, I worked with Glenn Close and Vanessa Redgrave, but
I never let that throw me off course. Id just take in a deep
breath and blow my hot air out all over them.
It wasnt the first time Laura heard Mike make fun of Jim.
She laughed but felt a twinge in her stomach, as if everything inside her were sinking right down to her gut. She
tried to snap out of it but couldnt make the feeling go
away, especially when they rehearsed the scene in which
Mike had to kiss her.
This is no charity kiss, Jim said, putting his hands on
Mikes shoulders. Jim may have a girl back home, but
hes not thinking about her. This is the real deal. Play it that
way.
60
with exhaustion.
Its two in the afternoon!
Laura stepped aside, watching her mother make a beeline
61
It was a tender kiss, and when she heard the applause, she
blushed.
Jim gently tugged Lauras blouse as she made her way back
to her seat. Im proud of you, he whispered to her, kissing
her on the cheek. From behind his back, he reached around,
producing a single-stemmed blue rose. Laura looked at it,
her pupils dilating. In her twenty-three years, no one had
ever given her a flower before. She thanked Jim, her eyes
scouring the room for an empty seat, afraid if she said anything more, she might cry.
Excuse me, she said, her voice now strong and steady.
62
Oh, you must be with that acting class. Theyre all in the
back.
On the way, Laura slipped into the ladies room. She
checked herself out in the mirror. Her skin looked good.
Maybe it was the lighting. She combed her hair, reflecting
on the nights performance. She felt like she really got inside Laura, maybe not completely disappearing, but giving
her all she had.
She tucked in her blouse. Cynthia had said something
once about it bringing out the color of her eyes. The liquid
warmth of her brown eyes seemed to open up her face, inviting a connection.
Mike had botched a line up there, back when they were on
stage together. Because other people are not such wonderful people, he was supposed to say. She wasnt sure she
liked that line, anyway. People disappointed, but once in a
while, if you were lucky, you ended up with some small,
thorny act of kindness.t
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
63
64