TUNNEL VISION Chapter 11

December 18, 1933

To

Mrs. Johnson, Housekeeper

Mallie Lyn Peters, Attending Nurse

Eleanor Koepp, Tutor

Rose’s schedule is to be followed every day, consistently, for the next three months. Routine will help eradicate her previous experiences. In routine, she will find comfort and freedom. Miss Peters will attend to Rose when she is available; all other times Mrs. Johnson will see that she stays on schedule. Miss Koepp will maintain charge during her scheduled times. She is to keep to her own room at all other times. Excursions into town are allowed with written permission.

5:30AM Rise from bed and ablutions

6:00AM Breakfast of porridge, meat, various fruit

7:00AM Morning walk

7:30AM Tutor arrives and gives lessons in literature, basic mathematics, housekeeping, cooking, manners

11:00AM Lunch with tutor

12:00PM Afternoon walk

12:30PM Afternoon memory exercises. Use repetition of provided memories to replace those of her childhood. Begin with page 1, early childhood, and do not move forward until I deem necessary.

4:00PM Rest. Time may be filled with needlework, painting, gardening and other calming activities.

6:00PM I arrive back from the asylum and will join Rose for dinner. She is to wear one of her three finest dresses.

7:00PM Memory exercises with me begin promptly. Do not disturb us.

10:00PM Bedtime.

-Doctor Elliott Kinney-

Kinney’s new life glowed. It virtually glowed! He found such excitement in his work now that he had a home and purpose again. At the asylum, there was a softness about him, and his endless coughing and colds had subsided. He was less apt to prescribe hydrotherapy for misbehaving patients and more willing to give them a second chance. He began talking at the dinner table with his colleagues and the board on the nights he was required to stay. All other times he flew through his day and followed his checklist. He saw patients, he prescribed, he monitored, he read the most recent research. And at night, Bill Pepperidge drove him the short distance to his new home, a lovely home surrounded by woods and on a hill overlooking the bay. With every moment he drew closer to his home, his heart beat a little bit faster. And of his long days, he did not fully breathe until they pulled up to the house with the dining room illuminated from within. He had to stop himself from running up the stairs because he knew that she was waiting for him.

He liked her in the red dress best. A red dress for his dear Rose.

Before entering the dining room, he took a calming breath, gathered his wits, and turned the doorknob. There she was, waiting. Candles lit, their meal prepared for them, looking so beautiful with her waves of shadow dark hair. She turned to him and smiled and said the words he’d been practicing with her. The words that at first had sounded hollow and unfeeling, but with continued repetition took on new meaning. It was so simple, really! You could give anyone a new memory or meaning if you simply repeated it long enough…and tonight…tonight…she said the words for the first time. “Hello, husband. Welcome home.”

Kinney stopped and stared at her. A dark curl had fallen across her eye. She looked at him, her smile firmly in place. Firm. Cold. He reached for her, pressed his lips to hers. “Hello, Rose,” he said. “Very well done. Next time, kiss me back.”

Rose nodded. He patted her shoulder and then moved to sit across from her. They would eat dinner in silence as she did not have the skills yet to carry on the right conversation, a conversation he might have had with his first Rose. Through repetition, she would finally get it right, and then, and then…well. He smiled to himself and reached for the roasted pork. They would begin practicing the next phase tonight. First, he would teach her how to kiss him back, and then all the right things she should say.

He thinly sliced the pork and placed a piece on Rose’s plate. They ate in silence, save their silverware scraping on the china.

***************

Mallie Lyn Peters watched from the kitchen door, cracked open slightly. A sliver of light fell across her eye, but from a distance she would be invisible. And Kinney paid her no mind any way. He was too focused on his dinner with Ama.

Mallie’s new life was a curious existence. She worked at the asylum during the day and things ran as normal as usual. She rarely saw George any more as with Ama gone there was no more need to meet each other in the tunnels. She missed him, but she did not miss the way George eyed Ama. That morning, though, she’d run to the kitchen where he was loading in wood and had given him a jar of preserves. “Why, thank you, Mallie…” he’d said, and then quickly added, “Miss Peters.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Young. I made them myself I did. From spring rhubarb,” she’d returned, blushing to her toes. She replayed that conversation over and over.

Months ago she would’ve gone home to her mother and siblings after her work at the asylum was done. Now she had a room of her own in this expansive house with Doctor Kinney and Ama. Rose. She wasn’t sure what he wanted to call her (or why) and so mostly she avoided using her name at all.

In her work at the asylum, Mallie had been witness to, and an accomplice, in many of the therapies given. She’d strapped patients down while they were administered remedies. She’d seen seizures that rattled brains. Once, an inmate had bitten off her own tongue in an effort to remain silent. Horrible things. And the therapies never really seemed to help. Mallie believed, secretly, that many of the patients were beyond help. It wasn’t just the feeble-minded ones, the ones where their physical deformities were so apparent. There were others whose souls were fractured, and a few who possessed no soul at all. Mallie wasn’t sure if Ama could be healed, because she hadn’t yet figured out what was wrong with her. So Mallie watched secretly. She observed just as she did at the asylum.

Kinney moved to sit next to Ama. “Rose,” he said. When Ama did not look up at him, he said her name again, but this time there was an edge to his voice. “Rose!”

She looked at him. Mallie could not see her expression, but she felt anger pouring off the girl. “I want to tell you a story about how we met.”

“We met at my home,” she said. “I came to you one night and I took you.”

“No. You did not. That’s a dream, Rose. A dream. We met on the shores of Lake Michigan, in Grand Haven. We were both vacationing with our families at the same resort. You stood in the water, your dress lifted to your knees. And do you remember what happened next?”

She did not answer.

“There was a great undertow and when the waves crashed in, you lost your footing and…”

“I fell?” Ama asked softly.

Kinney nodded, apparently pleased. “You fell. I was walking by at that moment and I ran into the water to rescue you.”

“You rescued me. I fell in the water.”

“It was cold. Freezing. I carried you out of the water and you were…”

“Shivering.”

Kinney nodded again. “Shivering. And you said…”

“It’s like the lake wanted me to swallow me whole.”

“And I said, you must take more care. And you looked at me, Rose, you looked at me and said…”

“If I had taken care, I wouldn’t be in your arms right now. I rather like being in your arms right now.” Ama looked directly at Kinney now and smiled, a smile that lit her face and seemed to illuminate her beauty. “I’m Rose,” she said to the doctor.

Kinney nodded and Mallie wondered if his expression were, indeed, one of pleasure. “And I am Elliott Kinney,” he said and then shook Rose’s hand. Mallie would think of her as Rose now. She could see that was what the doctor wanted. He wanted everyone to believe she was someone else.

Mallie drew away from the kitchen door, let it close silently. She’d seen them rehearse this scene over and over. What was the point? Could Ama actually believe that this was her memory? She seemed to. But why? What kind of healing could false thoughts do for a person?

She did not want to think about it. She did not want to question what was going on in this house or about to go on in this house. She wanted her pay and to help her family and she wanted, most of all, she wanted Charlie Young to herself.

********

Ama was empty. Empty. In her room at night in the doctor’s house she could close her eyes and be in the comforting shadows of her childhood home. She missed the pictures papa Tim had drawn for her. She wanted papa Robert to come to her and practice swordplay. She wanted mama Liliana and Lynnie to sing her to sleep. This time though, when she called for them, they did not come. No one came, save the doctor. And so she stopped calling.

She missed the sound of water dripping in the tunnels. Missed running her hands across the surface of the brick. Missed running as fast as she could through the curving underground passage. She knew it so well she could run with her eyes closed with no fear of tripping. And when the asylum slept, she explored. She played.

She was, contrary to what Kinney suspected, not at all a blank slate. She knew of the world and she knew where her family slept at night. She knew that they had trouble in The Outside World and had come to the Asylum because they could not live anywhere else. She knew not to mention potatoes to papa Robert. She knew to never approach mama Liliana from behind. She knew that her family was different and she did not care. She did not yearn for anything other than what she had. What needs did she have? She had a loving home and adventures. And as she grew older, Liliana and mama Lynnie explained to her the peculiar hunger that grew within her and how she could quiet it down with using a man.

Kinney was not her first lover. She’d taken them before, in the darkest of nights, sometimes only once, sometimes repeatedly. They thought of her as a ghost or a hallucination. She liked it that way. With Kinney, though, she had felt something different. Hey looked at her differently than the others. There was a hint of fierceness in his wanting of her. If only Ama had figured it out earlier the way she had with the other inmates of the asylum.

Growing up within its walls, at night she had explored the belly of the hospital…and over time, she had grown to know the inmates. She could sneak into their wards at night. She told stories. She danced. She sang. And they loved her. She never feared for her safety because her family watched out for her. And before approaching an inmate, Ama studied them. She watched them. She could feel how they were broken and as one would avoid touching a wound when trying to heal it, Ama avoided those broken parts of their spirits. You could read a person’s emotions from the words their body spoke. How the body tensed or relaxed, how a face contracted or pinched, how eyes flashed at you with humor or menace. Ama had a talent to calm and connect. To heal. After their treatments, Ama would go to them, touch their foreheads, and they looked up at her and found comfort.

Her one mistake was that she had not taken enough time to observe Kinney. She had wanted that peculiar closeness with him, to take pleasure from him, and she had taken him wildly. But she should have noted that flash in his eyes.

Like everyone else at the asylum, Kinney was broken. And he was the first person that Ama had met where she could not figure out which wounds to avoid in order to heal him.

And so, in her new room and new life, she waited. She closed her eyes. She sang softly to herself and dreamed of running in the tunnels. For now, she would give Kinney everything he wanted. She would control the language of her body. But when she finally figured out the cracks in his spirit, when she knew the answer to what ailed him, then, and only then would she take action.

She was happy here for a time, but had no doubt that she would return to her family. She served a greater purpose at the asylum. She was their secret. Their dark angel. And she loved them with all her might.

*********

The Power of Words-Let's Get Metaphysical

I usually go on and on about emotional stuff I’m going through, but I thought I’d talk about something different today. It’s my philosophy, if you will, on the power of words. Mostly, it’s about the power of connecting with others. Now, I’m not really a new-agey sort of person, or all that philosophical really, but this is something I think about a lot and I wanted to share it.

Here’s where I vaguely quote studies and have no idea where they come from. I can tell you that on NPR this morning there was another story that talked about how touch affects the body. I’ve had this conversation with my aunt, a psychiatrist who has studied the effect of touch on the brain’s functions. So. Our skin is the largest organ and just under the surface is this massive network of wonderful (or horrible) receptors. It’s why when we’re touched, we FEEL it. Touching someone connects you. It can lower cortisol (a stress hormone) and provide comfort. It can transmit pain. But let’s focus on the good stuff. When we touch or are touched, a peculiar magic happens. And it goes beyond feeling good. Sure, a massage feels good especially if it comes from someone named Sven who’s bulging muscles glisten. But the everyday touch is pretty miraculous too. Bodies connect. Babies need touch to develop their brains successfully. Partners need touch to feel connected. We all need touch because it soothes us and makes us feel alive.

Here’s where I start to get metaphysical. Through touch, bodies connect because our atoms collide. Is this scientific? Not at all. It’s high school science mixed in with poetic interpretation. But I believe when we touch someone (or are touched) we connect on a spiritual level because for a brief moment we occupy the same space. Literally. We share the same space. It’s why when you’re intimate with someone your relationship takes on such a different meaning. You’ve shared a part of yourself. Literally.

Stay with me here.

So if it’s proven that touch can calm and connect and at times heal….isn’t it possible that words can do the same thing?

When we talk to each other, think of words as floating through the expanse of space between you and gliding over your body. It’s why tone is so important. When someone uses harsh words and anger, it’s why those words FEEL cutting. I believe, on some level, they do physically cut you. Maybe we don’t see it, but if words take the form of sound, and sound travels in waves…isn’t it possible that our bodies feel it? Isn’t it possible?

Now, when someone speaks lovingly to you, imagine words warming you, holding you gently. It’s why therapy works. You let go of anxiety and are comforted by the words’ release. It’s why girlfriends talk and why we connect with each other. It’s why when you’re dating, you have these awkward conversations. You’re checking each other out with your words, gently at first, then with more confidence. It’s why when you fall in love with someone, just the sound of their voice comforts you. Words are probing, people. They probe. And they become intimate.

Hmmm. I swear to god I’m not smoking anything.

So…if physical touch connects us, if language connects us, is it possible that we can connect through words alone?

I think so. I think it’s the curious magic of art and music and beauty. We are physically touched by these things, sending off all those receptors in our bodies, building pathways in the brain. You can tell I have no medical basis for any of this. It’s just a belief. What I’m saying is stories are important. Sharing stories is important. But to get the full healing effects of words, to truly connect with someone, you have to allow your body to feel.

Being vulnerable is important even when we are very scared because it allows our bodies to be open and accepting of magic. That’s where love happens. For our friends, for our families, for someone else.

Bah. I’m close to figuring out something here, I’m sure of it. If I were smoking something, I’d have figured out this potential epiphany AND solved the global economic crisis. Alas. I’m too neurotic for drugs.

What was I saying? Oh yes. Touching. Healing. The power of words. Atoms colliding. Magic. Love.

Wow. Maybe I should open a church.

Tinfoil hats may be required.

Gremlin Emotions and that B!#$% Timing

It’s Saturday morning, dark and rainy outside. It sort of matches my mood. I’ve done a good job staying busy these last days, but, well. You can only stay busy so long, and then when you rest, all the things you were trying to run away from sort of catch up to you. Tricky little gremlins, emotions. They’re always chasing after you. And they never tire or give up. Nope. They don’t stop until you actually FEEL them. It’s disturbing, actually.

I miss Biff. Deeply. And, yes, I know that ending it with him was the right thing to do. There’s no question there, but it’s still hard. We’d reached that point in dating (at nearly five months together) where we were really comfortable. We knew each other’s likes and dislikes. We could sit together and be quiet. There was passion and there was comfort. And, yes, there were lots of troubling things about the relationship. But now it’s quiet here and a little lonely, and I’ve reached that point where it’s harder to remember the bad and easier to remember the good. Still, I’m staying strong on this.

But that comfort level, and the good things, and how it felt to love and be loved even for only a short time….I want that back. I want it again. But I want it with the right person. Actually, Biff could’ve been the right person, but the timing was all wrong.

This is what gets me. That muther fucker Timing. I swear, I have the worst timing ever. EVER. I can name four wonderful men I’ve met and known in my life and it’s all come down to timing. One was just out of a divorce and not ready. One I wasn’t ready for because I had some serious work to do on myself. One was ready but I met him a little too late. He was already dating someone else. And now, with Biff, well, I’m ready but he needs to do some work of his own.

I think I panicked a little last week. I thought, jesus, I want to be in a relationship. I want love. I want a partner. So I immediately signed up for Match.com. It’s all the same. Same faces, same men emailing me who haven’t read my profile. Then I thought “Honestly, do I want to meet any of these people? Now?”

I went out for drinks with a girlfriend and she gently and lovingly said “Uh, Tanya, I think you’re probably not ready yet.” Pause, pause, pause. And then a little more firmly: “Tanya. You are not ready yet.”

I took down my profile. Expensive lesson, but a lesson well-learned. I’m not ready yet. I can’t imagine what I’d talk about with a man and not think of the heaviness my heart is currently under. How can I even hope or expect to open my heart again right now? I can’t. It’s the muther fucker Timing again. I was ready, I opened my heart to Biff, it failed, and now I’m not ready again.

So. What do I do? I mean, I have a life. I focus on my kids and work. My writing. But I can’t stop myself from wanting love. I don’t want to live alone. Some people are okay with that, fulfilled by that, but I never have been. My life has been a series of heartaches and disappointments. I’m not exaggerating here. And I think at 37 I’ve earned a partner. I’ve done the work.

Still, I’m not ready. So. I work. I’m trying to stay connected to people. I’m getting my hair done. I bought new shoes that make me feel feminine and pretty. (Can shoes do that? Sometimes they can.) I’m re-reading familiar books I love. I’m working on that old beast self-esteem…and like Jack Handey did in those old SNL skits, I’m trying to tell myself that I’m good enough, and pretty enough, and by golly people like me. I’m trying to believe it.

I believe that love will happen again, and the next time, the timing will be good for both of us. I have to believe that. I have to. So, I guess I’ll just get ready. I’ll do my hair, I’ll hang out with girlfriends, I’ll get strong. And maybe today, I’ll cry a little bit.

Cut me some slack. It’s Saturday, it’s rainy, and I’m also trying to give up eating frozen cookie dough for comfort. If that’s not enough to make a grown woman cry, well, I don’t know what is.

A Week of Champagne Books--Meet Nikki Andrews, Manuscript Editor

Our week with Champagne Books concludes with Nikki Andrews, a manuscript editor. Hope you've enjoyed learning a little more about the publishing business...and maybe decided to check out some new writers. I'll have new interviews in the coming weeks with more Champagne Books staff and authors.

What brought you to Champagne Books and your position?

After deciding that I really wasn't cut out for life as an admin assistant and getting too old to return to the physical demands of picture framing, I decided to follow my heart and look for work as an editor.  Cindy Davis, who had been the editor for my murder mystery "Framed" and remains a good friend in spite of it, referred and recommended me to Champagne.

What do you do for Champagne Books?

I'm a manuscript editor.

Are you currently looking for submissions and if so, what kind?

I am not involved in the selection of manuscripts.

If you could create the perfect book, what elements would it have in it (besides being well written)?

Strong, memorable characters, a plausible and intriguing plot, an unexpected twist or two, and solid research where necessary. Sparkling prose will hook me every time. And I love works that are not afraid to mix genres.

Is there anything aspiring writers should avoid? Any pitfalls or "Kiss of Death" mistakes to avoid?

Sloppy grammar and spelling make me crazy. How hard is it to check a grammar book or a dictionary? Telling me that X knew how Y felt about Z makes me yawn; show me that process instead.  But if the elements above are present, I can forgive a lot.

Anything else you want to share about your background or interests?

I never would have believed that all those dull grammar drills under the ruler of Sister Mary Mary would lead to a career that I enjoy so much. At last I'm fulfilling my childhood dream of reading for a living!

Are you currently reading anything for pleasure right now, and if so, what is it?

I'm an omnilecteur. If it has words I'll read it, or at least start to read it. Right now I'm in a curious period of re-reading old favorites, or catching up on books I missed while I was busy raising kids. Recently, for instance, I re-read To Kill a Mockingbird and was totally blown away by things I never saw in it twenty years ago. My TBR pile includes Charles Darwin, Garth Stein, Jodi Picoult, Elizabeth Delisi, and Margaret Atwood, among many others.

To learn more about Nikki Andrews and her work, please visit: www.nikkiandrewsbooks.com.

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT:

To read an excerpt from the action novel by Victoria Roder, please click on the book cover below. It is available in both print and digital formats.

Week of Champagne Books: Meet Mindy Fausey, Editor

In the third installment of this series, we meet Mindy Fausey, Editor for both Champagne Books and Carnal Passions.

What brought you to Champagne Books and your position?

MINDY FAUSEY: I submitted a story to Champagne about four years ago and was impressed by the professionalism and the company. My edits were right on, my editor was professional and wonderful to work with, and Ellen, with her quirky, snappy sense of humor made me feel right at home. So, when they advertised for an editorial position, I jumped on it and applied for a line editor position. After completing the editing test, I was delighted when she offered me a position as a content editor.

What do you do for Champagne Books?

I'm a content editor for Champagne, meaning I edit for a book's content. I look for plot inconsistencies and other plot boo boo's. However, I also make it easier for the line editor and correct any grammar I see along the way, too.

Are you currently looking for submissions and if so, what kind?

Personally, I would love to see more fantasy, dark fantasy, and urban fantasy. Some science fiction would be nice, too. Even the right kind of horror (think Dean Koontz) can make a fine platform for a romance. I also love ghost stories, but it's got to be original!

If you could create the perfect book, what elements would it have in it (besides being well written)?

Ohhhhhh, wowee. I would love to write a believeable autobiography of my life. The main problem would be making it believeable, because, as it stands, it's a wild ride most readers would think just plain crazy. But, the perfect novel would have some suspense, some sexual tension, believeable characters, realistic dialogue (a biggee for me), and the classic plot arch. It would have an identifible "black moment" where the relationship between the hero and heroine seemed doomed. The black moment doesn't have to be a fight between them--it can be where savages have the heroine burning at a stake or kidnapped by aliens.

Is there anything aspiring writers should avoid? Any pitfalls or "Kiss of Death" mistakes to avoid?

My personal pet peeves are 1. the he/she felt/thought/realized/saw/decided pitfall. If we're in the characters point of view, the reader will know the character is feeling/thinking/realizing, etc. it. 2. Unbelieveable characters. The hero or heroine's mother doesn't ALWAYS have to be either a saint or a harpie. Where are the ordinary, average moms like me? Lol... 3. Unrealistic dialogue. Write like you talk. Don't have a character say, "Nevertheless, you should not behave in such a ghastly manner." in the 21st century. Make her say, "Damn it, you stupid ass! Stop acting like an idiot!"

Anything else you want to share about your background or interests?

I'm very active. I believe that a body in motion stays in motion. I'm a native Florida girl, so naturally I love the water. I love to jet ski better than boys, surf, swim for my workouts, and play a mean game of beach volleyball. I have Asperger's, which I'm working on successfully conquering, so my interests are vast and varying. Right now I'm interested in the Indians that used to inhabit the area where I live. There are some untouched Indian mounds all over the place, along with plenty of Spanish gold to be found, and I'm working on getting permission from landowners to poke around their vacant lots.

Are you currently reading anything for pleasure right now, and if so, what is it?

I've got way too many interesting stories to edit, all of them excellent reading. But, when I get the rare break in editing, I like Jodi Picoult, Margaret George, anything about Henry VIII, and Dean Koontz, as well as some well written fantasy.

**********

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT:

To read an excerpt from Champagne novelist Julie Eberhart Painter, click on the book cover below. It's available in both print and ebook formats:

TUNNEL VISION - Chapter 10

PART TWO

Chapter Ten

The Tunnels of the Northern Michigan Insane Asylum, 1911

Dark. Cold. Aboveground the world was caught in a fierce storm as the gales rushed through the bay, broke ships like teacups onto the shore. The wind howled. Moaned. Tore through woods. Shook trees to the roots, lifted roofs and spun an outhouse up by Kids’ Creek.

In the tunnels, all was quiet.

And then there was a panting. A slight humming. No light. Just darkness and shadows blending. You could not see her if you were looking. She was quiet as a secret. Husssshhhhh. She thought over and over. Husssshhhhh. Her fingers to her lips. Even as her belly grew, she guarded her secret fiercely. She was a feral dog and her growing secret a bone. In some corner of her mind, she knew what was happening. She was one person becoming two. She did not associate it with the animal functions she’d done countless of times with men. At her house, in the woods, in the doctor’s office, and one night down in the tunnels itself. An orderly he’d been and he’d been nice to her. He gave hear a pearl button. She kept it under her tongue to keep it a secret as well.

He had shown her how to crawl down in to the tunnels and he had met her here countless times to grunt and paw at her, to nuzzle her like a dog. To lick and pant and eventually to give her pleasure in a way different than the button. The button at least she could keep. And then he was gone. Fired. Let go. Moved on with his wife and children. She did not know. She did not understand. She understood secrets. She understood Hussshhh. She understood how to be very, very quiet even when under incredible pain. She could be completely quiet. In fact, she never said a word.

And so when the child emerged from between her legs, the woman did not cry out or scream. Her daughter entered a world of secrets and silence. Only aboveground did the world cry out and moan.

Northern Michigan Insane Asylum, Building 50, 1933

Bill Pepperidge pulled his truck up to Building 50 just as Kinney had asked, at precisely 9:00PM. Course, to Bill, 9:00PM was a strange time to make a move, and in December no less, when the nighttime wind had a real bite to it. If Bill had a place to move into, he’d wait until spring to do it. Course, if Bill had a place like the doctor, maybe he’d make the move right away too. He looked around, noted Kinney standing in front of the door. He noted that the doctor stood still, but there was an air of unrest to him. Bill nodded to himself. So much darkness and only more darkness to come.

“Seems you’ve collected some things there, doctor,” Bill said. “I remember just a few months ago driving you up here and you had naught but one bag with you then. How’d you manage to get all this?” He motioned to the stacks of bags behind him, luggage and what not.

“I’ve ordered some things for the new house,” Kinney said in a way that seemed to say that was the end of the discussion. Pepperidge tugged on his hat, nodded, and lifted the rest of the bags into the back of his truck. The bed sighed with the weight, just the way the Bill’s own bones were sighing now. He’d worked too hard and too long and there was no end in sight. Not with all the folks out of work and the dust bowl happening in the south. If there was one thing Bill knew it was that as a hired hand there were times where it served you to remain quiet and stupid. This was one of those times.

He didn’t look at the woman, or he tried not to. The little Irish girl had brought her out, wrapped her in a big blanket. The young woman was beautiful and clearly terrified out of her skin. She looked around as if she’d never seen a night sky. Course, if she was a loony (and she certainly looked like a loony) maybe everything was always new to her. Sometimes the mind was broken that way. Bill took this in without appearing to notice a thing. He’d worked at the asylum a long time. There were certain skills a man developed over time and this was one of them.

He didn’t even acknowledge her presence as Kinney pried her free from the Irish girl’s embrace. He took the frightened woman by the elbow guided her into the truck. She seemed to not know what to do exactly. Not how to get up into it or what to expect. Kinney had to lift her into the truck and when he took the seat next to her, she seemed to try to crawl inside Kinney’s own body. He held her.

Bill climbed in to. Didn’t have to worry about touching her as she was so close to the doctor. “We ready?” Bill asked and the doctor nodded his head. The woman near jumped out of her dress at the sound of the engine coming to, but Bill knew better than to ask.

Truth be told other doctors had taken lovers just as it appeared Kinney was doing. There was a fair share of loose women in the asylum, Bill knew, and sometimes they ended up as housemaids at cottages for a time. And sometimes they weren’t heard of ever again. It didn’t matter to Bill. It seemed that the women went willingly enough. Shoot, some of the women were so feeble minded they didn’t know up from down. Maybe staying with one of the doctors gave them a little bit more comfort for a time. What mattered to Bill was that he have money to put food on the table for his wife and four kids and grandchild. Sometimes, you just had to close your eyes to things.

It took a lot for Bill to drive to the doctor’s new residence in silence, but he did it. And he was rewarded handsomely for it too.

* * * * *

To Ama, the outside world was filled with scents and sounds she did not understand. There were no walls to keep her secure, no loving family to hold her. She tried to press close to Doctor Kinney but she felt no warmth there. She wanted her papas, her mammas. The world breathed ice on her face and it hurt. She wanted the shadows of her underground, not the great dark ceiling above her. She wanted her woodland creatures and her music and her box of special things. She did not understand what was happening or how they were sitting and moving so fast. The world was so loud, so loud and she pressed her hands to her ears to drown out the sound, but still it seeped in. She felt herself begin to cry. It started in the depths of her stomach, where her deepest pain resided. She felt the tears and anger forming and she let it pour out.

The Doctor held her. “Hussshhhh,” he said. Just that. “Hussshhh.” And Ama stilled. It was a magic word, a word that meant be quiet or they will find you. It was a word from her childhood and her growing years. It was a word almost as close as the name she had chosen for herself. Hussshhh. She closed her eyes. She let herself be rocked to and fro, the way Liliana would hold her and sing to her.

And then, after a time, the sounds and motion stopped. Kinney took her hand and helped her reach the ground. “This is your home, Rose,” he said to her.

Ama looked around. She knew that Kinney called her “Rose” and sometimes she answered to it. It was so dark out that the world now seemed smaller and that was a comfort. “Say, thank you dear Kinney.” His voice was a needle.

Ama closed her eyes. Her family had warned her of this moment, when she would be discovered and taken from them. She knew this could happen. She also knew that though she felt alone, she was not. They had taught her many things, ways to defend herself, weapons to use in case of danger. She would be able to use all their warnings and protect herself. “Thank you dear Kinney,” Ama said evenly. She smiled at him.

The first weapon was to make them believe you. Make them believe you would give them what they wanted. Ama could do that. She was a very talented girl.

Kinney led her into the house and out of the darkness. Ama continued to smile even as the light in the house blinded her.

The second weapon was to remember everything they did to you. Remember. Remember. Remember. Ama’s eyes were open now. Very wide open, indeed.

Tunnel Vision (The Summary & Backstory)

In the early days of summer, I asked for help deciding what kind of novel I was going to write next. My three novels are all romantic comedies. Did my readers choose for me to write another romantic comedy? No. No they did not. They wanted to challenge me and voted for a Gothic Suspense Historical novel. Holy expletive.

I thought about it for a while and decided to go back to my roots: an insane asylum.

Let me explain. So I grew up in Traverse City, Michigan with my house two blocks from the bay. I could hear the waves on the water and when storms rolled in, my house shook.  My mom was as single mom and worked as an arts and crafts advisor for a place called "The Friendship Center", a mental health care nonprofit that helped people with emotional or physical disabilities. Most of them lived in foster homes as the psychiatric hospitals had all shut down. Some were very functional, and some had sever psychoses. From the age of seven, I spent a lot of time at my mom's work and I even 'volunteered'. On a week long summer camp, I was there with all the campers. I poured their orange juice for when they had to take pills...three times a day. I met people with epilepsy, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, OCD, and people whose minds were blank from too much drug use. It sounds scary, but as a kid it wasn't. They were just kids in adult bodies...and I felt cool because I was smarter than most of them. A horrible thing to say, but that's what it was like.

10 years later, my mom worked part-time at the Traverse City State Mental Hospital. It was being refurbished and was no longer a hospital. She took me on a tour of the tunnels and the grounds and told me a story that there was a child born in the tunnels and raised by 'inmates'. It was just a rumor, she said. The story, the tour, and my experience with the mentally ill has stayed with me.

This is the genesis for "Tunnel Vision". It is 1933 and Doctor Kinney arrives to the Northern Michigan Insane Asylum (as it was called then) to start a new job. He is mourning the loss of his wife and he has dark secrets. We meet interesting characters and a vast tunnel system. After exploring the tunnels, Kinney thinks he sees his dead wife. It is not his wife at all but a woman named "Ama". Ama exists and doesn't exist. She was born to an inmate in the tunnels and cared for by a collection of people. She knows no past or future, only present. She knows nothing of the outside world. She is passionate and kind and fierce, and Kinney decides to own her. She is such a blank slate that Kinney believes maybe, just maybe, he can reshape her. Give her some memories of his wife's, make her act and talk like his wife. In this way, he can raise the dead. He takes Ama away from the asylum and is joined by a nurse, Mallie Lyn Peters. He is going to experiment with mind control.

There's a parallel story of a young woman in the 50's looking into her past.

That's where we're at now. I'll tell you, there are a lot of issues with it. There isn't enough dialogue and I didn't flesh out the supporting characters. I'm making weird choices that are confusing at times. So...read with caution. You are reading a rough draft. A first draft actually. I write it, look for typos and post it.  I'll be re-writing extensively in the future. If you want to see how a novel develops, keep reading. And thanks for taking the time.

Best,

Tanya

A Week of Champagne Books–Meet Judy Gill, Editor

Judy, what brought you to Champagne Books and what is your position?

JUDY GILL: An ad on, I think, The EPIC Biz List, requesting an editor.

What do you do for Champagne Books?

I started out editing and am now, in addition to editing, the acquisitions editor, both positions I love.

Are you currently looking for submissions and if so, what kind?

Always. Good science fiction, romance, paranormal, time travel, historical aimed at, primarily, adult audiences. I'm not looking for children's fiction at this time.

If you could create the perfect book, what elements would it have in it (besides being well written)?

Captivating characters who grab me in the first couple of paragraphs, strong plot, good pacing, no up-front back-story, great dialogue that shows, not tells combined with action that advances the plot. I know this last comes under the heading of being well written, but I also look for good spelling and grammar, and signs that the manuscript has been proof-read and polished almost to death.  Sloppy writers make me shake my head. Spell-check functions are not to be trusted (as I've learned, personally, over the years of my own writing.)

Is there anything aspiring writers should avoid? Any pitfalls or "Kiss of Death" mistakes to avoid?

Upfront back-story (spending time explaining to the reader the how and why of the character or characters being where they are at that point in their lives.) Simply jump right in and get that story going with your main characters at a point of vital change/danger/need/crisis that must be addressed right now. Back-story can (and should) be filtered in later throughout the work. I'd like writers submitting to me to take a look at my editing tips at www.editsbyjudy.blogspot.com

Anything else you want to share about your background or interests?

I've been writing fiction nearly all my adult life. (Prior to that, I wrote really, really bad poetry). I sold my first novel to the first house that saw it, and never looked back. I'm a charter member of Novelists, Inc., and have been published by Robert Hale, Women's Weekly Library and another British house, by Bantam Books, Dorchester Publishing, Kensington, and Harlequin, and have books translated into I think, 20 languages word-wide.  Working with so many editors for somany years helped me hone my craft and I learned a great deal from all of them. E-publishing my backlist, writing a few more books to be e-pubbed, and editing for Champagne are my "retirement" activities.

Are you currently reading anything for pleasure right now, and if so, what is it?

At the moment, I'm halfway through Sahara, by Clive Cussler (in the living room) and listening to The Passage by Justin Cronin (in bed & in the car on my PDA.

To learn more about Judy Gill, please visit: www.editsbyjudy.blogspot.com and www.jggbooks.com

Today's Author Spotlight: historical romance by Allison Knight. To view the book and read an excerpt, please click on the book cover below.

A Week of Champagne Books-- Meet J. Ellen Smith, Publisher

This week, I thought I'd try something fun and different. As you know, my book "Blunder Woman" was published by a company called Champagne Books. The book came out in July as an ebook and is now available in audio. (If things go well, it will go to paperback in November.) I'm grateful Champagne Books took me on, and they'll be publishing my first romantic-comedy-mystery in February. I've talked a lot about my own work, so I thought it would be fun to talk about someone else's for a while.

It occurred to me that many of you might not know about Champagne Books (a small publisher with a big heart and dreams). If you're a person who likes to read (I'm raising my hand) then you'll get a chance to find new books in a variety of genres and be the first to tell your friends. If you're a writer, you just might get the inside scoop on how to get your work out there. Today, we'll meet J. Ellen Smith, owner and publisher, and general magic-worker.

What brought you to Champagne Books ?

J. ELLEN SMITH: Stupidity? Seriously though, I had been an author in epublishing for years, got busy with a publisher who went belly up, heard horror stories from other authors  and figured there had to be a better way. One day I went for coffee with a friend, and while we sat over vanilla lattés and complained about the latest thing we’d read, the idea that would become Champagne was born. Several more months of research ensued, and then it was time to either put up or shut up. I’d been saying for two years that I could do it, and I decided that the time had come.

What do you do for Champagne Books?

I’m the owner, and publisher. That means I handle all the paperwork, the logistics, the hiring and firing of staff, the hand-holding of authors who’ve had a bad day, the financials. Basically, if no one else will do it, I do. Keeps me busy and out of trouble!

Are you currently looking for submissions and if so, what kind?

Our submissions are open, and we are actively acquiring science fiction, steampunk and fantasy. I’d also like to see more romance in the same genres.

Is there anything aspiring writers should avoid? Any pitfalls or "Kiss of Death" mistakes to avoid?

The advice I always give to an author is to do their homework when submitting to a house. Always know what they’re looking for and submit according to their guidelines. That means, if a house isn’t looking for science fiction, don’t send them your latest laser-shooting space epic. It won’t matter how good it is if they don’t publish it. Be professional and respectful. There’s no quicker way to get a rejection than to send an email to us that is of the same tone you’d send to a friend. Remember, we’re not your friend, we’re your perspective publisher.

Are you currently reading anything for pleasure right now, and if so, what is it?

I’m always reading, whether for work or pleasure. On my computer, I’m currently reading one of our November releases, Love Sam by Linda Rettstatt. Fabulous book, just be sure to have a full box of tissues handy. On my e-reader, I have The Face of Betrayal by Lisa Wiehl open right now to satisfy my  current mystery/suspense kick.

*  * *

To learn more about J. Ellen Smith and Champagne Books, please visit the website at http://www.champagnebooks.com . There's also a sister site of spicier books at http://www.carnalpassions.com/ .

Coming Soon: Interviews with acquiring editors and writers for Champagne Books.

If you have a few bucks (not the deer kind), why not take  chance and try one of the books at Champagne?

AUTHOR HIGHLIGHT: Check out this Champagne Author, David Boultbee and his piece "Venus Inferno". J. Ellen Smith also created the cover for his book. To read an excerpt, click on the book cover below.

Now What?

Did I really only post the “Exit Biff” blog just three days ago? It’s funny how time can feel so much longer. I’ve packed a lot into this week with kiddos, teaching, narrating, hanging out with girlfriends and watching Dexter. All very important things. I haven't really had a lot of time to question "Now what?" since ending it with Biff. I've just been doing as much as possible, and that seems to be working.

On Wednesday I went to the Viceroy for kicking back with some professional, lovely women. We just wanted to have a couple of drinks, relax and chat. It’s a little low-key networking that we’re doing, because (let’s face it) it’s hard being a working woman especially in a creative field. There are big mosquitoes out there and they will bite you. And by mosquitoes I mean life. Life is hard, and it’s nice to know that you’re not struggling out there alone.

We all had different professions and fields, and even different romantic statuses: One of us was happily  married, one single but dating, two of us divorced with kids and in our late thirties, and one divorced no kids in early thirties. But we could still connect.

We talked about aging, how you think you’ll never accept having people help you, but you eventually do. We all have parents who are getting older and you kind of have to step up and take care of them. Then I asked the question of when, exactly, do you cross over in that land of aging and buy a pair of gigantic granny panties because they look so comfortable? (I’d been eyeing them at Kohl’s, circling them in contemplation. I’m single now so I don’t really need the lacy boy shorts, I could, you know, go for it. I could wear gigantic underwear that reaches to my boobs and NO ONE WOULD KNOW.)

Then we talked about dating. Of course we talked about dating. How it’s hard, and complicated and funny. I’m talking to so many great single women in their thirties and older and there’s a refrain happening “I know great guys are out there, I believe that, I just have no idea where to meet them.” We don’t want to go online. We don’t want to meet them in the bar. And checking them out in the grocery store can prove very awkward especially if their wife is standing next to them. (I won’t say if this is from experience or not.)

I wish I could throw an event for meeting singles and divorcees, or divorced-ed. And not single twenty-somethings. That’s not what we want. We want nice, thirty-to-fifty something guys who might have kids. Guys who are stable and loving and are willing to give love a second or even a third chance. I don’t know how to make this event happen, but if I did, there would be wine and appetizers, and stupid dating prompts on cards. I don’t think there would be Twister though, I mean, sheesh, it’s not a birthday party.

Then on my second drink I confessed that I wanted to write a new series of romance novels. I’d make them really realistic. The ladies helped me brainstorm. I’m going to call it “Tepid Connections” and go against every romance cliché. In my realistic romance, the muscular heroine meets a petite and slender hero. They’ve been set up by coworkers. Neither one of them wants to be there, and it’s horribly awkward, but they figure “Hey, it’s dinner”. And they hang out and it’s okay. And then when they make love, there are no fireworks or heaving bodies or glistening torsos. The slender, petite hero says “Do you feel that?” and the muscular heroine says “Uhhh…I think so.” Then they eat cheesecake.

Huh.

Might want to spend some more time brainstorming.

I don’t really have a point with any of this except to say a big thank you to my friends, both men and women. I know creative, quirky wonderful people and I wish I had some magic dust (that wasn’t an illegal substance) that I could sprinkle over all of us that would make life easier and love more permanent.

Then again, there’s something really beautiful about the complexity of life and heartbreak and struggle. It makes sitting back with a group of friends that much more of a cherished moment.

And I’m still thinking of that party idea.

Exit Biff, Stage Left.

I don’t know how much I want to blog about this, and I guess part of me wants to and needs to, and then part of me doesn’t. The thing is: I made a promise to myself to try out a year or so of blogging honestly about my life, and I’m going to stick with that.

So if you read my blog even semi-regularly, you know that I’ve been dating Biff and we’ve had great times and horrible times (steak anyone?). Lately, though, it’s been getting tougher and tougher (not talking about steaks anymore). Last week I struggled with a checklist I had in my mind and heart and the realization that I was justifying away every quality that was important to me. I wanted to date a man who was independent, employed, had transportation, was motivated, supportive, liked my cooking. Biff had some of these qualities…and I don’t just want to bash him. It doesn’t really matter what happened detail-wise with Biff, except that I started out having things that were very important to me in a relationship and I talked myself out of their importance. Why? Because I met Biff and we connected and he had very good reasons for not having some of those qualities. It’s a tough job market. He moved from Chicago so didn’t have a job. He loved me and wanted to work on the relationship and if I were just a little more patient, etc. etc.

Here’s my conclusion though. Those things were important to me. They never stopped being important to me. It may seem shallow to want a boyfriend who has a steady job and transportation, but it’s more than that. (And I don’t think it’s shallow.) I’ve decided that I don’t even want or need to justify it to myself anymore. I want a man who has his life together. I want a partner. I want someone who is as focused and motivated as I am. I want a man to treat me and my kids kindly. I want a man who can talk through issues without attacking me or defending himself.

I saw some scary things this weekend. Hints of deep, residing anger. Biff said some mean and threatening things. I went to a girlfriend’s place until I felt safe. And I understand that it came from a place of fear on his part of having to look for a place to stay and to take care of himself, but the things he said to me were not okay. I’m only glad that it happened when my kids weren’t around. It was a tough weekend and I feel sad and confused and mad at myself for letting it go on as long as it did. I’m not sleeping. I’m still scared. But I have friends looking out for me.

I learned a lot. I learned that it was great dating someone creative who understood that part of me. I also learned that my needs are important. I can feel sympathy for someone going through a tough time, but I can’t fix them or support them or take over their life. I’ve got enough on my plate. I’m trying to look at this as an empowering experience. I think the longer the relationship went on, the more dangerous things would’ve become. That huge fight we had this summer wasn’t an anomaly; it was a pattern.

Biff is, at the heart, a good guy. At least I think he is. I think he’s deeply wounded though (aren’t we all?). He’s lost, and hurt, and wanting someone to make his life easier. But he’s got to do it for himself. “Out of ruin comes transformation” was a line in “Eat Pray Love” I connected with. I’m not ruined by this. Biff might be for a time and either he’ll find someone else to support him, or he’ll finally land on the ground and take care of himself.

Am I angry? A little. But just at myself. I’m moving forward. And I’m moving forward a little bit smarter, a little bit stronger, and a little more sure of the person I want to share my life with. He’s a great guy. Kind and funny and warm. I just haven’t met him yet. Or maybe I have met him, but the timing has been wrong.

I’m certain of this.

And I’m certain of this for my girlfriends too. It’s not about finding the love of your life. It’s about finding your self. Be strong. Listen to you heart. Know that what is important to you matters…no justification needed. If you need a man who likes waffles, you need a man who likes waffles. Wait for it.

Sorry to wax self-help here…

Actually, I’m not sorry about it at all. Not one bit.

(Insert smiley face or warm, happy smile here. I’m going to end up somewhere wonderful. Even if it takes a bit longer to find exactly where wonderful is located.)

Application to Date Tanya -- Revisited

Back in February, I posted a silly little application for interested parties. You know, men who might want to date me. It was done in jest, of course, sort of in response to a series of dates I went on where the men were either still married, in love with someone else but taking me out as "practice", unemployed, car-less or living with their parents, or a combination of all of those things. So, I made a joke about it. It WAS a funny application. I still think it's funny (and I'll repost it below). Still, there was an element of truth to it.

I wanted to date someone who was emotionally well-adjusted, working hard, had a good job, maybe a house. Essentially, I wanted to date someone who was pretty similar to me, without the boobs and severe PMS. I also wanted someone who appreciated that I write, who likes interesting and diverse food, who's healthy. When I type out all my wants it seems like a big list, almost unattainable. And when I returned to dating and met a wonderful man, I tucked that check list away.

If you really connect with someone, if there's a possibility for love, how important is something like a checklist? What if they have a very good reason for starting over? What if they're trying desperately to get on their feet? What if they don't have a car because they moved home from a big city? What if they just need a little time to start over and find a good job?

What if the really important things are there: What if they love you? What if they love who you are at the very core of you? What if they love that you write? How important is it that they like things like baked goat cheese in a homemade marinara sauce? There's a simplicity to a man who prefers turkey sandwiches.

Should I even be talking about any of this? Probably not, but I don't know what else to do.

In the movies, the Perfect Man is easy for the female lead to spot: he's the one that's super cute. Maybe he's awkward, but their connection is real. But movies don't touch on real life. What if that female lead is a single mom and spends every moment of her day either parenting, teaching, narrating or prepping to narrate, promoting her work, or writing in the hopes of building a stable life for her and her children?

Here's the big question I'm leading to: When is love not enough? Is it wrong to have a checklist? To want a partner who is secure in more than his affection for you?

There are more questions too. Questions I talk about with my girlfriends. Why do we so often justify relationships or behavior in relationships that makes us feel awful. One of my girlfriends went out on a date with a guy. She had a great time. When the bill came, he said "We'll have to split it because I can't afford to get yours. I'm kinda in transition right now and don't have a job, and I wasn't sure if this was a date or not." She likes him. She wants to see him again. And we tried to figure out if it's okay for a guy not to pay on the first date. Of course it's okay. Then again, what if it's not okay for YOU? What if, for you, that Bill Paying Issue is a sign of respect, of a man who wants to treat you well and like a woman. Then again, are these old-fashioned gender roles?

See what I'm saying? It's fucking complicated. I don't usually swear too much, but there are time when only a good 'fucking' will do.

Pause. Pause. Pause.

Ehm...moving on.

I'm at a point in my relationship where I feel like that Gilbert lady in "Eat Pray Love". You know the part where she's praying and says "God, just tell me what to do and I'll do it." I wish there were the Voice of God to tell me what to do, but not like in Monty Python. I've always found their 60's show annoying and uncomfortably tripped out. I just want someone to tell me what to do.

I want Alec Guiness to talk to me like he did in Star Wars to Luke. "Tanya, you must feel the Force within you. The Force will tell you what to do." And then he tells me that A) either my list IS important and valid and I need to honor that or B) Love supersedes any list of expectations.

My boyfriend is having struggles. I want to be there for him, but I'm also terrified. Am I terrified of love? Yes. It's very hard to trust. But it's doubly hard to trust when your partner can't find a job. I always look a few feet down the road. This is a writer thing, a neurotic thing, and a single-mom thing. If he can't find a job, what happens in a month. What happens in two? What happens if I fall in love so deeply that I marry him? Can I be the sole provider for my family? Do I want to be?

For now, I'm re-reading my checklist. If I were updating it, I'd also add Do You Like To Take Walks and Do You Smoke? But I'm not updating it. I'm re-reading it to see what I really need. Do I need all of these things? Or do I just need a man who loves me with his whole being...because honestly I have that. Maybe I should just be grateful for that and hope the other things work themselves out.

Here's the old application:

Application to Date Tanya

Please fill out this application to the best of your ability. You must fill it out yourself. If you need someone else to fill this out for you, then I’m sorry, you cannot date Tanya.

1) Are you currently:

a) Married

b) Separated

c) Divorced

d) Single

e) Separated but still living with ex

f) Separated but emotionally damaged

If you answered A, E, or F, you may not date Tanya. You’re too much work for her. If you answered B, C, or D…please continue with application.

2) Do you have a job and a car?

a) Yes

b) No

If you answered A please continue. If you answered B, please go out and get a job and a car.

3)  Do you currently

a) Own your home

b) Rent

c) Live with your mom

If you answered A or B, you’re doing great! If you answered C, Tanya feels bad for you. Please fill out this application at a later point, when you have moved out of the basement.

4)  Are you supportive of dating someone who is flighty, emotional, talks too much, has big ideas and writes long emails (sometimes drunken emails), and also narrates and is working on webisodes and in her spare time writes novels and plays in which people do, occasionally, have sex?

a) Yes. Love it.

b) I’m a little uncomfortable with this.

c) My mother would be offended.

d) No way.

If you answered anything other than A, then Tanya is not the right one for you.

5)  As an eater, what kind of cuisine do you like:

a) Plain old meat & potatoes for me

b) I’m a vegetarian or vegan

c)  Anything my mom cooks for me

d) I’m an adventurous eater. I’ll eat curry, chicken wings, lentil cakes, whatever. And I’m not opposed to chopping vegetables.

If you answered A, B, or C, it might be hard for Tanya to cook for you. Seriously reconsider filling out the rest of this application. She likes to cook and experiment with whatever she fancies, and she may offend your palate.

6)  Are you dating anyone else?

a) Yes

b) No

c) I’ve been dating someone for a while, but I want to make sure she’s the right one, so I thought I’d date Tanya just to be sure, then tell Tanya that while she’s intelligent, creative, and sexy, my heart belongs to another and I’m planning on committing to her. To the other woman. Not to Tanya.

If you answered B, congratulations! You may now date Tanya!!! If you answered A, please don’t date Tanya. She’s not good with competing, and it makes her feel very vulnerable. If you answered C, go away. Go far away!! Tanya does not want to see, hear, or speak to you.

Thanks for completing this questionnaire. Pleases send your $5 application fee and picture to Tanya at heyblunderwoman@gmail.com . She’ll get back to you once her sister has approved the application.

How do you forgive when you're an angry Mofo?

Last night I had an interesting conversation with my ex’s new wife. I’ve jokingly referred to her in the past as my Sister Wife, as when I was still legally married she was the one who ended up taking me to the ER when I broke my foot. We both had to listen to the nurse say to me “Oh, your husband will have to treat you well this Christmas” when, of course, my husband was my ex and living with her. It was awkward and horrible and now, frankly, it’s very funny.

My ex and his wife had asked me to switch the holiday schedule in the custody agreement and, well, I’m not proud to say this, but I lost it. I Big Time lost it. You could blame it on just returning from a pretty emotional trip to New York, or blame the intense pain I was under because I needed a root canal. Blame the stress of realizing my bank account was really, really low; blame that my boyfriend is having job troubles and that freaks me out. Blame my hormones; blame the moon; blame the stars. Blame Glenn Beck just because. Mostly, I just blame myself. I felt like they’d asked me to (yet again) change my life to fit their needs, and because I didn’t matter and wasn’t important I should just do it.

And I got angry. Really angry. Angry enough to call my ex and yell at him and cry and tell him all the horrible things he’d done to me over the year. It went something like this: “Do you know what it felt like to have to take a picture of you and your new family on Halloween when we’d only be separated for a few months?” and “How could you bring the kids over on the day you got married when you were all still dressed up? Why couldn’t you at least have the decency to change your clothes so I didn’t have to see you in your wedding outfits?” Pointless stuff really. He didn’t say anything. He just listened. And then he said he was sorry.

Then that evening I wrote a long email. I pointed out all the ways they’d hurt me again. I threatened attorneys getting involved and possibly sending Mothra over to their house to get them. Did the venting, evil email make me feel better? Not really.

What did make me feel better was talking to my ex’s new wife. Boy, that’s a clunky way to refer to her. Let’s just call her Abby. My ex stayed home. Abby and I have decided to do the scheduling because my ex and I just can’t seem to communicate, part of the reason we’re divorced. So Abby and I went through the email and she asked me to be specific about what they had asked me to change over the year. I gave her details. Some she knew and disagreed with, some she didn’t know. What became clear as I talked to her is that I’m still angry at my ex for our years of miscommunication. I’m also angry about this year of divorce since he remarried so quickly with 4 new stepchildren, it feels as if again he’s more important than me. When we were married, his work and life were more important than me and anything I wanted or needed and I felt invisible. In our divorce, his new family is more important because there are more people. I’m just a single mom with Louis and Simone; he has a wife and (now) six kids. So, again, I feel invisible.

Abby said I should work on forgiveness. Now, if she’d said this to me earlier, I would have told her to go, er, have intimate relations with herself, but I didn’t. Why? Because she’s right. I have spent so much time and energy and emotion feeling hateful that’s it turning me bitter. You know those crazy dried-up apple faces they sell at arts and crafts shows? I feel like that’s who I’m turning into. It takes a lot of energy to be hateful.

The question is…how do you forgive? I’m not religious so I can’t turn it over to a higher power. I can only turn it over to myself. That’s tough when you’re neurotic because when you turn something over, you re-turn it and then analyze it and then get mad and then….it’s exhausting. But can I forgive? Can I let go? Can I move forward? Can I?

At what point do you stop feeling angry about the life that you don’t have and just focus on making the life you do have better?

Hmmm. Damnation. Harrumph! Blast. And I’ll throw an ‘egad’ in there for good measure.

It’s time for me to let go. It’s time for me to move on. My ex hurt me. I hurt my ex. This last year was horrible with starting over, seeing the kids in pain, fighting for a job, breaking my foot, fighting for a house. I’m so used to fighting it seems it’s all I do now. There’s a tiny realization happening here though that maybe, just maybe it’s time to stop fighting so much. I’ve forgotten to breathe.

Maybe forgiving for me starts with that: it starts with taking a deep breath and then gently, gently, letting the breath go.

We’ll see where I go from there.

Last Day in NY: Mini Epiphanies (almost as good as mini org...Ahem)

Quiet Day in New York

I woke up feeling a little bit better. Must have been some powerful antibiotics. Still, when I turned to one side, I really did resemble Jay Leno. I was okay with this. I just pulled my hair over my jaw, batted my eyelashes and tried to look mysterious instead of bloated. I popped some Tylenol with Codeine (just one.  I’m a tender flower) and headed outside while my niece slept in. By Day 4, we’d fallen into a routine. She would stay up until 3am while I slept, and I’d wake up at 6:30am while she slept and explore the town.

I left the hotel looking for a flea market on 39^th street. I didn’t even make it. Around the corner from my hotel on 6^th Avenue, the entire avenue was shut down. Overnight a fair had sprouted…and they were selling stuff CHEAP! What was it with things sprouting overnight? In the country, mushrooms sprout. In New York movie productions and street fairs sprout.

I decided to check it out. I walked for blocks and blocks just looking—not just at stuff (though there was plenty) but at the people.

THE PEOPLE

What is so amazing about New York to me is the diversity of its people. In Michigan, pretty much everywhere you go you see people who look just like you or at least like your extended family. And it wasn’t just the cultural heritage of people that fascinated me, just the overwhelming diversity. So consider these glass necklaces I found: they’re all pretty much the same thing. But when you sift through them, you see all the different colors and shapes and…

Okay. I’m about to slip into Cheeseville.

Forgive me, but people are damned interesting. There were so many different skin colors and ages and shapes and eyes and I noticed that women (whether fat or skinny or curvy) all had little bellies sticking out. I found the bellies comforting. I found the differences comforting. I don’t know. I always worry that there’s something fundamentally different about me, that I stick out in some way. Then while checking out a random street on NY I see that everyone is fundamentally different. Epiphany: No one is perfect. Further epiphany: We’re all a little fucked up. No one even noticed my enormous half-chin. I rubbed my belly in happiness.

AFTERNOON

I took a rest and some more codeine. Strange. I’d taken Tylenol with codeine before and it was like floating on an uncomfortable ride through Disney World…or a tripped out Simpson’s episode. This time, it felt like it was having no effect, except I wasn’t in as much pain. That’s how I knew that I really was suffering. Ah well. I could bully through it.

My plan was to meet my cousins in Central Park for a couple of hours and then meet my very cool friend Dionne downtown to watch a play in the Fringe Festival and get Indian food. I made it to Central Park…but sadly had to bail on Dionne. At the end of the day I was throbbing all over, and not in the way that happens in romance novels.

I loved the park too. When I lived in the city, I’d take my lunch breaks there since it’s walking distance to Carnegie Hall. I love that everyone just hangs out, collectively but separate. There’s an ease to Central Park and, of course, people everywhere.

I talked with my cousins and their friends. Watched little Travis and Lizzie run up to people and dance and try to climb a gigantic tree. We ate popsicles and watched a group of break dancers do incredible flips and I worried whether they had health insurance.

At the end of the afternoon, I realized that there was no way I could make it downtown and handle another four or five hours of walking around. Frankly, I was sick and the pain in my tooth made me feel like crying. I said goodbye to my cousins, texted apologies to Dionne and made my way to the hotel.

FINAL NEW YORK THOUGHTS

I picked up a slice of pizza and nibbled tenderly on one side. My niece met friends for dinner and I had the hotel to myself to watch “Dark Knight”. I have to say in the hotel room, I had another little epiphany. Living in New York was a time where my life fractured. If 911 hadn’t happened, I could see myself still living there. I think I’d have a small apartment in Brooklyn, a collection of friends, a boyfriend. I don’t know if I’d have children…though I might’ve if things had worked out with Harrison. I could see this Other Tanya and her Other Life. It would be fast-paced and energized and rich and creative. The truth is, 911 did happen and it did change me and the life of the Other Tanya never was. I moved back to Grand Rapids.

But here’s the moral, folks, and I’m sorry if it’s cheesy or pat. It’s the truth. I can see the Other Tanya and her life but This Tanya, the Tanya of right now, is no longer envious. See, I may not have the energy or the excitement of New York, but I have a beautiful house where I can hear the crickets at night. I have two amazing and quirky children that I love with all my spirit. I have dear friends, true friends and a wonderful supportive family that I can call and see whenever I want. I’m a professor of writing at an art college for as long as they’ll have me, and I’m writing and publishing my books. My life now is fast paced and energized and rich and creative and, possibly more importantly, filled with love and purpose.

And I can always visit New York.

Sunday my niece and I flew back to Grand Rapids. It was a long and exhausting trip and my face hurt; when I pulled up to my house, Biff was standing there. He opened the door. He welcomed me home.

New York Day 3: Toothzilla

When I joked about having misadventures in New York, I sort of meant wearing a dress and accidentally tucking my dress into my panties. Not on purpose, mind you, but just doing embarrassing things that I happen to have a knack for. I did not mean develop an abscessed tooth and spend an entire day trying to get medication before my head exploded. Suffice it to say, yesterday was not the most pleasant of days.

To use a complicated and possibly mixed metaphor: You know that scene in the classic Godzilla story where he’s like smashing all of Tokyo and people are screaming and the beast is all “ROOOOAAAARR” with tiny arms flailing? The pain I’m experiencing is like that. Or it’s sorta like labor. Intense coming in waves, but at least with labor you get a baby out of the deal.

The Tooth has caused my deepest neuroses to surface. What if the infection spreads? What if I overdose on Ibuprofen and ice packs? I’m found dead in a hotel room and the paramedic shakes her head and says: “If only she’d taken antibiotics”.

Still, I did some cool things yesterday. Caity slept in and I explored the city in search of Orajel and coffee. Then we moved from out Times Square hotel a few blocks into Midtown: The Sofitel Hotel.

This place is so snazzy they actually had a bellman on his hands and knees scrubbing the sidewalk to get rid of any stains. I think he was a bellman. He might’ve just been a random guy with OCD. Anyway, the hotel is classy: wood and lush fabrics, classical music playing in the rooms, lotion scented with lavender. It’s got a French flare and it makes me want to wear a beret and speak in obtrusive poetical sentences like they do in French films: “Caity, I cannot accompany you to dinner because I am floating on a sea of pain and the pain is the color of emptiness.” You know, annoying stuff like that.

Caity was exhausted from walking Times Square until 4 in the morning. Uhm, not like a hooker, just a twenty-year-old exploring. So I had the afternoon to myself. I did my favorite thing in New York. Hopped on the N train to Lincoln Center and found my favorite art movie house. It’s a dingy, dirty little place that shows foreign films and independent movies.

When I lived here I’d go there on payday and see whatever movie was playing next. I remember seeing Swimming Pool there and a few others. I decided to roll the die and do it again. I walked up at 12:45; at 12:55 they had a movie playing. I bought tickets to that. Turned out to be “Soul Kitchen”. It was in German. Yay! And about a restaurant! Yay! And had Manni from Run Lola Run in it and Soul Music and montages of food and a guy who kept doing stupid mistakes….why…someone made the movie just for me.

I was the youngest in the theater by about three decades. I sucked on ice instead of eating popcorn. I actually couldn’t eat anything. By the end of the movie I was high on endorphins from seeing a really fun film, and from the intense pain. I called my friend Vicki in Michigan for advice. She’s a stay-at-home mom who was trained as a doctor. Her husband is an ER doctor. They discussed my symptoms and said I’d better get an antibiotic or I might have to go to an ER. They suggested I call my primary care physician and he could call in a prescription.

Thus began my two hour search for medicine. My primary care doctor….I have several obscenities here. He wouldn’t prescribe medicine, feeling that I should get checked out first. I think he was afraid I was going to try to sell an antibiotic on the streets of New York, perhaps to earn plane fare back.

I walked to Carnegie Hall to have an anti-climactic “Oh I used to work there” moment and then started crying on the street corner of 57^th and 7^th. My body hurt. My face hurt. I was shaking with hunger. How was I supposed to find a doctor? Then a beaming ray of light fell on a Duane Reade and angels strummed harps. (That could be an exaggeration.) There was a Duane Reade with a “Doctor On Premises!” She saw me. She took a look at me and said, “Your face is all swollen”. I started crying again. “Look, I don’t know anything about teeth but I’ll prescribe you an antibiotic, okay, honey?” I loved her a little bit right then.

Prescription in hand, I hopped on the subway to Union Square and met my cousin Mike outside his work. He’s a very cool graphic designer and a director. That means he gets to tell people what to do. Caity and I walked around his office, met his coworkers. I was supposed to go with Mike and Caity to meet his wife Tessa in Central Park. We were going to have a picnic, but I couldn’t do it. I was either going to pass out or curl in fetal position and I sorta wanted some privacy to do that. I told them I’d see them later, made my way to the hotel, found a deli where I could get dinner: mashed potatoes, chicken soup, and rice. Best. Dinner. Ever. I took the codeine, the antibiotic, the ibuprofen, put an instant ice pack on my face, watched bad TV and got to talk to my Biff for a few minutes.

This morning I’m writing from a little diner down the street. The pain isn’t as bad but my face is still swollen. Not bad, I just look like I have a really defined chin on one side. If I’m lucky, I’ll feel well enough to meet my friend Dionne and go to a Fringe play and to Alphabet City (that’s the name right?) for Indian food. We’ll see what the day holds. So far, everything’s looking up and Toothzilla, for now, is taking a nap.

Day Two: My New York State of Mind

Morning

I wake up to a colossal headache. Correction. A toothache. In New York! You’re not supposed to get a toothache while on vacation. And you’re not supposed to have half of your face swell up so you look like you have an allergic reaction. Blast. And I have no hairspray or gel because of ‘plane safety issues’. I look bloated. At least half of me does. I pop some serious ibuprofen and hope this is just a momentary toothache and not, say, cause for a root canal.

I need coffee. I throw on a 1980’s type floppy shirt over my yoga pants. One thing I love about New York is you can look swollen, puffy, and crazy in your yoga pants and 80’s t-shirt and NO ONE CARES.

Out the door of my hotel, there are all these trucks. Wait a minute…not trucks. Production vehicles. They’re shooting a film on my block. (I call it my block even though it’s mine for only twenty four hours.) I’m hoping a casting agent will see me and maybe put me in the film as a Crazy Cat Lady. I have the hair and face to prove it. I just need the cats. And a wool coat. And then it’s off in search of coffee….which I find at The Hot and Crusty. I’m not kidding you. It’s a deli called The Hot and Crusty…and it’s incredible. Eggs, toast, hash-browns and coffee for $4.65, and the guys behind the deli will flirt with you for free.

I don’t look flirt-able right now. Although, someone reminded me (Biff) that women hit their sexual peak in their late 30’s. Maybe that’s why everywhere I go men are awfully nice to me. It’s either that or because I have big boobs.

Afternoon

My niece Caity and I check into our next hotel, the Hilton in Times Square. Compared to our first night in the city, this place is gigantic. My brother booked the room for us using his super-important-VIP status. They let us check into the hotel three hours early. I think they would’ve given me a foot rub if I asked.

Then we explore Times Square a bit. There are people everywhere: most of them are obviously tourists. Caity and I try to blend in with local New Yorkers by walking really fast and looking mildly grumpy. It works.

We discover Bryant Park on our hunt for a sandwich and are smitten. The foodie in me emerges because I want to take pictures of all the delis and the buffets. Keeping my niece’s tender self-esteem in mind, I refrain, but it takes a lot to do so.

We shop at H&M. It’s a flashback to 1984 and I find that I am actually supportive of this. I mean, come on, paint splattered shirts are fun. It’s like “Look at me! I’m wearing paint splatters!” I like the oversized droopy shirts, the belts, the crazy patterns. I try to remember that I’m 37 and not 17 and that I really probably shouldn’t tease my hair again and wear rubber shoes and bangly bracelets and a Like A Virgin shirt. (Although secretly I really like the idea of being a mom with two kids wearing a Like A Virgin shirt. Something about that is very appealing.)

Evening

At 4:00 I get a call from my old boyfriend. He says “Hello, darlin’. How are you doing?” His voice is soft and low and I can hear him smiling when he talks to me. We decide that drinks are still on so I get dressed. Caity tells me what to wear. The long sundress I love is a big No. “You look like a soccer mom taking the kids on an outing.”

“But I have cleavage!” I say.

“Tanya, moms have cleavage too. They feed babies.”

Ah. So I try on a new dress I bought at Filene’s Basement. It’s short and tight and again, my boobs are enormous. I’m having Boob Paranoia. I can’t do that dress. I’ll wear that dress when I’m out with Biff. But not for an ex. So I put on a cute wraparound blue dress where the cleavage is easy. I mean classy. I was slipping into the Summertime song there. I apologize.

The bar we meet at is called the Vanderbar, on 45^th (I think) and Vanderbuilt. I get there early and sit by an open window. They have the air blasting so you get the benefit of open windows without sweating. New York is smart that way. I order a drink. A martini made with blackberry vodka with real berry bits. I don’t like how the term ‘berry bits’ sounds…sort of like something exploded. The drink, though, is good.

I watch men walking by the window, into the bar. They’re in suits and I have a surreal moment where I look around for Christian Bale thinking I’ve slipped onto the set of American Psycho.

My old boyfriend…let’s call him Harrison (with a nod to Harrison Ford though my ex doesn’t look like him at all) texts me and says he’ll be there in five minutes.

I try to relax and I find that I do. I also slip back into 2001 when I met Harrison. We met online and our first date lasted 8 hours. We went to restaurants and bars and kissed in a bar surrounded by hundreds of people. Our relationship was easy and intense and I loved him. After September 11^th, the city was so depressed, especially that first Christmas. I had no money and no family. I wanted a Christmas tree but couldn’t afford one so I drew a picture of one on a grocery bag, colored it and decorated it. I taped it to the wall and there was one present under it, a quilt I’d made for him. We spent Christmas together walking through the night to Central Park. There was a light snow and the world was draped in stars and Christmas lights. And menorahs too, of course.

A couple months later Harrison broke up with me. He said it was the timing and that “It’s not you, Tanya, it’s me.” I didn’t understand. I thought I’d found the One. I felt totally used and like I didn’t matter. All part of why I moved back home.

I think of this waiting for him. When he enters the bar we look at each other and we smile. He looks the same. Exactly the same. He’s married now with two kids and one on the way and he’s the kind of guy that is just plain comfortable to be with. We sit and talk and drink and laugh. He brings up the past. He says “You know, I’ve often thought about you and wondered what would have happened if we met a year later. I was just in a really difficult time in my life and I wasn’t ready.”

I get teary then because what he’s said is a gift to me. I didn’t imagine a connection; it was really there, and I mattered to him. And now, after being divorced, I understand what he means. It really was the timing. We talk about our lives and kids. I talk about my divorce and Biff. We toast to old times at another bar and then say our goodbyes.

I walk by myself through the streets of New York and I find that a little part of my heart has just healed.

I meet my niece at American Idiot and we see a show together. We spend the rest of the night walking around together and laughing. We eat Tasti D-Lite in Times Square.

The way I feel about New York now is the way I feel about Harrison. It occupies a little place in my heart, but it’s a place no longer of sadness but of a wonderful year. I used to think that moving to the city in 2001 was horrible timing, like meeting Harrison was horrible timing. Now I wonder otherwise. It was a year that changed my life and for the better. And I can be happy with that now.

When I sleep, I don’t dream. I wake up smiling…but I still have a toothache.

Blunder Woman Takes Manhattan! (Then apologizes for not asking first)

To tell you why this trip to New York is important to me is a really long story. Like a novel. Or a memoir. I can’t tell that whole story because I want to blog about what the trip is now and what happens (if anything). So here’s the summary: in July 2001 I sold everything, moved to NYC and tried to live the life of a struggling writer. I got a great job at Carnegie Hall, went through September 11^th and then New York and I changed. I tried to stay. Fell in a love with a man who called me darlin’ and then broke my heart. And I realized I wasn’t cut out for the Big Apple. I came home nine months later. That’s the back story.

Here’s the Flash Forward:

I was so nervous about this trip that I had to take a Valium last night. It made me feel woozy and giggly and allowed me to actually sleep a bit. On the plane ride we (my niece Caity and I) were jammed in to this tiny plane that trembled at every gust of wind. I had to hold Caity’s hand while she tried not to roll her eyes. We got off the plane (once it landed of course) and then found a cab. I felt different driving into the city. The last time I’d done it, I had all my belonging with me. This time, I was a tourist. It was a lovely day, slightly overcast, cool, so the New York City Summer Smell wasn’t so bad.

We found our hotel on West 87^th street (The Belnord) and then went exploring. I quickly realized that this wasn’t the city I left ten years ago. Maybe because September 11 is no longer part of every waking moment. Or maybe it’s because I’m a little older. When I lived here, I was so immersed in my own experience, I never looked around. This time was different. It is different. (Tense change people. To my students: I apologize.) New York isn’t a place really…I mean it is…but what makes it interesting is the people. It’s People! It’s like Soylent Green only you don’t eat it.

We did eat Greek food. Grapes hung from the ceiling. Plastic grapes, thankfully.

Then we were off to kill two hours before checking into the hotel. We found this strange bookstore with books covering the walls from floor to ceiling. It smelled musty. And I listened to the clerk talk to his accountant. They were hipsters, in their late twenties.

“Dude, weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in here was a homeless guy came in with a plastic bag, he dropped his drawers right in the store man and took a crap. A crap! In the bag! Then he pulled up his drawers, grabbed the bag and left.” The clerk shook his head.

The accountant ( a redhead with a bad sunburn) said: “Well, how did he do that? I mean, wouldn’t that be hard to get all that shit into a bag and not make a mess?”

Clerk: “I don’t know man. I guess he had a lot of practice.”

Mmmm. My first New York Story.

We checked into our hotel. It was cute. And made for very tiny people. I’m 5’4 and nearly a giant, but it’s okay. I fit.

Then we went to Union Square. It was a mass of Hipsters. Skinny jeans, crocheted hats, thick glasses. Irony was in the air like a thick fog. Everyone was hanging out looking mildly bored. I wanted to take a brush and comb hair out of Hipsters’ eyes. I refrained.

While walking around Caity and I spied a beautiful man coming toward us. He had long curly hair, was wearing a skirt and a mesh lacy top. Like, totally a woman’s outfit, but he didn’t care. And he had amazing legs. Long, shapely and covered in dark hair. We both agreed that he was the hottest transsexual we’d ever seen, and utterly natural looking.

Caity met a friend of hers and I was left on my own to explore. I found a place to sit and have a drink and while sitting there that old boyfriend I told you about called me. “Hello, darlin’…” he began. I just laughed. It’s not ten years ago. I don’t have any feelings for him, and that’s sort of liberating. Plus, I have Biff waiting for me at home…and HE fixes sinks and stuff.

Then I took a subway to the hotel. I was all cocky like I Know The Subway I lived Here Ten Years Ago. Yeah. Not so much. I immediately got on the wrong train and ended up on the East side. I thought I stepped through a vortex. Then I realized I’d just used the wrong train. So, back to the subway and to Times Square to fix my error. Doors closed. It was hot and smelled of onions. That’s not a pleasant thing. Then we stopped. Mid-tunnel. The lights flickered. The driver came on the speaker “Look, folks, we’re stuck here for a while. Some guy in the train just ahead of us is sick. They’re trying to figure out what to do with him.”

A girl wearing a t-shirt dress (which I suspected might just be a t-shirt) said “Well, get the asshole off the train. We have dinner reservations.”

We waited. I thought, hmm. Someone’s sick? We’d been waiting for twenty minutes. I wondered if someone had a heart attack or explosive vomiting, then decided I didn’t want to think about it. Finally the driver came back on. “Okay. We need to evacuate. It’s not a big deal. Be calm. When I stop the train, you all need to move slowly to the front of the train, but be careful stepping between the trains ESPECIALLY IF YOU’RE IN HEELS. There’s 600 volts of electricity down there, people. It’s not a joke. If you are in heels, be especially careful!”

I was in the last train. Do you know how long it takes to walk from the back of a NY subway train to the front, balancing between cars? It takes forever. And it makes you dizzy.

It’s an hour later now and I’m in my hotel room. I just ate a Tasty D-Lite Strawberry Cheescake cone followed by an enormous piece of pizza. If Biff were here, he’d probably have eaten TWO slices of pieces because he likes to eat things in pairs.

My feet hurt, I’m tired, and I don’t need Valium tonight. I’m utterly relaxed. And the New York I was so afraid to return to isn’t scary at all. It’s just wrapped in skinny jeans and has a wicked sense of humor. I fit right in. I’m wearing a cape after all.

TUNNEL VISION--Chapter 9--Planning

Chapter Nine

“There are two people in this room, Doctor. One is sane. One is as crazy as they come. I assure you, sir, I am sane. So which one are you?”

-Handwritten note addressed to Dr. Kinney and marked PRIVATE

Second Street, Traverse City, 1952

My head throbs. My body aches. I feel as if every muscle has been straining to grasp something it cannot reach. Maybe it was the conversation with my mother. Your father, she began and then she said, Charlie…She paused here and her eyes filled with tears. I think, perhaps, mine did too. No longer was he simply my father; she had to specify that she meant her husband and the man that raised me. She continued, Charlie and I met because of Ama. She was raised in the tunnels, you see. Charlie had been bringing her food secretly for sometime and the others…

I slip my hands in the hot, sudsy water and grab a glass and begin to scrub.

The others, she said, raised her.

The glass in my hand is a fragile bird. I scrub. I said, but if Dad knew she was there…why didn’t he rescue her?

My mother looked at me and sighed. She was tired. She did not want to discuss this with me anymore. Her words were heavy with fatigue. Who would rescue her, Beth? A ten-year-old girl, raised by lunatics? Where would she go? Who would take that risk? Charlie was raised in an orphanage. He has the scars to prove it. And if you saw her…if you knew her…I met her when she was seventeen. We were the same age. I was jealous of her, of how Charlie would bring her things…ribbons, a slice of bread, a jewelry box. And so I started bringing things too. I think maybe she wanted him, but she could not go to the surface then and I could. And of course, Doctor Kinney arrived shortly after that. After that, everything was decided.

What was decided? I asked.

You. Ama. Rose. Me.

I say the four words as I scrub a glass and when the glass snaps in my hand, I don’t feel a thing. Not until I see the water beneath the suds and the swirl of red do I realize that anything is wrong. I call for Ray but he is not home. He never seems to be home anymore.

I pull my hand from the water and it seems to pulse blood directly from my heart. There’s a towel and I wrap it tightly across the gash in my hand. If I cannot get the bleeding to stop, I will call my neighbor Katy to help me. I will crawl to her if I need to. It’s not the loss of my own blood I fear, but my child’s.

For now, I slide down against the cabinets and sit on the floor.

I breathe.

You. Ama. Rose. Me. I repeat it. It’s a refrain. A dirge. The sound of a glass shattering.

What did you do to us? I ask the air. I ask Kinney. I ask the man who was my real father, and yet a man I feel nothing but contempt for. He doesn’t answer. He is not here either.

***

Northern Michigan Insane Asylum, 1933

“Mallie, I’d like you to assist me with a few things,” Kinney said to the young nurse. She stood in the doorway to his office and looked behind her as if to see if anyone were watching. “It’s perfectly above board,” Kinney said. “You have nothing to fear from me. Please come in and shut the door.”

“It’s just that…if you forgive sir, there have been doctors, sir, who…” she fumbled with her apron, twisted it with her fingers.

“I’m aware of the rumors. Do not fear. I have nothing but a professional interest in you. In fact, I have a proposition for you.” Mallie seemed to let that register. She entered the office and shut the door, though she stayed close to it, Kinney was sure so that she could escape if needed.

“You have a proposition, sir?”

“Tell me, has your family been struck by the wave of job losses?” Kinney knew the answer to this. Most of the country was under a serious economic crisis. Even now the asylum was filling with the deranged that family members could no longer support. He could surmise that Mallie’s family was having trouble, but he did not need to surmise at all. He knew that Mallie Lyn Peters lived with her single mother and four siblings. He knew that her mother mended patients’ uniforms. Harvey Biggart himself brought great stacks of uniforms for her to fix. He also knew that she had lost quite a bit of work lately because Kinney had quietly seen to it to find another seamstress.

Mallie Lyn’s face flushed red and she nodded. “Yes,” she said.

Kinney nodded, once. “I have a special job for you, one that you will be well compensated for. One that will require some additional time from you on your day off, and perhaps at night. You will be safe, I assure you. I have no interest in you of a physical nature, I assure you. I simply need a nurse to help me at my new house.”

“Your new house, sir?” She looked up at him.

“I have purchased a home not far from here, on the shore of the bay. I have, of course, decided to keep my appointment here at the asylum. You will assist me with some…” Kinney paused here as he searched for the word. “…experiments if you will.  A new method in healing the sick. We will start with one patient.”

“One, sir?” Mallie asked softly.

“Just one. And Mallie, if you assist me, perhaps I can send some more work to your mother and your young siblings.” He saw her eyes flash then and he could not be certain if it were from gratefulness or if she guessed how much of her family’s fate he truly held in his palms.

“Of course, sir. Whatever you need, sir.” She curtsied. “Just a question, sir. Who is the patient?”

Kinney walked to the window to hide his grin. “Ama,” he said. “But from now on we will call her Patient Rose.”

Mallie’s reaction was not what he’d expected. He’d expected her to harangue him, to fight. But she said with a voice that now had more strength in it, “Oh, yes, Doctor Kinney. I would be happy to take Ama away from here. To take…Rose. And watch over her, I mean, and help you with whatever experiments you need. No one need know. She doesn’t really belong here anyway.”

This time when Kinney turned to her, he did not hide his grin. It seemed that Mallie Lyn and he had a perfect understanding. “We will begin at once,” he said. “I am moving my things to the house tonight.”

“Tonight, sir,” she said, and she smiled at him in return.

***

Traverse City, 1952

I sit in the rocking chair and rock. I rock to the pulsing in my hand, to keep the sound of Ray’s voice from touching me. “What a fucking stupid thing to do, Beth! How could you cut yourself! Are you a child? Do you need someone here to watch you? I had to take work off. I lost a day’s pay. A day’s pay!” He goes on and on. I rock. I focus on the color of Ray’s hands, stained deep and forever with the cherries he cans. He smells of the factory, sweet.

I tell him I’m sorry. I tell him it was an accident. I tell him it will never happen again. I talk to him and while my mouth moves and say words, my mind is very far away. Back in the asylum my father took my mother from the only home and family she ever knew. How did he do it? How did her family react? I do think of them as her family, the inmates. They loved her, didn’t they? And isn’t that what family is? People who love you?

I have their pictures: Liliana with the long dark hair. The albino man, Timothy Beeler. The crazed and fierce looking Kostic. The old woman Lynnie. It is their voices I hear now, not Ray’s. They say the words I want to say.

Stop! What are you doing? How can you take her? She is ours ours ours. Ama! Ama! They cry.

They cry.

They are grabbed and thrown in cells. My father prescribes new therapies. They inject Liliana with insulin to trigger a coma. For Robert Kostic, it’s massive doses of barbiturates to control him and he sleeps the sleep of the dead. They lock Timothy in a room where he cannot paint or draw. And old Lynnie they treat by holding her food, and feeding her only broth. And later, there’s a new technique, electroshock therapy, and I see their bodies vibrating and bouncing and I see the foam forming in their mouths.

In my rocking chair, I imagine Ray doing the same to me. Shocking my system, only it is with words. Stupid, useless, ridiculous, selfish. Why I ever married you I’ll never know.

He’s chipping away at me. At the very core of me. I feel my self slip away under the cold water.

This, too, is what my father did to my mother. She may have started out as Ama, but she became Rose.

The question I have now is who, exactly, will I become?

TUNNEL VISION-Chapter 8-Observing

Chapter Eight

In the morning Kinney awoke to the emptiness of the bed and his room, and the awareness that to accomplish his goal, he would need to take steps. First steps began with the ritual of shaving. Cold water, lathering the soap in the cup, dragging the straight blade down the sharp curve of his jaw. Just a touch of blood. Never mind. There was always a scratch or two when preparing to greet the world. And then the dressing: under garments, starched shirt, dark dress pants, shoes polished to a dark mirror. He smoothed pomade in his hair until every hair lay perfectly in place. And then he began his morning routine, or what had become his morning routine. He did not go to the dining hall for coffee and food to be spooned upon a platter for him. He went quietly down into the tunnels. He too could have a secret hiding spot. Kinney, you see, was a quick learner.

As a doctor Kinney had realized early on that before taking any precipitous steps with a patient, he must observe quietly first. Only after hours of observation, could he (as one would cut out a cancerous growth) know exactly how to remove the cause of his suffering. For Kinney suffered now. Every moment when Rose was not with him (for he thought of Ama entirely as his Rose now) he suffered gravely. He was losing weight, the sharp blades of his bones becoming yet more pronounced. He coughed more and at times had such trouble breathing he feared he’d pass out. When Rose was with him all signs of his illness abated. He was well. And so he must figure out a way to remove Rose from the darkness of the tunnels and take her into the light of his own life.

From the shadows he observed. This morning Rose was tended to by the albino, Beeler. The four inmates seemed to exhibit vastly different psychoses and on their own could barely tend to themselves, let alone take care of a child. Collectively, he noted, it was a different story entirely. They seemed to help each other. To communicate with one another. Where one patient had a weakness, another had strengths. The albino did not talk. It was either a self-imposed silence or perhaps his albinism was only one tendril of deeper malformations. Perhaps he did not have a tongue with which to speak. Beeler’s strength was tending to Rose, protecting her while she slept. He watched over her, fiercely at times Kinney noted. If there were no other noises in the tunnel room where she slept Beeler drew pictures for her.

Her room consisted of a stained mattress and an odd collection of broken toys and dolls on slanted shelves. Alone, the room would be dismal, but Beeler with his drawings had somehow transformed the small room into a childish paradise. While Beeler was without color himself, he drew and painted pictures with colors so vibrant they practically vibrated. The walls were covered with a deep blue waterfall and a woods so lush it seemed to hum. Butterflies of inexplicable colors flew and hid in flowers. Woodland creatures peered from branches and fields. And the ceiling was covered not with the brightness of a sun, but the cool simple beauty of sister moons.

Once, Kinney had stifled a cough and Beeler had immediately turned in place and seemed to stare straight at him. Kinney dared not breathe, especially when a growl of inhuman nature issued from the throat of the albino. Hours passed, seemingly, until Beeler returned to his sketching. Kinney had no doubt that if the inmate had caught him observing, he might have torn out Kinney’s own tongue, rendering him without speech too.

Kinney had observed the others with her too. Kostic was her guardian and storyteller. Kostic suffered from what was newly termed paranoid schizophrenia. He had moments of extreme lucidity, even an otherworldly calm, and moments of extreme violence…yet somehow he used this diseased part of his mind to spin incredible stories.

Kinney thought of him as a ruthless spider spinning nightmares and demons, saints and hellfire. Rose listened raptly, apparently transported as Kostic spoke. Through this way Kinney suspected Rose had learned language and a sense of wrong from right. There was always a hero in his stories; it’s just that many of the heroes were from the darkest parts of the underworld.

Rose’s sense of sensuality and gender seemed to come from (for lack of a better word) her two mothers. Liliana was a hysteric who suffered from bouts of epilepsy. She was considered feeble-minded, yet she had a way about her, a gentleness of spirit that was inviting. Her long curly hair fell to her back and surrounded her face in shadow, yet a calmness flowed from her. She seemed to feel deep empathy for the others. When Rose was troubled, she ran to Liliana and was soothed. And when the others were fighting or suffering an episode, Liliana stepped in and softly talked them down, or placed herself fearlessly between Rose and the other inmate who was about to strike.

And then there was Lynnie Grant, a lifetime ward of the asylum. Now in her seventies she was as withered as a dead tulip stalk. The years had bent her back into a sharp hook so that when she walked, she faced her own stomach. She could not straighten up entirely, but would twist her head up to see you.  She was notoriously promiscuous, even at this age, with language so base and dirty there were times they locked her in a private ward to keep her from infecting the other inmates. If witches existed, surely Lynnie Grant was one of them. Kinney could not discern her role in Rose’s life and did not care to ponder how Rose could be such a knowledgeable lover. Surely it was not from instruction but Rose’s unending passion for Kinney specifically.

And so it went on. And so Kinney watched and waited and listened. Listened to how the inmates related not to Rose but to each other. And every morning when he crawled out of the tunnels, he wrote copious notes so that he would not forget. He would use the information to cut out another cancerous growth, and it would allow him to finally possess Rose.

This morning, she slept. Kinney smiled to himself. He would not have to wait much longer. He had almost everything he needed. He would begin the cleaving soon.

The Things Not Said

I went to my friend G’s cottage this week to reconnect and share our writing. He’s working on what looks like is going to be a terrific novel. We read to each other, talked writing, had a gin and tonic. I took a nap in the hammock, listened to the wind rustle the leaves. Stronger than rustle, actually. It was full-on shaking the leaves.

It was a great afternoon. G and I are dealing with similar writing issues, and maybe some similar life issues too. And then while he worked on prepping dinner (that I sadly missed, had to get home before falling asleep) I tried to get online. No access. But my mail folder popped up and I clicked something weird and all of a sudden I was looking at email from 2008...and the first message was a harmless message I’d sent to my now ex.

Hi sweetie. Sorry lunch was so rushed. I was trying to get the kids to play and take a good nap. It worked. They're both napping now.

I hope you have a great trip and all goes smoothly. I'm sorry I didn't make you bread. I honestly thought you didn't want me to make sweets right now. Maybe there will be something nice for your return.

I heard from Trillium Farms. Everything is confirmed; and got a receipt for Iowa. Both exciting. When we get our refund check and/or Brilliance money, we should set some aside to pay the balance on the farm. It's due in April.

love you

Tanya

It depressed me. Deeply. Why? What’s wrong with this note? It’s a simple note from a wife to a husband. It’s about every day stuff. What saddened are the things that are not said. My ex in this email was on one of his many trips, and he’d come home briefly for food before heading out. At that time, I cooked everything from scratch. I apologize here for lunch being rushed. Louis was 4 and Simone was 2 and I apologized! I also apologized for not having homemade bread for him. Then I talk about Iowa. On Iowa, I’d scheduled a writing conference that I wanted to attend on my own, but my ex insisted that he go with me. I was angry at him, but you’d never guess it here. Also, I used money from my voice-overs from Brilliance to pay for it, because it was an extravagance and he refused to use any of our ‘regular’ income.

You don’t hear the sadness in here. You hear a woman being a wife and saying I love you and taking care of things. But how I felt…oh, how I felt. Why couldn’t I tell him? Why couldn’t I explain how miserable I was? Why was I, essentially, lying to him?

The truth is, I wasn’t just lying to him by pretending to be happy and pretending everything was okay. I was lying to myself. Every email I sent him tried so hard to be perfect. I apologized for the house not being cleaner, for not making better food, for spending $10 over our $250 monthly food budget. I said “I love you” more times than I can count. I asked him to forgive me. It turns my stomach now to read it. Why would I expect him to know what I was feeling if I was so very good at hiding it?

I think we all do this. We want a perfect life so badly, we tell ourselves we have it. We apologize for things we don’t feel guilty for. We say yes to things we want to say no to.

I’m mad at myself for being so phony, not only with my ex (because there is an element in there that isn’t fair) but also to myself. If I could’ve been strong enough earlier…

I did the best I could.

While G cooked, I had flashbacks to my life as a wife. There are things I miss so much about it. I miss the comfort and security. I miss the predictability. I miss having my kids all the time. I miss planning menus and having a husband that would eat anything I set in front of him from crazy vegetarian food to extravagant roasts to, fresh ciabatta bread. I miss the ring on my finger that seemed to prove to myself that, yes, I was loved.

Sorry to wax poetic here. My ex has taken the kids camping with his new wife and her children and it makes me feel vulnerable and sad.

I haven’t deleted those emails yet. I can’t bear to look at them all, but maybe they’re some kind of reminder, and maybe those emails, the things I don’t say are part of the reason that right now, I’m saying so very much. After five years of self-imposed silence, I find I can’t shut up.

At least now, I like to think that I’m saying all the things I should. There aren’t any spaces between. It’s sometimes hard to live honestly, to be authentic with the loved ones in my life, but I think too, that the life I have now is richer because of that. And while I still want some kind of proof that I have love in my life, I don’t need the ring anymore. I just look at my kids and I know.