Mary and Me by Bonnie Meekumsvcamp coffee made with frothy milk boiled in a pan.

 

Mary and me

We found each other in the cloakroom on the first day at high school, like water finding its level. The cloakroom was full of too-long fresh gabardines mixed with the smells of new leather emanating from briefcases carried by the posh girls. When the deafening bell rang for break, Mary and me wordlessly attached ourselves to each other, walking round arm in arm as if we’d invented a new glue. People called us bosom buddies. You never hear that these days. These days, it’s all BFF, except the last F is often a lie, to be changed with your underwear. On weekends, we scraped our hands and knees on the tall oak trees in the park. And in the autumn, we collected conkers, hardening them with vinegar so they would win. We didn’t think, then, there could only be one winner.

Our mums knew each other. Like us, they were born a few days apart and went to the same school. I liked Mary’s mum. She always smelled nice. Not tarty. Nice. Like a summer’s day. I would look at them, sucking my thumb and wondering what Mary did right to get all those cuddles. She didn’t get told she was a bad girl. Ever.

I called for Mary on my way to school. She lived one street away, so it was on my route. She was always making us late, finding something else to do when it was time to leave the house, like ‘Hang on, Jeannie! I’ve just got to back-comb me hair,’ even though she’d already done it twice. Or, she’d be there pulling her socks up, making sure they were level on her calves, then pulling her skirt down from the waistband so she didn’t get into trouble because it was too short and she knew it. I would hop foot to foot, envisioning an earful for being late, then pull her out the door. Part of me wanted to leave her to it. But you don’t abandon your best friend, no matter how much your tummy tightens. There’s many a time I’ve done detention for that girl.

   Later, the back-combing paid off. All the youth club boys were after her. I bought the Rolling Stones’ ‘Get offa my cloud,’ even though I had nothing to play it on at home. It cost me two weeks’ pocket money, but it was worth it to play it at the club and dance like we were on Top of the Pops. Me and Mary always danced together, unless some boy got between us.

   There was a lad called Terry, like in the song. We used to sing it about him, us girls, but never to his face. He had beautiful Irish looks: pale skin, dark hair, bright blue eyes the colour I imagined a sapphire might be, not that I’d seen one. He used to loiter outside the club, smoking, waiting for Mary to come out so he could murmur something as she walked past. She always kept on walking, but she let him see her smile as she did. We were twelve; he was fourteen. I half hoped he’d notice me, but I could enjoy the attention he paid her; I didn’t have to face not knowing how to behave around him, even though in my dreams he and I were married and he loved me and cuddled and kissed me, showering me with affection.

   We started dating boys at thirteen. We’d go as a crowd to the bowling alley, or maybe the cinema. I never liked going to the pictures, though. I wanted to see the film, whereas the boys always made for the back row. They’d lean over and make you close your eyes so they could kiss you, slobbering so much it made the skin around your mouth sore. You missed most of the film, but if the boy had paid, it seemed only fair. One day, a boy called Derek grabbed my hand while he was kissing me and placed it on his thing, pressing down hard. I felt it go hot and wet. I froze, willing it to be over, his long tongue still poking where it had no business to, making me gag. When I looked at Mary, she wasn’t batting an eyelid as her boy’s hand groped her thigh, creeping under the hem of her miniskirt. She had her hand round his neck, kissing him back. I wondered what she was doing right, and I was doing wrong. I’ve never liked the name Derek to this day.

After that, I didn’t keep a boyfriend more than two weeks. If they did what that boy did in the cinema, they got the boot straight after walking me back to mine. If they were nice, I allowed things to go on a bit longer. My dad must have sensed something. He had a habit of calling each boy by the name of the last one, meaning they were on the back foot from the off. But Mary, she stuck with them at least three months. I got through six boys to her one.

‘Shall we go to the flicks Saturday, Mary?’ I asked one day on our way to school. We were nearly fifteen. ‘It’s that new James Bond film.’ I knew she loved James Bond, though she usually went with her mum. Still, I was hopeful.

‘Oh, no, sorry,’ she said in a sing-song voice, her ear pointing towards her shoulder as she inspected her nails, her lips forming a tight smile. ‘Me and Roland are meant to be staying in. We’re saving up, see.’

I could tell she wanted me to ask what she was saving up for, and to be fair, I was burning to know, but I wasn’t giving her the satisfaction.

‘Suit yourself,’ I said, shoving my hands in my blazer pockets. ‘I’ll ask Wendy.’

We both knew Wendy wouldn’t come, but at least Mary had the grace not to say.

Roland stuck. He used to buy her flowers and chocolates every Saturday from the market on his way to her. Her mum liked him because he was polite and called her Mrs Fletcher. As he became more familiar, his broad smile would come with an ‘Alright, Mrs Fletch?’ She would touch her lacquered hair with her fingertips and smile back at him, laughing and throwing her head back.

Shortly after our sixteenth birthdays, I saw Mary at school. We’d given up walking to school together, and she spent her birthdays with Roland. I asked her what she’d got for hers. She didn’t answer. Just took her left hand out from underneath the desk and laid it on top. Mrs Stewart glared in my direction. I squared my eyes on her so’s not to get into trouble. I looked down as soon as her back turned to write on the blackboard. There, on Mary’s ring finger, was a silver band with a colourless stone.

‘It’s only cubic zirconia. We couldn’t afford a real diamond yet, but once Roland’s flush, he’ll get me the real thing.’

Mary placed her hand back under the desk and began writing in her exercise book, looking up at the teacher now and then. I followed suit, my face and neck burning.

After we’d done our exams, Mary left school and got a job at the Co-op. It was only a stop-gap, she said, until she could get a filing job. I got a holiday job in the local library. I saw Mary once or twice, but words got stuck in our heads, never making it to our mouths. Then one day, we went for a walk in the park, just like old times. It was late summer, and the horse chestnut leaves were turning archangel-gold.

‘Oooh, can’t wait for the conkers!’ I said. But she kept looking at her sandals.

‘I know I’m a big kid,’ I said, trying to get her to agree so she’d come out of her shell.

‘I’ve got something to tell you, Jean,’ she said.

My heart started beating fast. I wondered if she was breaking up with me. Funny expression, I know, but we used to say that about friendships, not just boyfriends. I still saw her as my best friend, even if she seemed to have forgotten me since Roland came on the scene.

‘You know me and Roland are engaged,’ she began. My throat went tight, so I couldn’t get any sound out. ‘Well, we’re getting married next week.’

‘Next WEEK?’ My voice was like screeching tyres.

‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s when you’re back in school,’ she said.

‘Why? Why would you choose a day when I’m in school? Aren’t we best friends?’ I said, sounding pathetic. I could tell the tears weren’t far away and I willed them to stay put.

‘It’s cheaper. We need to save our money, with­—’

‘With?’

‘Withababyontheway,’ she blurted.

When the penny dropped, I wanted to give her a hug, tell her it would be alright, but what did I know? What would be alright? Never again being the girl for whom the biggest decision was whether to have ice cream or chocolate for your birthday meal? Who went out dancing, or giggled at nonsense? Being married to Roland? Having a baby? A life of scrubbing floors and making dinners? I felt like I was on a fast fairground ride, and I wanted to get off.

We kept walking, looking straight ahead until I stopped near the big oak tree we climbed when we were kids.

‘When’s it due?’ I said.

‘I dunno. Probably around March.’

‘Near our birthdays, then.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right.’

‘I can’t afford to have you as a bridesmaid, Jean, but I’d like you to come if you can bunk off school.’

‘Try stopping me,’ I said, tears stinging my eyes, relieved we’d found each other again. ‘I’ll always be your friend, you silly cow,’ I said, kicking the earth.

‘Ditto,’ she said.

We walked back arm in arm.

I went to the wedding, took a good luck horseshoe, and gave her a big hug afterwards. I even managed to hug Roland. He turned out to be a good bloke. He qualified as a car mechanic and then did his Knowledge as a London cabbie. Worked two jobs so they could pay a mortgage. And he got her that diamond. He was playing with his three kids in the park one day when he dropped dead. He was thirty-eight. The same park where Mary had told me her life was changing. The insurance paid off the mortgage, but Mary and the kids had a Roland-sized hole in their life that never quite healed.

And me? I got my A levels and ended up in a good job where I met Keith. He wasn’t like the boys I’d dated when I was young. He gave me time and attention. And he understood me almost as much as Mary. Keith didn’t seem to mind when I started going round to Mary’s more often after Roland died. I took to dusting Roland’s photograph for her and bringing flowers to cheer the place up.

Keith and me never had kids. I suppose it wasn’t meant to be. But I’ve never missed one of Mary’s kids’ birthdays. They call me Auntie Jean and kiss me on the cheek to this day.

Mary lives round the corner. We suffer with our joints, but we always get together on Wednesdays for a cuppa. It breaks up the week, especially since Keith died. Sometimes, we walk arm in arm to a café, but mostly we sit in her house by the park, listening to kids having the time of their lives. 

Lately, Mary’s been getting things wrong. Yesterday she thought Roland was due back for his tea.

So I’ve discussed it with her three. I’m moving in on Monday. Then she won’t leave the gas on, forget to bring her purse back from the post office, swear at the milkman, or go for a walk in the park in her nightie at half past ten like she did last week.

I mean, you don’t abandon your best friend, do you?

On Tuesday, we’ll visit the park. We will walk arm in arm, chuckling about the tall trees we used to climb. Now the leaves are falling, maybe we’ll find some shiny brown conkers. When we get back, we’ll take off our muddy shoes, put on our slippers, and she can make us a nice cuppa. Then she can put her feet up while I make fish and chips.

Between us, we’ll be alright.

about the author

 

onnie’s words appear in MsLexia, Tiny Molecules, Briefly Zine, and elsewhere. She shares a home with a rotating cast of family members, including little people who think they’re in charge. To relax, she walks, reads, and dances, occasionally travelling alarming distances to visit loved ones in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Website: https://bonniemeekums.weebly.com/ 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

saturdy SampleThe Last CasualtyBYby Mmark ConnellyOnnollya Jck Daniel's

 

The Last Casualty

 

When his editor suggested a new book, Mort Sahlman emailed a proposal the next day. He was up for tenure, and his prospects looked good. But another book on his CV would not hurt, and if he lost the Rutgers position, it would make him more competitive in the job market. Denison House was reissuing a number of titles for a new series about Vietnam. Over the years they had published several military studies and two books chronicling the anti-war movement. Sandra Vue at UCLA was finishing a book from the Vietnamese side.

“What we’re missing,” Finn Murphy explained, “is something on the diplomatic front. You’ve covered the EU, the French in Algeria, and Brexit, so I thought you could handle Harold Wilson and De Gaulle. Think about it, and let me know.”

As soon as he signed the contract, Mort went to work, clearing his desk of debris from his last book, dumping files in boxes, shelving books, and opening new folders in Word. For inspiration, he rummaged through his father’s footlocker in the attic, retrieving a gleaming bayonet and a grenade. He placed them on his desk. The bayonet made a perfect letter opener. And the grenade became an oversized worry stone. Ruminating over an awkward sentence, he fondled it, feeling its hard waffled surface. Reading pdfs, he tossed the grenade back and forth like a baseball. Sometimes while watching old newsreels on YouTube, he tossed it up and down in a one-handed juggle.

The grenade prompted his thoughts one afternoon and sparked the hook he needed. His book was a catalog of diplomatic correspondence, canceled conferences, meaningless press releases, failed overtures, and stalled negotiations. Tapping the grenade on his desk like a gavel, the reality of the war came to him. To give his book drama, he would include the mounting casualty figures. “Johnson’s staff worked on the President’s letter to Ho Chi Minh for six days, revising drafts and consulting the Joint Chiefs. That week 452 Americans died in Vietnam.” Murphy loved the idea, praising the concept that would dramatize the cost of failed diplomacy.

Sahlman was revising galleys when he met with the tenure committee. He hadn’t told anyone of his new book, holding it in reserve like a trump card. Fortunately, it was not needed. The committee sat through his presentation, nodding and glancing at the clock. The interview appeared to be a formality. They assured him he was recommended for tenure. Then, just to be safe, he told them of his contribution to the upcoming Denison series.

With the book in print and on Kindle, Sahlman cleared his desk again, deciding to take a break from writing to join a current events podcast out of Chicago. He tossed the bayonet in a drawer for future use and moved the hand grenade to a bookshelf in the hall where it stood between diecast Corvettes.

He was getting ready to skim the pool one Saturday when his thirteen-year-old son Teddy called him over to the patio.

“Say Dad, Jerry says to come over here.”

Mort dropped his tools and joined the boys.

“I was showing Jerry this grenade, and he says he thinks it’s real.” He pointed to the object on the picnic table sitting like a jam jar between plastic mustard and ketchup bottles.

“Oh, it’s a dummy one, a replica. My dad had that and a lot of other stuff from the army. He was in the reserves and never went overseas. He was on the honor guard drill team. Never had ammo in his rifle, just spun it around like a cheerleader’s baton.”

“I dunno, Mr. Sahlman,” Jerry ventured. “I’ve been to gun shows with my dad, and it looks like a live grenade.”

Sahlman smiled. “It’s a fake. A replica for show. My dad wore combat outfits with all the gear doing parades. Here, watch this.”

He plucked the memento off the table and walked to the concrete lip of the patio. He pulled the pin, released the lever, and tossed it into the backyard, where the grenade crashed through tree branches and landed in a flower bed with a thud like a rock.

“See…” There was a sharp bang and a metal clang as fragments hit the tool shed by the pool. A trio of rabbits scurried from the shrubs and disappeared under a neighbor’s hedge.

“Jesus!” Mort cried, recalling the times he had sat at his desk absently twirling the grenade by the pin.

He took a deep breath and faced the open-mouthed boys. “Look, guys, whatever you do, don’t tell anyone, OK? Especially Mom.”

The boys silently nodded, grabbed their bikes, and fled the scene. 

Sahlman left the patio and looked over the hedges to see if any neighbors had come out to investigate. Seeing no one, he ducked into the kitchen and poured a glass of Riesling. He chugged it, then downed another. The bottle empty, he grabbed a Bud Light, then headed outside to check for damage.

Brushing aside a fir tree, he noticed jagged slash marks on the back of the tool shed as if it had been stabbed by a screwdriver. Inside, nothing was broken. Rows of bottles and cans were intact on the shelves. In a moment of panic, he jogged to the car, fearing a fractured windshield or punctured radiator. But the Volvo was untouched. He ran his hands over the hood and fenders, checked the tires, and looked for dripping fluid underneath. 

Relieved, he walked past the pool to the shrubbery bordering the brick wall separating his property from the golf course. Two oaks showed streaks of missing bark where they had been scored by shrapnel.

Then, glancing down, he saw the torn remains of a headless rabbit. 

Find Your copy here 

Day’s Last Ride (A Waterloo Tale) byhenry lewi,mug of rum,

 

 

   ‘Are my dancing days over?’ That was the first thought that had passed through his mind as the musket ball tore into his thigh. He couldn’t stop his horse as it galloped alongside the others of the Household Brigade. They’d thundered down the slope with their sabres drawn, across the sunken road and as the smoke and the haze cleared they saw and and attacked the flank of the advancing French Corps.  

  The charge had lost its momentum as they engaged the enemy, who had quickly formed themselves into defensive squares to fend off the cavalry, and opened up with volley fire, and it was then when he was hit.  As the adrenaline wore off and the shock set in, Lord Valentine Day, eldest son of the Earl of Luxborough, Lieutenant in the Second Squadron, The 1^st Life Guards, dropped his reins and slumped forward in his saddle.

  It was at that moment when the French Lancers hit them from their left side and the cavalry charge now descended into absolute chaos.  The thunder of the hooves, the noise of the guns, the beating of the French drums, the screams from the wounded, now combined with the smoke from the artillery and muskets now obscuring the visibility on the battlefield, and all added to the absolute confusion, and the men and horses of the Household Cavalry Brigade just milled around, now easy prey to the enemy’s guns and Lancers.  

  The French squares were on their right, the charging enemy lancers to their left, and with the advancing British Columns tight behind, and the French guns in front of them, the Cavalry Brigade had little room to manoeuvre or even retreat, but to survive, retreat they must.

     One of the troopers, a sergeant from his own Cavalry squadron grabbed his reins and now attempted to lead Valentine’s horse away from the battlefield and help the wounded officer back to the British line.   As the trooper steadied his horse and handed back his reins, he simply said to Valentine Day, ‘My Lord, hold the reigns tight in your left hand your sabre in the right,’ and pointing northward, the trooper said ‘just head for the ridge behind that nearest farm,’ and smacking the horse’s rump he sent the wounded Valentine Day on his way back towards the British lines.

   Lord Valentine Day had purchased his first Commission when he was 16 and now aged 22 he was a seasoned veteran, and had fought with Wellington in the Peninsular Campaign; and now his Regiment had followed the Duke to this battlefield, here at Mont-Saint-Jean, just outside Brussels.  

  Three nights ago he had danced throughout the night at the Duchess of Richmond’s Ball and as one of England’s most eligible bachelors there had been no shortage of dance partners, and ‘Oh he so loved to dance,’ and the Duchess’ ball before today’s battle had been absolute heaven, and he had laughed and danced the night away.  

  At a canter his horse took him safely back to the British Lines, joining other retreating members of the Brigade, and throughout this last ride his main thoughts were ‘will I lose my leg, will I be able to ride, and are my dancing days truly over?’  

   Lieutenant The Lord Valentine Day arrived at the ridge where Wellington’s troops were arrayed before him on the reverse slope, and his horse now followed the lines of those wounded troops heading back towards the Field Hospital based at the Coaching Inn of Mont-Saint-Jean.  

  The Inn was crowded with the dead, the dying, and the wounded; and Lord Valentine with help and with some difficulty finally dismounted, and lying outside the Inn patiently waited to be seen; the sounds of the battle, the booming of the cannon, the rattle of musket fire all seemed to be getting very, very close.

  One of the many Regimental Bandsmen who were looking after and tending to the wounded, give him a mug of Rum and Laudanum to ease the pain, and Lord Valentine continued to patiently wait, the pain of his wound somewhat eased by the rum mixture.

  After a delay the attending surgeon who finally examined him and then forcefully probed his wound, said, ‘It’ll do My Lord, by God it’ll do; a simple through and through musket ball wound, looks worse than it is, happily no bones broken,’ and added with a grin ‘no need to cut the leg off, well not today anyway,’ as Lord Valentine asked ‘will I be able to dance again?’

  The surgeon replied with a wry smile, ‘don’t you worry My Lord you’ll live to fight and ride, and of course dance another day.’

  Smiling to himself, Valentine took a further mixture of the Rum and Laudanum for his pain and drifted off to sleep. He awoke with a start, dusk was falling and the battlefield was now strangely quiet, there were no sounds of canon or musket fire, no thunder of hooves from the repeated Cavalry charges; and just then a trooper from his cavalry squadron who had ridden up to the Inn and now recognising Lord Valentine leaned down from his horse saying, ‘My Lord The Colonel, His Grace the Earl presents his compliments and wishes to inform you that the Duke has prevailed, the French are defeated, Boney has fled, and our game is now done.’

 About the author

 

henry is a retired surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes tocover  expenses e.g. Maintainingh the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

RUNAWAY SUMMER by Renee Ebert, vodka with tonic and lime on ice

RUNAWAY SUMMER

Bonnie was running again on those chubby toddler’s legs. This time along the curb so really in the road. Julie’s mother, Sandra, shouted out to Bonnie, “Stop! Stop right now.” And Bonnie, ever the comedian pretended she was putting the brakes on by pulling back on her arms, stopping in the middle of the road because she had drifted away from the curb.

“Look at her, Mom.” Julie laughed. “Look at my little runaway. Isn’t she so smart, pretending she’s an automobile?  Look how she stands, straight, her head up, like she’s the wheels and the brake.”

Sandra, mentioned, “Yes and the gas pedal as well,” reminding Julie when Bonnie, not so long ago was close to danger. Both women fell into the memory of Ashley Blackstone who came out last year to Peekskill from California. At that time, Sandra couldn’t see the sense of it.

“Why would a fifteen-year-old girl want to come all the way to upstate New York?” Where were Ashley’s friends? Surely, she didn’t expect friendship from a woman she babysat for when Julie lived on the same street in California.   

At the time, Julie’s typical reflex was to defend her decision to invite the girl, “She’s having some issues with her mom.” To her mother’s questions, Julie said, “Ashley’s really a remarkable girl, reads a lot, only one in her family who thinks about college.”

Leaving out the girl had no friends in Mesa, and was lonely, who came by Julie’s house after school, the year Julie and Mark lived there. Julie selfishly refrained from thinking too deeply on any of it when they lived in San Diego County. Lonely herself and working part time a few hours a week from home; her little corner of the kitchen with its desk, phone and computer weren’t nearly enough stimulation when Bonnie was just two, still in babyhood complete with napping most days.

 Ashley filled her visits with rehashing excruciating hours at middle school, the taunts from boys that she was so skinny, her fears of rejection.  Which Julie mollified by painting for the girl a picture of who she was becoming, her slimness may already be captivating some of the boys and their early adolescent way of dealing with it was to insult her. Julie would say, “typical boy stuff.”

Her laments were there last year, and now, a year after Ashley’s visit, Julie breathed the cooler air of upstate New York where green was the color of the day, remembering, not fondly, the bleached brown of San Diego where the only time spent outside in the summer was midnight with ocean breezes cooling the air in their subdivision.  

Julie recalled her mother pursued the subject of Ashley, Sandra muttering, “she’s trying to move up and out, then.”

“Mom for chrissakes, you sound judgmental.” Julie picked up her three-year-old, kissed her chubby cheek, all the while Bonnie squirmed, saying over and over, “Put me down mommy!” until Julie fished a cookie out of her pocket.

“Just observing.” Sandra quickly added, “It’s nice that she sought you out as a mentor, it’s smart of her. I’ll give her that.” Sandra wiped her prescription sunglasses on the edge of her cotton dress, as she sat back down in her chair, breathing the sweet and cool air of upstate New York. Simultaneously both she and Julie looked over to Bonnie, now complacent in her stroller taking small bites out of the chocolate chip cookie and twisting her head this way and that between bites.

In the quiet, Julie remembered a full summer past and the chaos of moving from west to east coast and to upstate New York; back during the move, Ashley, a blessing as a  mother’s helper and babysitter while Julie and Mark navigated the impossible packing. As bad as it was, she knew the difference when Bill Mason, Mark’s dad showed up to help. Bill did the heavy lifting with Mark and Julie concentrated on wrapping dishes, glasses, folding curtains into boxes. Ashley read to Bonnie, and played games with her, away from the mess; Ashley’s quiet and soothing voice while she read to the baby, lulling her to sleep amid all the bustle at the other end of the house.

“We used to talk, and Ashley shared some small pieces of her homelife. It wasn’t always a good picture; a stepfather resenting Ashley, wanting the time alone with her mother.”

“Ashley’s mother was no prize either, hanging out in the cul-de-sac with all her female buddies, gossiping, chain smoking.”

Sandra studied her daughter’s face. “You didn’t much care for those women down the street, did you?”

Julie gently pushed the stroller back and forth as Bonnie’s eyelids began to slant down, her breathing getting deeper. She marveled at how peaceful, watching her baby’s deep breathing, almost hypnotizing Julie into a quieter place in her mind. “No, I really wasn’t into the party mode at four in the afternoon, with all the raucous dumping of their individual life secrets.” Looking over at her mother, Julie asked, “you think I was a snob with those women, don’t you?”

Sandra was used to the accusations that flung out from her daughter’ subconscious, uncomfortable thoughts that she assigned to her mother whenever they were too painful for her to accept. “Not exactly a book club group or the League of Women Voters.” Sandra now offered; the gathering emotional storm clouds dissipated as quickly as they had begun to brew. Julie laughed, “They were on a different playing field, theirs, not mine or yours.” She said, watching  her little girl nod off.

Julie shook her head at the memory of it, not just the women sitting semicircle in lawn chairs with beer cans in one hand and most of them, a cigarette in the other. As quickly, she thought of Ashely striving for something else. What the ‘else’ was would play out over time. Back in Mesa, then, there was Ashley babysitting: first for the extra money and getting out of her mother’s house and Joe, her stepfather’s way. His occasional snarky remarks Ashley considered hints of what he really felt; she was a nuisance. She was unaware of Joe’s unease with Ashley as evidence of his own fading youth.

Ashely bonded with Julie all the time while her husband worked long hours somewhere downtown in La Jolla. Ashley only fourteen sensed Julie understood when she complained about school and her mother.

After the move east, Julie did not find the bond that remained as unusual, and a few texts here and there from the girl remarking on how great it would be to travel east. In late spring last year, Julie relented, inviting her to come to New York.

She didn’t forget her mother’s reaction, Sandra’s head quirked up as she met her daughter’s eyes, “you think that’s wise?” And to forestall what might be a sharp zinger back, she added, “it’s a long way, can they afford to pay her airfare?”

“I don’t see a problem.” Julie’s knee jerk reaction was to justify having Ashley visit, but Sandra picked up on her daughter’s feelings of awkwardness, having a girl she hardly knew travel three thousand miles to stay with her. Secretly, Julie admitted the bond between them was tenuous.

The month went by quickly; late June and Ashley touched down in upstate New York airport, here and real and now. Julie quickly identified the girl though grown several inches taller and slimmer. She waved and after a confused and strained look on the girl’s face, an equally enthusiastic wave back. This is good, Julie thought, we’ll have time to reacquaint and she’s older now, it will be easier. She said these things to herself as she threw a quick look over to her mother. Sandra smiled sincerely toward the girl who encompassed them both in an awkward group hug, her message that she wanted to be a part of whatever they were.

The time jumped out at them, back home from the airport and making dinner.

“I like this one boy in my history class.” Ashley sipped her iced tea and continued, “he’s taller than me, can you believe? That’s really happening, the boys are all getting taller.”

Julie spooned some pudding into Bonnie’s eager mouth while banging her plastic sippy cup. “Does he live nearby? Do you go out on dates?” She spoke over the din of Bonnie’s cup.

“One date so far, Saturday movie, almost a premier but it featured one of the cast that had a small part, so not one of the main actors.”

Typical California faux Hollywood Julie thought as she wiped Bonnie’s face and dislodged her from the highchair. “I’m going to get her cleaned up and settled, she’ll sleep soon with a full tummy.” She smiled at her toddler and kissed her chubby cheek, looking over at Ashley who was silent, absently cutting her remaining salad. “You can come with us?”

Ashley perked up at the invitation, Julie hesitating to ask if she might be tired from the flight but the girl seemed glad to go upstairs, helped with Bonnie’s bath. Ashley continued talking about Jason through the evening, sharing the minutia of the first date.

 

Julie felt a strain from the first, she might not admit it to her mother, but it was there. Ashley was nervous, spoke rapidly to get it all said, shared, seeking comment, approval. The days began to have a sameness about them; Ashley vying for time and attention, Bonnie, tugging on her mother’s leg for a cookie, to share her new toy, wanting sometimes to be held and hugged. Ashley tried to conceal the strained and tightened lips, jealous of the attention Bonnie garnered from her mother, and Ashley covetous of Julie’s waning attention.

Sandra came by and it helped a bit; conversation could flow more easily between the girl and her mentor when Sandra rushed to capture Bonnie away from something hot or sharp. And Julie was glad for the distraction, though glimpsed more than once, her mother’s eyes squinted as she discerned the way things were shaping up. Julie hated to have her mother right in her assessment, could hear her mother’s thoughts, that girl wants something you cannot give her; the home she never had.

A ten-day visit, Sandra predicably signaled might be a bit longish, not family and not a best friend. Julie was glad for once of Mark’s late work schedule, dinner was full of conversation when he did get home earlier and Julie purposely stretched dinner to later, after Bonnie was asleep. The days were planned for parks and picnics near shallow brooks. They took turns with pushing Bonnie in the swing, but the strain had begun to announce itself. Work at her home office escalated for Julie with more research and writing and phone when Bonnie napped, and Ashley pulled into a sullen teenage sulk.

It was near dinner time, the sun was behind a cloud and the breeze had stepped up reviving all of them, Bonnie most of all, discovering the art of running, she laughed and fell a lot on the grass until she found the convenience of the sidewalk’s even ground and buzzed by Julie more than once.

“And my friend Tiffany, she can be annoying, always thinking everyone wants to hear about her and her boyfriend. It’s embarrassing.”

Julie looked up at her, more of the scowl creeping into her brow these last few days. “Do you try to change the subject? You know, ask her about a movie you both saw?” Julie asked.

“She wouldn’t go for that. The best I can think is make up stories about my new boyfriend—.”

Julie interrupted, held up her hand as Bonnie ran by her nearer the street. “Wait.” As she snatched Bonnie from stepping down off the curb. Bonnie spread out a toddler’s giggle as she delighted in being caught. “Bonnie! Not in the street.” Julie held Bonnie’s face, forcing her to look into her mother’s eyes. “Do you hear me?”

Bonnie nodded yes. But the game was on as she ran to the yard, then back to her mother, then to Ashley who rubbed Bonnie’s head absently as she talked on. “I wish graduation was this year.”

Ashley was full into her story about another boy presenting himself as a rival when she and her boyfriend were taking turns surfing on his board. The other boy was Steven Foy from their neighborhood, a year older who got to drive his father’s Subaru. “He clunked down on the sand, and I was busy reading for my English class, David Copperfield.”

“Were you friends with one another?” Julie and Ashley walked along the side street away from the swings with Bonnie, who repeatedly ran away and came back.

“He’s nice but older so I’m not sure about how to talk to him. He’s going to Community college next year and will transfer to U.C. in two years.”

“That sounds promising. You can see him for a year until the transfer if you decide to go to Community college as well. I think you should.”

Bonnie interrupted her mother’s thoughts when she bumped up against her leg, then Ashley’s as she looked from one to the other to notice her standing on one foot. “Look mommy, look at me.”

“What did you say, you said something?” Ashley looked down at Bonnie, “Shush Bonnie, mommy’s talking with Ashley.”

Julie collected her thoughts, “Did you decide on which community college?”

“It’s early yet, I guess, but MiraCosta maybe or Southwestern.” Bonnie was trying to stand on Ashley’s feet. “Stop Bonnie, that hurts on my bare feet.” She dusted off the dirt and firmly held the little girl away. “Just stop.”

Julie swooped Bonnie up and told her No in a firm enough voice, and the toddler’s face contorted to a semi frown then a pretend howl of insult at her mother’s annoyance with her, then the fake crying into her mother’s shoulder.

Things quieted down after the mutual fussing of Ashley and Bonnie, and Julie found herself retreating inward to weigh what was happening, but then relenting on bad feelings toward Ashley, acknowledging that she had as much a right to be impatient with Bonnie. She brought her conscious meanderings into light, relating the incident to her mother later that day. Sandra’s remark was casual, “We all get flustered,” further smoothed out the rough edges coming from Ashley.

Yet Julie became more aware of “things” as she called them. Ashley eager for the night or the nap that meant more time with Julie and without interruption from Bonnie. Though she was understanding and respectful of Julie’s part time work at her desk in the kitchen when she browsed through the novels in the bookcase, choosing and reading rapidly everything from Julie’s college English Lit collection to the new stuff Julie got from her book club.

There was one thing that stuck about Ashely, that she spent less time directly with Bonnie; little and halfhearted efforts, except to read out loud or show Bonnie how to push or pull a toy. She watched more than engaged while Julie did the heavy lifting, showing Bonnie how to match the cutouts and fit them into a toddler puzzle.

 Bonnie sensed this shift in Ashley, acted out an irritability, fussing more when she wanted something, looking to her mother and now, almost never at Ashely. Julie didn’t leave Bonnie in Ashley’s care as she used to, no quick trips to the grocery store for some ingredient  for a meal.

Instead, Bonnie and Ashley now joined Julie, a nuisance of strapping in Bonnie, unstrapping to go into the store because the last time she left them both in the car, Julie returned to find Ashley, arms folded, face red, looking down and angry and Bonnie’s face streaked with tears, her chest heaving with deep breathing that Julie knew had been crying and sobs just minutes before.

Things got quiet.

“Jeff called and we talked a long time. He says he misses me.” Ashley was buoyant for the first time in days. “He asked me a dozen times when would I be coming back. I played it out a little, saying I might be staying till school starts.” Julie heard a sound reminiscent of Ashley’s mother, a tawdry sound that signaled she was about to share an intimate moment she’d had with Ashley’s stepfather at one of the times that Julie joined the neighborhood women with their beer and cigarettes.

The silence filled up a larger and awkward moment as Julie processed the idea of Ashley adding another month to her visit. “What did Jeff say to that?” She avoided any personal remark sensing the girl was actually wanting to stay, and at the same time wondered why that would be, then remembering Ashley saying how her stepfather made it clear he’d like to see her gone. But Ashely’s perception was quick knowing Julie wanted the visit to end.

“Let’s get out in the fresh air, the temperature is perfect, 78 degrees.” Julie grabbed a light sweater for Bonnie in case temperatures dropped. Bonnie was like a pup on a leash as she ran around in rings, making up a sing song chant, “going out, we’re going out.” Julie snagged her toddler’s hand as they filed out, Ashley’s face was stone, her eyes looking angrily at Bonnie’s restlessness, who tugged on her mother to let her go.

“Ashley would you take her hand for a moment? I want to drop Bonnie’s sweater into the backpack on her stroller.” Ashley nodded yes and grabbed the little girl’s hand as they walked rapidly up the hill to the quiet road they used for these excursions. Julie looked up when she heard the sound of cars, the lot was full of tables, some sort of gathering, cars parked on the flat land and some real traffic with cars passing one another. Too many people crowded near where they walked, Julie searching for Ashley and Bonnie. Julie saw Ashely let go of Bonnie’s hand as she ran forward toward the traffic. Julie’s scream came out of a frozen throat as she sprang forward, reaching Bonnie in three steps, grabbing Bonnie where a car’s speed and power had almost brushed her head.

There were no words to follow. Julie turned back from the street, with Bonnie in her stroller, walked briskly toward the house. Her phone in hand she speed dialed the airline. No words as she opened the closet door in the guest room and began to carefully place Ashely’s clothes on the bed near an opened suitcase. Ashley silently began to fold her sundresses, piled her T-shirts carefully on one side of the suitcase, wrapped  her shoes in plastic bags. Her eyes were downcast. 

ll ended as quickly as things began. Ashely’s face was tearstained as she walked toward the airline outside check in and parked her bag for the attendant to place a tag on it. Julie stood apart, alone while her mother looked on from inside the car. Julie hugged Ashley, more dismissive than she wanted to admit.  “Have a safe trip.” As Julie pulled away from the girl.

 

 

About the author

 

 

enee Ebert has a BA from Georgetown University and a Masters in public health from UCLA. When she is not writing, she raises funds for nonprofit organizations in the U.S. and internationally. Her most recent work is support for street children in Nairobi and incarcerated women and children in Cairo.

 

It all ended as quickly as things began. Ashely’s face was tearstained as she walked toward the airline outside check in and parked her bag for the attendant to place a tag on it. Julie stood apart, alone while her mother looked on from inside the car. Julie hugged Ashley, more dismissive than she wanted to admit.  “Have a safe trip.” As Julie pulled away from the girl.

 

 

 

 

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