Hi all...I posting the first few pages of my novel a few days ago. I got some feedback from you guys. I did a quick polish on the work, spaced it better, and revised the opening. I also added some more to the piece. Please let me know if I am on the right track?
I appreciate all the feedback you can give me. Dont be afraid to speak your mind
thanks!
“Piccole Morti” This is what my grandmother liked to call painful moments in life, not physical pain, but the kind of pain that tears through your soul and breaks your heart. Losing someone you love, losing yourself. Moments where the world seems so dark and bleak and beyond repair.“
Piccole Morti” Little Deaths. Grandma had a way with words, and talking to her always made me feel better. We talked about everything, Italy, books, boys, love, sex. I can remember only one day when we sat together in complete silence. The day we shared the same little death, losing the woman who was the center of both our worlds.
I remember sitting at St. Mary’s hospital holding my mother’s hand as she said the last words she would ever say to me. I looked around the room at the white walls, the white ceiling, the myriad of flowers on the nightstand. The blanket covering her thin body was the same pale color as her eyes. Our eyes. I stared at the blue blanket as she drifted to sleep again.
My mother, Catherine Sarcose found a tiny lump above her nipple on her right breast on Christmas Eve, 1994. And died exactly two years later holding my hand, wrapped in a blue blanket, in a hospital room with white walls and a white ceiling.
I got
Alice in Chains and a CD player that year she found the lump.
“Heaven beside you” That was my favorite song from the album. The words going through my head, holding my mothers hand, staring at that blue blanket.
“…like the coldest winter chill…”
“Ruth.”
“…Heaven beside you…”
My fathers hand touched my shoulder.
“Ruth.”
“…Hell within….”
“Ruth.”
I couldn’t let go.
The blue blanket stayed in my bedroom, neatly folded on my window sill below a poster of
The Beatles. Abbey Road. And there it stayed for nearly two years, until today. I reached in my backpack and touched the soft blanket and buried my hand in the folds. Each night for the last two years, I would lay my face on the blanket, close my eyes, and tell my mother goodnight. Sometimes I would sing some of our favorite songs. I would sing them softly or hum them so my father or brother wouldn’t hear me.
Today was the first day in two years that I moved her it. I peeled all my posters off the wall and folded them carefully.
“You don’t need to do that yet Ruth. We can send for all that stuff later.” My father said “we” like it was both of us that were leaving. I continued putting my clothes in my suitcases, and made sure I had all the picks to my guitar. I had everything packed in less than thirty minutes. My dad sat and watched me from the doorway. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to him.
“Do you have everything you need. We should go.” My father picked up the suitcases. “I told Miriam we would make it by tonight.”
I went into the living room to find Rainer, my dog. He was in his usual spot between the staircase and the big oak bureau which held my parents wedding china. He was sleeping as I bent down to him. I kissed him on the nose and walked away. I went to the driveway and watched the sun come up as my dad loaded my things.
My father’s truck rocked up and down as we merged onto the freeway. The mid-day sun coming through the windshield made me squint. The events of last night went through my head. It was hard to recall them all. The playback was foggy, like swimming through murky lake water trying to count the rocks on the bottom. I remember going out to the field. I remember drinking, I remember the coke, the car, the tree, the accident, the hospital. My dad came into the waiting room. I was sitting with the doctor.
“Ruth! Are you okay?” He ran up to me.
“She is fine.” The doctor touched his shoulder “She is lucky, its just a small laceration on her forehead. It could have been a lot worse.”
“I’m okay.” I tried to steady myself against the wall. The alcohol was wearing off.
“The other kids are okay too, Just minor injuries.” The doctor looked at me, then back at my father. He grabbed my fathers elbow and took him around the corner away from me. I went to the coffee machine and got a cappuccino. The warmth of the cup was comforting. I felt the heat slip down and fill my stomach. By the time my father got back, the cappuccino was gone. He said nothing and sat next to me with his head down. I heard him sigh and watched as he put his hand on his mouth. He did when he was really thinking about something. I figured the doctor told him about the alcohol in my blood and probably the coke too.
“I have to make a phone call Ruth” He said barely audible. “Stay here okay?” He walked across the room and went to the phone that was in the hallway. I watched him make a couple calls. Fifteen minutes later, I watched as a few of his cop friends came in. They talked for awhile, glanced at me, but did not come over. My father did what he did best, talked his way out of the shit-storm his daughter got herself into. He made one more phone call to his sister before we left and went home.
“Ruth? Why don’t you try to sleep?”
“Watch the road” I said,. I couldn’t look at him. I stared at the snow covered trees lining the road. I didn’t know what to say to him. Over the last couple of years, we rarely talked at all. It was his fault, as much as mine. We were both going through our “things” which is what he liked to call them. His “thing “mainly being alcohol. Beer some nights, Whiskey on others. Mine, well my “things” were as secret and complex as the strings that slowly began to unravel our family after my mother died.
“How’s your head feeling?” My father asked, turning down the radio.His voice sounded far away and foreign to me.
“I like that song.” I turned the radio back up. Not answering him.
“Is your head feeling better?”
“It’s fine.” I touched the bandage covering my forehead.
“Good.”
The song clouded my head.
“…
And anytime you feel the pain-hey Jude-Refrain. Don’t carry the world upon your shoulder….”
“This song” My dad laughed to himself. “I haven’t heard this song in awhile. Not since-”
He stopped himself, we both knew what he was going to say. He turned the volume up higher and stared out the windshield. I continued looking out my window, trying my hardest to hold back my tears, my anger, my frustration.
“This is so fucked!” I turned to him and yelled. I startled him, he swerved to the shoulder of the road.
“First you run Tony off with your stupid shit, and now you are just going to drop me off on your sister’s doorstep and walk away-like you always fucking do. You are getting off scot-free, and abducting me from my whole fucking life. ….My fucking dog!” He was squeezing the steering wheel with both hands, this time trying his best not to look at me.
“That is not fair. This has absolutely nothing to do with Tony. He made his own decisions, and was old enough to do so. And your dog will be okay. I love Rainer.”
“Bullshit. This is something you are doing. It’s always you.”
The tears were running down my face. I couldn’t stop them. An hour went by, we sat there in silence, listening to the oldies radio station.
The Rolling Stones, Dusty Springfield, Bob Dylan, The Beatles. The ghost of my mother was coming back with every measure, and the coldness of today was breathing in every note. I considered opening the truck door, and jumping out. Two car accidents in less than twenty four hours. I wondered if that would be some sort of record. The thought of it made me laugh a little. I envisioned the look on my fathers face as he saw my back fling out of the truck and sound of the thump as my body hit the pavement. I imagine him at my funeral, the mourners approaching him. “Chris, we our so sorry about your loss. First Catherine, and now Ruth. What a tragedy. We are so sorry.” The scores of people approaching my casket, shaking their heads in disbelief. My brother Tony, kneeling before the casket, crossing himself and crying. My best friend Alicia standing in the back of crowd with Kevin and Bryan. Kevin thinking about how the last time we had sex was the last time he saw me. And Alicia thinking about how she should of kept the coke at home that night. And told Bryan to go fuck himself. The thought of it was comforting in a way, both humorous and sad.
The truck slowly pulled off at an exit. I reached into my bag, and searched for my mothers blanket. I needed to feel it on my skin, it didn’t smell like her anymore. My father pulled into a gas station that was just off the ramp. He cut the engine, and looked over at me. He reached his hand to me face, I pulled away quickly.
“I have to use the bathroom.” I said opening the truck door.
“Okay.” My father said opening his door ”Do you want something to drink? I was thinking we can get some food once with cross the state line.”
“No. I’m okay.” I wasn’t thirsty.
I turned and walked toward the store. I zipped my backpack and carried it into the bathroom with me. I could feel the heat from the store, flushing my cheeks. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and for a moment, saw my mother’s face. I checked my bandage and put my backpack on the counter and I watched the strap fell into the sink. I unzipped the front pocket and took out a small baggie. I held it up and rubbed the white powder between my fingers. I turned and checked the locked on the door, then leaned against it and poured a little perfect mountain on my hand, and put it to my nose. The taste of it dripped down my throat, I opened my eyes and turned on the water. Another bump. Just one more. Just one.
“What am I going to do?” I whispered to myself.
The dull yellow stains around the toilet made me feel nauseous and I made myself stand up. I saw my father standing by the counter looking at the newspapers, I considered going to him, but instead I walked behind the row of chips and went back out to the truck. I got in and immersed myself in the silence. I watched my father through the window, his thick dark hair, his slightly slumped shoulders. We looked somewhat similar from a distance, and from behind. A taller, bigger, male version of myself. I didn’t want to believe that. I didn’t want to understand him, to love him. I just felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for myself. I pushed the thought away and looked at the gray sky and the trees. A bright blue billboard appeared behind one of the trees. I squinted my eyes a little and read the message that was written.
“Everyone has a love story”
I looked at it for a couple of minutes. There was a couple of lines underneath the bold letters, but I couldn’t make them out.
“Everyone has a love story.” I repeated the message to myself and watched as my father walked toward me.
“Here you go.” He handed me a Dr. Pepper bottle “Thought you could use some caffeine you must be tired. Sorry it took me so long. I was just checked the papers to see if we were in them.” He attempted to laugh, and tried his best to make light of the situation. I smiled a bit. Nothing seemed real. Last night seemed like years ago. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as we pulled out of the parking lot. When the truck pulled onto the ramp, everything started spinning.
“Dad, pull over.”
“What?” I felt the truck slow a little. “What’s wrong?”
“Pull over right now. I’m going to be sick.”
The Dr. Pepper tipped over and spilled on to my lap as the truck pulled to a stop. I opened the door as quick as I could, and vomited onto the white snow. I fell to my knees and started crying.
“Ruth!.”
My father opened his door and ran over to me. I continued crying, bawling. A fire burning in my stomach, my legs frozen from the spilled Dr. Pepper.
“Are you okay? Is it your head? Ruth?” His hand felt huge on my shoulder. I continued crying for another moment, unable to stop, unable to stand up.
“No I’m fine. I’m cold. We can go now.”
“No. Wait.” He leaned over me and put his head in the truck and came back with a napkin.
“Here, wipe your face Ruth.” He leaned down close to me. I could tell how much he wanted to hug me, comfort me. And how he didn’t know how to anymore.
He helped me into the truck. I grabbed a couple more napkins, wiped my eyes, and blotted the soda from my jeans. I was sniffling, but the crying had stopped. He turned on the engine and waited.
“Why are you doing this?” I looked at him. His face was bright red. “Why?”
“I’m a wreck, Ruth. I’m broken. I can’t do it anymore. You could have died last night. What the hell where you thinking?”
“ I fucked up. You have fucked up too. It doesn’t mean I want to go. We can help each other, I don’t have to go away.”
I waited for him to answer, I could see the snow falling behind him. Faster and bigger then before.
“I can’t do it without her. I can’t. I tried.” His tears turned into a flood of emotion. I shifted in my seat and watched him.
Every now and then I got glimpses of my real father. This was one of those moments. On the surface my father was always an old fashioned kind of guy. He never let a lady enter the room without holding the door open for her, he never kept his baseball cap on indoors, and he never really displayed his emotions, particularly weakness. And especially in front of his own family. But right now sitting in his truck, on a snowy highway off-ramp, he sat crying in front of his only daughter. He cried for his dead wife, his shortcomings, his addictions, his pain, himself. I knew it wouldn’t last long. Like I said, it was only a glimpse, as fleeting as the patrons of a highway gas station. As billboards. As snowflakes. Here one second, and gone the next. That is something that I could always expect that from my father.
