Today's prompt is to tell one of my previous entries from a different point of view. Happy to oblige. This is yesterday's story sort of inside out.
John poured another cup of coffee, and took a sip, knowing it was too hot. Looking out his kitchen window, he saw Peggy’s car coming into the driveway. Moments later, she walked into the kitchen, smiling broadly, as always. “The changing of the guard!” she laughed, toasting his coffee mug with her own take-out container. “How’s our girl?” she asked. “No change”, he said. As always. The woman in the spare bedroom was a constant presence, despite her silence.
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Having freed myself from the tyranny of StoryADay’s prompts, I am moving on to my real reason for taking up this challenge. I wanted to turn my blog posts from my trip to Nebraska last fall into a personal narrative. I realized that there were many stories running through my nearly-daily entries, from personal reminiscences and to discoveries about my political and spiritual identities. Bear with me; this is a draft of a revision of a series of drafts.
Moving away At first, it just seemed like a big adventure. "We're moving east; Daddy has a new job in New York." New York! To a little girl on the high plains of I cannot tell a lie. No, really. The best I can do is just keep my mouth shut and hope that people interpret my silence as agreement. That's probably why writing history comes easily for me, with its comforting foundation of dates, quotations, and artifacts. Whatever interpretation one wants to draw from the evidence, the evidence is there for anyone to handle and inspect. Boys used to wear dresses. There was no "girl color", pink or otherwise. Make of it what you will, but the facts won't go away. After he was forced to recant his claim that the earth orbits the sun, Galileo allegedly muttered "And yet it moves", because there really are such things as facts. Yet all my life I have longed to write fiction and poetry. I usually explain my inability to make up stories in terms of my innate honesty; I cannot tell a lie, therefore I must write nonfiction. But over the last few years, a strange transformation has occurred in my brain. Whether I am in conversation, watching the news, or just planning my day, I become aware of a second, ghostlike consciousness telling the same story, but with a twist. The most vivid version of this has been in meetings, where "surface Jo" is listening politely or offering her measured opinion, but "alternate Jo" chimes in. Her voice getting louder and louder, she makes rude comments or imagines more and more fanciful variations of what is actually going on. I used to worry that her words would suddenly appear running across my forehead for all to see, like a movie marquee, until the day a few weeks ago when I said them right out loud. I clapped both hands over my mouth, but it was too late. I take this as a sign. Either I am showing early signs of some kind of cognitive decline -- impulsive behaviors are associated with Parkinson's Disease, or various forms of dementia -- or my inner storyteller is trying to be heard. It could be both, but either way, it feels like it is time to pay attention to alt-Jo and transcribe those stories. Here's the curious thing: I still cannot tell a lie. My stories will be true, although they may not be factual.
I swear, the prompts get worse every day. But the typo (?) makes it all worth while. Your company sends you to meet a costumer at their house. It’s a standard, nice neighborhood. You ring and ring but nobody answers. The door is ajar, and you enter, calling aloud. All is in order in the living room apart from an overturned potted plant on the expensive-looking rug… "Hello, hello?!" I shouted louder and louder as I walked into the foyer. It was more than a bit creepy, between the slightly open front door and the immaculately clean living room. I was supposed to meet the famously reclusive Nanalee Wendy Ross, to discuss the costume designs for my next Broadway show, but she was nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a slight movement to my right, and turned just in time to see a large cactus in a terra cotta pot begin to teeter, then sway, and finally crash to the floor. Dirt spilled across the rare kilim.
I began to back out of the room, then turned and head for the door. "Wait!!" a high-pitched voice called after me. I froze, and then looked. The cactus was upright, waving one spiny arm at me. It was Nanalee Wendy Ross herself, and I knew this would be the collaboration of a lifetime.
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course!" "Peter and I have decided to start a family. We're expecting a baby in September." "That's great news!" "I had to tell somebody. And you're my very best friend. But keep it up it under wraps for now." "OK. Mum's the word." She had every intention of keeping her promise. But this was the hardest secret she had ever been entrusted with. And it just got harder and harder to stay quiet. It seemed like every day she came close to blurting it out. They could be in the middle of planning an event for next fall or someone would mention the number of office pregnancies that year -- now up to three, not including Susan's. After two days she found herself fidgeting and looking away during these conversations. After four days she was grinding her teeth during meetings. Her coffee consumption doubled. Exactly a week after Susan had shared her news, the secret could no longer be contained. The department social committee was picking dates for the office picnic. "Well what about the Saturday after Labor Day. Everybody will be back by then, and the weather is usually nice." There were murmurs of agreement around the table. "And we can ask Susan if we can have it at her house again." "Well -- uh uh uh -- I think uh uh --", she said trying desperately to think of an innocent reason to suggest another location. Every eye was in her face, which was turning very red. "Er -- I think they expect -- uh -- I mean plan to -- Susan and Peter might be busy in September." "Really?" She nodded. "Uh huh." They weren't going to get any more out of her. "What-- is Susan pregnant?" She busied herself with her notepad, trying not to react. "She is, isn't she?" "Well, yes." She admitted. "B-b-but it's a secret." "Not anymore," A gleeful voice whooped. She sighed, realizing she would have to warn Susan that the cat was out of the bag. "Susan, I'm sorry. I tried so hard not to let on." "That's OK, sweetie," Susan said with a hug. "Now everyone knows, and I only had to tell one person. I knew you couldn't keep a secret like this for more than a week. "
At first, it just seemed like a big adventure. "We're moving east; Daddy has a new job in New York." New York! To a little girl on the high plains of Nebraska, New York was as magical as Oz. The Empire State Building! The Statue of Liberty! A Christmas tree as tall as the Pawnee Hotel! I was the envy of my third grade class.
As our old Chevy pulled away from the stucco bungalow on Willow Street, I waved excitedly at my best friend Jane, who smiled wanly at me from her own front yard across the street. "We're off!" Mommy said, a little too loudly. In the back seat, Bobby and I leaned against the curved rear window of the Chevy for a last look at North Platte. A year later, in my bedroom in our new home, I sobbed at the memory of the Willow Street house, with its lilacs and rhubarb plants. I thought of Jane and cried even harder, berating myself bitterly. "I smiled! I smiled!" How could I have been so stupid, so blind, so ignorant of what "moving away" would mean? Nebraska was so far away, and New Jersey was so different. Bobby was sent home from school for wearing jeans. My classmates teased me for my clothes, my accent -- everything, it seemed. I learned quickly never to mention Nebraska or North Platte, which would set their eyes rolling as they mimicked her flat nasal tones. The family had arrived just before Christmas, and so I'd been left out of the class gift exchange. Even worse, I was behind in arithmetic. We'd been just about to start column addition in North Platte; in New Jersey they were already passed it. My teacher, Miss Saneska, had been teaching the children to play the recorder and speak French, but hadn't counted on having a new student arrive midyear. So three times a week, I was sent to the library to read while her classmates sang "Sur le Pont d'Avignon" or played their instruments. Life in New Jersey was miserable. By three months after the move, I had added a line to my bedtime prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take. And please let me wake up in North Platte." But it wasn't a dream, and I never went back to North Platte. I moved again and again, from New Jersey to Connecticut to upstate New York to Massachusetts to Pennsylvania to Rhode Island and finally to Maryland. I learned to relish being "the new girl", and having the chance to reinvent myself with each new home. I took on the role of welcomer, helping other newcomers to settle in. "Are you out of your mind?!"
"Could be. But it's been on my bucket list for years now, and it was too good a deal to pass up." Walt turned the brochure over his hand, shaking his head. “I wouldn't do it for free." He's snorted." You couldn't pay me enough to go bungee jumping.” I shrugged. "Well you can have your bucket list and I'm going to have mine." Handing the brochure back to me, Walt shook his head once more and said “You're nuts” and walked out of the room. We didn't talk about it for the rest the week. There was enough going on to distract us: sales reports, staff meetings, and a baby shower for one of the sales reps. On Friday afternoon, I walked back into my office after a long meeting and saw a cryptic message on my whiteboard. Whatever you do, don't die. See you Monday. Deep inside, I was not as cavalier about the bungee jumping adventure as I had might've seemed to Walt. I’m afraid of heights, and I sure don't want to die. But bit by bit I had overcome my acrophobia, first on roller coasters, then on bridges, and most recently on airplanes. The arrival of the bungee jumping brochure in my mailbox had seemed serendipitous. With my 50th birthday coming up, what better way to celebrate then to face my biggest fear and jump off into the void? Saturday morning found me standing on a bridge, the instructor at my side, surrounded by a small nervous group of would-be bungee jumpers. But I was going to go first. We already had our orientation, seen some videos, and supposedly we were ready for the big adventure. I took a deep breath, leaned forward, and was off. If you have never plummeted through the air, you can only imagine what it was like. It was scary as hell — and exciting. Just when you thought you were going to slam onto the surface of the water, you were being pulled back into the air, and coming down again, and up and down, and up, and finally down. I was screaming my head off the whole time. First it was absolutely a scream of fear, but by the end I was whooping with joy. What a rush! I couldn't wait to get to the office Monday morning and tell Walt all about it. But when I got there the somber faces told me something terrible has happened. Walter had tripped on his shoelaces and fallen down the stairs at his house. Died instantly. I stumbled into my office and sat at my desk, staring at the computer. On a whim, I searched “odds of dying from accidental injuries”. It turns out that your chances of dying while bungee jumping is one in 500,000. Probability of dying from falling down stairs: one in 1,797. Spending the weekend at home? Whatever you do, don't die. See you Monday.
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