Over and Over – #fridayflash #amwriting

Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia  or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!

I just realized that I haven’t posted any “true” romance in quite some time. So here’s one inspired by [what I believe] is a beautiful romantic song – Crimson and Clover, (video at end of story).

Over and Over is rated PG according to my standards.

Over and Over, by Deanna Schrayer

Cole slammed the door of his Camaro and leaned against the car. “Some star quarterback I am”, he thought, “couldn’t complete a pass tonight if my life depended on it.”  He unrolled his t-shirt sleeve, retrieved the pack of cigarettes and squinted his right eye shut as he lit one. The spark of the match illuminated the dark around him, revealing nothing. This is why he came here, under the bridge. It was full of life, yet free of life, giving him the space he needed to breathe.

He couldn’t get a moment’s peace at home, what with his dad pushing him to choose a college, and all the coaches coming by to visit. Maybe after tonight’s performance they’d leave him alone for a while. The music of the creek bubbling over the smooth stones relaxed him.

A twig snapped. 

Cole startled. “Who’s there?” He looked around but saw no one. 

The crunchy fall leaves rustled.

Still, Cole saw no one. He moved only his eyes as he scanned the brush for movement. Slowly a form began to take shape, as if the night itself was coming alive. “Hello?” he tried again.

A girl stepped from the shadows. “I heard your car.” The moonlight shone on her dark hair, which was the only feature outside of her comely silhouette he could see. 

 “Where did you come from?”

“I, um, I went for a walk after the game, and, um….it’s peaceful down here.” She stepped further out and Cole saw it was the new girl at school. She’d just joined the cheerleading team a week ago and he hadn’t had a chance to introduce himself. “I’m Penny,” She proffered her hand.

“Cole, Cole Motsinger.” He tossed his cigarette and took her hand. It was freezing.

“I know,” she laughed, tucking a curl behind her ear, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh yea?” his voice was a bit higher than he preferred. He cleared his throat.

“Yea, I hear you’re a pretty good player.” She smiled and raised her eyebrows.     

“Ha!” he startled himself with his cackle, “You wouldn’t have thought that if you watched the game tonight.”

“I did watch it.”

“Oh yea.” God, I’m such an idiot, Cole thought.

“Well you didn’t have much of a chance to show how good you are, what with no one on the line blocking for you. You had no one to throw the ball to.”

A girl who knows football?  Cole took a step closer and saw she was wearing her cheerleading uniform, but no sweater. “Aren’t you cold? It’s barely forty degrees out here.”

“Yea, a little bit I guess.”

“Do you want to sit in the car?”

She looked at him with a more discerning eye then, sizing him up.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” Cole smiled and Penny felt dizzy. He walked around to the passenger side, “Come on, get in.” He held the door open for her, then walked around the front of the car and slid in the driver’s seat. He rubbed his hands together, and started the engine. “It’ll just take a minute to warm up. Here.” He reached in the back seat and got his jacket, put it around her shoulders.

“Thanks.” She gathered the rough leather around herself and tried not to visibly inhale the musky scent of sweat and desperation that was him.

They stared at one another, each taking the other in, both feeling the charge of the heat now pouring through the vents. Cole cleared his throat and forced himself against his door, “So, you’re new, right?  At school I mean.”

“Yea, we just moved here a couple of weeks ago, from Florida.”

“Florida? You’re from the beach?”

Penny barely stopped herself from laughing. “No, we lived in the middle of Florida, nowhere near a beach.”

“Oh.”

Cole could see Penny a bit better now, thanks to the moonlight shining through the windshield. She had thick, jet black hair and skin so white he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d kept it that way, considering she’d lived in Florida. He was staring at her eyes, trying to decide if they were green or blue, when she cleared her throat and looked away. Cole felt too warm now and turned the heat down.

“So, um, Penny…” he couldn’t believe he was lost for words. He was never lost for words. He glanced around, as if in search of someone to pull him out of this awkwardness. His eyes landed on the radio and he secretly chastised himself for not thinking of it before, “Do you like music?”

Penny lit up brighter than the moon that had escaped the clouds completely. He saw that her eyes were blue, very blue. “Oh, yes, I love music. Well, as long as it isn’t The Doors. There’s just something creepy about that guy, what’s his name, the lead singer?”

Cole loved The Doors, “Jim Morrison?”

“Yea, that’s him. He’s just weird, you know?”

“Yea, he is kind of strange I guess. Well,” Cole reached to turn on the radio, “hopefully the radio’s playing something else right now.”

They were. The quivering tones of Crimson and Clover, by Tommy James and The Shondells, surrounded them and Penny jumped in her seat, “Oh, I love Tommy James!” Realizing her enthusiasm, she amended that, “and The Shondells. They’re really good.”

 “Yea, they’re all right I guess.” Cole tapped his fingers on his knees, noticed he was getting carried away and used his other hand to stop the tapping.

My, my such a sweet thing

Penny touched her warm hand to his.

I wanna do everything

What a beautiful feeling

Cole’s heart stopped beating.

Crimson and clover

They moved closer together.

Over and over

He squeezed her hand.

Over and over

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

Over and over

Crimson and clover

Their lips met.

Over and over

Jolts of static electricity flashed through the night

Over and over….

*****

Crimson and Clover, by Tommy James and The Shondells – although I’m adding the video so you can listen to the song, I couldn’t help but notice how oddly beautiful the video itself is. I hope you enjoy!

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Eli’s Dream – #fridayflash #amwriting

Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia  or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!

Eli’s Dream is rated R according to my standards.  

 Eli’s Dream, by Deanna Schrayer

Bobbie Jo sits tall and regal in the passenger seat of the beat-up Camaro, red scarf blowing across her hazel-gold eyes like a veil, blinding her.

“What is it Babe?” Bobbie Jo’s not looking at Eli, but she knows, even though he’s driving well enough, his mind isn’t on the road ahead.

He glances at her, wondering how she always knows when he’s lost in his own contemplations. He was thinking of the dream he had last night, wants to talk to her about it, but doesn’t. Eli doesn’t usually give his dreams a second thought, in fact he rarely recalls them, but this dream…it was so vivid, it made him feel something, something he’d never felt before: paralyzing fear.

“What?” he says, “Oh, nothing,” He waves his sun-worn hand as if trying to swat a fly.

“I gotta pee. Will you stop at the next gas station?” She looks at him with the pleading of a toddler, pouty lip and all.

“If we can find one I will. Don’t look like there’s much around here.”

“I know, I’m getting about tired of this flat, dusty road.” She rakes her fingers through her long black hair, attempting to form it into some kind of style. “How long till we’re in Mississippi?”

“’Bout three, four hours, long as we don’t stop much.”

They sit in silence for a while, each looking out their own dirty window, blind to each other, wandering together, wondering alone.

Bobbie Jo sees something shiny, metallic floating far away through the hazy August air. She scoots closer to the edge of her seat. “Eli, look, I think there’s a store up ahead.”

Eli squints, scrunches his bulky body down in his seat to see below the sun visor, “I hope so Bob, I hope so.”

She scoots around in her seat, twisting her back, popping it, then reaches for her purse in the floorboard. Eli could see what she’s doing with his eyes closed. It wouldn’t matter if the whole world blew up, Bobbie Jo would have to fix her makeup and hair before even a stranger saw her.

The closer they get to the station the farther away it looks. Eli believes it must be a mirage, just like that dead dog they saw on the road a few miles back. It wasn’t until they were right on it that Eli saw that yes, it was a dog, but it wasn’t dead at all. The shock of seeing the creature move caused Eli to swerve and hit it, crushing it as dead as he’d first believed it to be. 

“Bob,” Eli says, “I’m not so sure that is a store up ahead.”

“Sure it is,” Bobbie Jo says, “It has to be, there’s been nothing for miles!”

“Yea, I know,” Eli takes the toothpick he’s been chewing on out of his mouth and sneers at it, tosses it out the window. “This has got to be the bleakest state in the US of A.”

Bobbie Jo laughs, “That’s an understatement and a half.”

Suddenly they’re passing the store and Eli feels a chill slither through his body.

“Eli!” Bobbie Jo shouts, “That was the gas station, you just passed it, turn around.”

“Bob…,” he tries to think of an excuse not to stop here, he certainly can’t tell her the truth, “We’ve got to be coming up on a town here shortly. Let’s just see what’s next, huh? You can hold it a few minutes can’t you?”

“No I can’t hold it!” Bobbie Jo is incredulous. She’s had to pee for a while now but hadn’t said anything, mainly because she knew there was not a bathroom in sight, what was the point? But now she’s getting jittery, her abdomen hurts. “Come on Eli, please turn around, surely you need to stretch your legs.”

Eli wants to argue, but what’s he going to say? Sorry Bob, but you’ll just have to pee your britches. He shakes his head in an attempt to dislodge the ridiculous thoughts he’s having. It was just a dream, he tells himself, a nightmare!

“Aw, Bob, I’m sorry,” he says as he pulls the car onto the shoulder of the road and turns back towards the store, “I’m just tired.”

“You need to get out of the car for a while,” Bobbie Jo says, “maybe they got some coffee or something, that ought to help.”

Eli pulls into the parking lot and breaks out in a sweat. He’s short of breath. He watches the red mustang pulling in on the opposite end of the lot.

Coincidence, that’s all it is, just a coincidence.

Eli and Bobbie Jo get out of the car groaning and begin to stretch, pumping their legs up and down, like marathon participants preparing for the start of the race. Eli walks around to Bobbie Jo and hands her a ten. “Get me a coke, will you? I’m just going to hang out here.”

“Sure,” Bobbie Jo takes the money and shoves it into her pocket, “be right back.” She kisses him on the cheek and turns to walk into the store.

Eli grabs the map out of the floorboard and spreads it out on the hood of the car. He’s trying to determine exactly where they are when he hears the bells on the store’s door jingle. He looks up and sees Bobbie Jo coming out, her arms loaded with not only his coke but quite a few snacks. The young man from the Mustang, just a boy really, holds the door open for her. With the same dread swishing in his stomach that he felt in the dream Eli turns his attention to the other man, a scrawny, greasy character running out the door. The man slams into Bobbie Jo as the young man jumps back out of the way. The food and drinks she’d been holding jump from Bobbie Jo’s arms as if trying to get away.

Then Eli sees the gun.

He knows he’s running but feels as if he hasn’t moved.

This isn’t real, this can’t be happening, it’s only a dream!

He feels like he’s watching a slow-motion movie reel as he sees the bullet enter Bobbie Jo’s belly, her belly that was just now starting to pooch out, after they’d worried for six months that something might be wrong. He sees the dark liquid splash forth like a squirt of paint from an artist’s tube, her beautiful eyes widen in surprise and then slowly darken and begin to close.

“Bob!” Eli yells, “Bobbie Jo!” He’s running towards her, arms stretched out ready to break her fall.

But he’s still twenty yards away.

He stops short when he sees her head strike the concrete ground, watches it bounce like a child’s ball. Something about the movement jerks him back to the near future.

He knows what comes next.

Eli turns around and dives sideways, even as the bullet throws him, his shoulder slamming into the young man’s Mustang with a thud and then he’s on the ground, still looking on as Bobbie Jo lies still as the dead dog.

“Bobbie!” Eli manages to scream as he crawls towards the love of his life, a shocking pain shooting up his back and into his skull, erasing his vision completely. But before the blackness descends Eli sees Bobbie Jo’s eyes flutter open…and he knows now – this is not a dream, this is really happening. And it is a nightmare.

*****

I’ve had this one setting around for quite some time now, since I first heard Bruce Springsteen’s Devil’s and Dust in fact, (one of my all-time favorites), which is what inspired the story. As usual, I’m not sure why this particular story came to mind when hearing the song; although music is always inspirational to me, when I “see” a story after hearing a particular piece, more likely than not that story doesn’t reflect the lyrics of the song. I wonder why that is….

In any case, since I did see this one so vividly I decided to try it in present tense, which I rarely write in. I appreciate all comments and constructive critique.

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The Apology #fridayflash #amwriting

Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia  or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!

The Apology is rated PG-13 according to my standards.

The Apology, by Deanna Schrayer

Olivia knew it would take only one cigarette to get there, if she drove the speed limit, so she slowed way down to ensure it would take two cigarettes instead.

She was already a nervous wreck because of the argument she’d had with her teenager, Jackson, when her mother called to say she needed her right away. Although she knew that yes, Cecilia did need her, that she wouldn’t lie about that just to get attention, she was also growing used to, (and weary of), her mother calling for every little thing, not just when the cancer had her lying on the bathroom floor vomiting blood. And so she took her time.

Time: it’s what Olivia desperately needed, even as she was beginning to wonder what the concept meant. Time – it’s here – right now…then it’s gone. But it seemed there was no more to come, to replace what had vanished as if it had never been.

At the blare of a truck’s horn Olivia flinched and jerked her car back into the lane it was supposed to be occupying. “Get it together woman!” she scolded herself. But if not for that warning Olivia would’ve driven right past her parents’ home. She stubbed her cigarette out as she pulled into the driveway and made her way through the heavy branched willow trees to the stately Victorian on St. John’s Drive. She parked and took a few deep breaths before stepping out of her car. She wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or irritated to see Cecilia waiting on the front porch swing. Thankfully it looked as if her mother were fine, but why the rush? What could she need so badly that she had to emphasize I need you right away?

“Mama,” Olivia said as she stepped onto the porch. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, honey,” Cecilia propped her forehead up with her hand and slumped toward the swing’s armrest.

Even throughout the illness Cecilia proved to be as strong as she had always been. Olivia could see her mother was tired, but she could not recall witnessing this peculiar sort of behavior in her, ever. She sat down beside Cecilia, took her cold hand in her own and wrapped her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “What is it Mama?” When she got no response, Olivia cupped her mother’s chin and gently turned her face to look into her eyes.

Cecilia looked just awful – her gray eyes betrayed the fact that she’d been crying; her face appeared sallow and pasty; what was left of her stringy white hair shivered in the slight breeze. What worried Olivia the most was the fact that her mother had no make-up, no wig, and no jewelry on – normally Cecilia wouldn’t step foot out of the house, even if she ventured no further than the porch, without being fixed up.

Cecilia squeezed her daughter’s hand and shook her head. “Oh sweetie,” she said and lifted Olivia’s hand to her lips, placing a feathery kiss on her fingers, “I am so, so sorry.”

Olivia imagined her mother was apologizing for taking her away from cooking supper. But even that, Olivia thought, was no good reason for such strong emotion. “Sorry for what Mama?” she said.

“I’m sorry….I’m sorry for…” Cecilia seemed too exhausted to say another word. She grabbed hold of the swing’s chain and tried to pull herself back up after having slid down in the seat.

Olivia stood and held onto her mother’s arms. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get you inside.”

At that Cecilia pushed herself back into the swing, clutching at the chain with both hands and trembling. She shrieked and her breath caught as if she might be hyperventilating. “No! No! What are you doing here? Get away from me!” She pressed her face into her right shoulder and covered it with splayed fingers. Her whole body shook as if she’d just been plunged, naked, into the depths of the ocean.

Olivia took hold of her mother’s shoulders, tightly, though she was beginning to tremble herself. She spoke softly but firmly. “Mama! Calm down now, what’s the matter with you?” Already, tears were forming in Olivia’s eyes. She was more terrified than she’d ever felt in her life.

Suddenly Cecilia stopped shaking and bit her bottom lip. She began to cry. She looked at her daughter as if just awakening from a dream, bleary-eyed and pale. She shook her head back and forth, slowly, as her lips shuddered a silent plea. Cecilia, bewildered, looked into her daughter’s eyes and whispered, “Who are you?”

*

After the funeral two weeks later Olivia silently wept as she sorted through her mother’s closet. She couldn’t stop wondering: what was Mama sorry for? Then she found the diary. She went out to the porch, sat down on the swing, and began to read.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Although The Apology was transcribed directly from Frankie, the muse, I do find it ironic that I wrote this story just a week before my aunt passed away, on New Year’s Day. No, she had no reason to apologize to anyone, (and didn’t), and she didn’t have a secret diary, or at least not that I know of. I believe the inspiration must have come from watching her struggle with several long-time illnesses. I’m glad her pain is gone now.

NEW!

Frankie, the bratty muse stopped by recently to interview me. Read the interview here.

PLUS: New essay on ‘Why I Write’: There are Stories to be Told.

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Interesting conversation taking place at my nonfiction site, The Life of a Working Writer Mommy: Do you think back, or look forward? Hope to see you there!

HAPPY NEW YEAR! #fridayflash #amwriting

Image by Deanna Schrayer

Click here for my last post of 2011, on my nonfiction site, The Life of a Working Writer Mommy.

I wish you all a beautiful and prosperous 2012!

The Night Before Christmas – #fridayflash #amwriting

Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia  or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!

The Night Before Christmas is rated PG-13 according to my standards

The Night Before Christmas, by Deanna Schrayer

Susan sinks to her knees on the empty velvet tree skirt and buries her face in her hands. The tears slipping through her fingers taste metallic, sour, stinging her tongue. This is the first Christmas Eve in her life she’s been completely alone. She tried several times today to call her husband, Barry, at the hotel where he’s been staying since the day after Thanksgiving. But she got no answer.

The wind blows harsh and fierce outside the bungalow and Susan shivers, slips from her knees to lie on her side beneath the Christmas tree, the tree she decorated all by herself in a fit of false hope two days after Barry left. Now a silvery icicle slides down to caress her face, as if to comfort her, dry her tears.

Susan wants so much to be angry with her husband, she wants to march down to the elegant Mystic Haven Ritz and beat the hell out of him. But she has no basis for such longing – it was Susan who drove Barry away, it was she who had the affair.

Still, the anger has to come out and so Susan pounds her legs with her fists, she beats herself until she feels the pain ease from her heart down into her thighs. Exhausted, she bunches the tree skirt up and bundles it beneath her head, her fiery gold curls spilling over the burgundy velvet, brushing the hard wood floor. She tries to think of Barry – the man who appeared at just the right time, the man who saved her life – sitting here with her by the fire, holding her lithe body against his, arousing her with his feathery kisses.

But all she sees is Cliff. Her first husband’s hard-muscled hands kneading her shoulders as he nearly bruises her lips kissing her, Cliff’s urgent need to douse the fire coursing through Susan’s veins with a fire all his own. Cliff’s eyes burning from baby blue to scorching violet as his desire for her grows hotter and stronger. Cliff…

Susan recalls the first Christmas she and Cliff were married, (in fact they wed on Christmas Eve, this would’ve been their twentieth anniversary had they made it past those first few years), how they spent Christmas day wrapped in each other’s arms underneath a down comforter in the ski lodge as huge snowflakes fell outside their window and the ethereal glow from the fireplace warmed their already heated bodies. By the next Christmas they were expecting their first child, by the next they were mourning the loss of that child, and by the next….well, there was no next.

Again, Susan scolds herself for allowing her thoughts to turn back to the man who nearly killed her before she finally left him. She should be thinking about her husband, her current husband, the man who devoted his life to her, the man who has loved her so completely, despite her many flaws, for the past fifteen years. “Oh, Barry,” she thinks, “how could I do this to you?!” But before she starts to cry again Susan rubs her face vigorously and forces herself to get up off the floor, to pull herself together and figure out how to save her marriage. “I’ll go see him tomorrow,” she decides. He’ll be at his mom’s for sure, as they always are on Christmas. She won’t call ahead, she’ll just show up as if everything is fine, as if nothing at all has happened, as if she never stepped foot back into Cliff’s life.

Susan goes to the kitchen and pours herself a drink – Jack and coke, (mostly Jack), and takes it with her to the bedroom where she goes into her closet to decide what to wear tomorrow. She wants to look better than she ever has; she wants to make Barry’s mouth hang open with shock and yearning. She bends to reach for her black stiletto heels and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looks like hell. Her usually deep green eyes are nearly as red as her hair, there are mascara streaks staining her ruddy cheeks and her hair is frizzy and all over the place. But Susan doesn’t let the shock of her appearance deter her. She simply grabs her robe and heads to the bathroom.

After an hour-long hot bubble bath Susan is much more relaxed, in much better spirits. She’s laid out Barry’s favorite long black dress and her velvet duster to slip on in the morning, has her makeup ready and waiting on her vanity; she’s even painted her nails, which normally feels like a chore but now has made her even more confident. Barry won’t be able to refuse her tomorrow, she’s certain of it.

The two drinks Susan had, along with the bath, has thankfully relaxed her enough that she feels she may actually be able to sleep tonight, so she locks up, turns the lights out, (but leaves the Christmas tree twinkling), and heads for bed.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s him! Her spirits soar; she’s wide awake in the time it took to hear that knock. Susan fluffs her freshly washed hair and licks her lips as she goes to let her husband inside. He must’ve felt her thinking about him – they’ve always had that sort of connection. She’s so wound up she nearly trips over her own feet as she reaches for the doorknob. Barely able to contain her excitement Susan opens the door, and her arms, wide in one fluid motion.

“Hey babe,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, “Happy anniversary.”

Susan stands dumbfounded, able to croak out no more than his name. “Cliff.”  

~~~~~~~~~~ 

I’m not sure why, but when I heard the song Thirty-three by the Smashing Pumpkins the other day this is the story that came immediately to mind. Christmas is a melancholy time for many, but I hope that isn’t the case for you. I wish you all a beautiful holiday season!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Coming Soon: Frankie, (the snot-nosed, bratty muse), has been hanging around waiting for the white chocolate cheesecake while chatting me up this week. He says he’ll have the interview posted real soon, so stay tuned!   

I hope you’ll stop in at my nonfiction site, The Life of a Working Writer Mommy to check out the top reads of 2011 as well as my reflection on being a writer (in response to Estrella Azul’s post My name is Estrella, and I am a writer. Thank you for the inspiration Estrella!

 

Image by Deanna Schrayer

 

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Nine Lives – #fridayflash #amwriting

Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. Be sure to visit Mad Utopia  or the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors!

Nine Lives is rated PG-13 according to my standards.

Photo by Deanna Schrayer - all rights reserved

 

Nine Lives, by Deanna Schrayer

I’m not sure how we got on the subject to begin with, but as I drove my son Jeremy to basketball practice, I told him of several times in my life I’d escaped death by the skin of my teeth. Actually, no, I didn’t say I’d escaped death, I said “cheated” – I cheated Death. As if Death and I had been married for forty years and I treated the relationship as a swinger.

When I’d finished the story where my ex-husband tried to strangle me with a phone cord and then chased me across town with a gun, Jeremy looked straight ahead at the road and said, “Wow, Mom, it’s a wonder you lived long enough to almost die having me!”

I’d not talked about that near-death experience, when he was born via emergency cesarean, not during this conversation, but his remark made me realize I’d told the story once a year for the past thirteen years. The last time I’d mentioned it was six months ago, on his fourteenth birthday. It disturbed me – to know that he will always remember his birth as one of the times his mother nearly lost her life. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d forever blame himself.

It wasn’t until he spoke again that I realized I’d not responded – his words had shocked me silent. “So, how else did you cheat death?” he asked.

So far I’d told him about the time I rode my tricycle onto a busy highway and my dad had ran and grabbed me off the bike mere seconds before the oncoming eighteen-wheeler crushed it like a bug hitting the windshield; about the first death escape, when a pickup truck had slammed the car my pregnant mother was driving, (with me, at two-years-old, standing beside her on the seat), into a nearby parking lot, flipping the car end-over-end to land on its top. I’d told Jeremy about falling off a hundred-and-some-odd-feet cliff, hitting my head on a boulder on the way down where I splashed into the swimming hole at the foot of a waterfall; about being slipped an ungodly amount of LSD on my twenty-second birthday. Of course I didn’t know that’s what had happened until I awoke the next day in the hospital, my best friend by my side, waiting for me to wake up so she could tell me she suspected my boyfriend. I’d even told Jeremy about the time the same ex-husband who’d tried to strangle and shoot me had held me down on the bed, (with his best friend’s help), and shot me up with enough morphine to ensure I wouldn’t awaken to find him in the guest bedroom with one of his lovers.

There was only one other time I’d cheated Death that I hadn’t told Jeremy about, that I hadn’t wanted to tell him. I was quiet again as I tried to decide whether or not he even needed to know, whether or not to continue this talk at all.

“Oh, cool Mom!” Jeremy burst out. “You’re just like Leo the lion – your sign. A lion is a cat and a cat has nine lives!” He laughed.

I glanced over at my son, in awe of his keen observation, yet chilled as if buried in the snow falling outside. How could he laugh at the seriousness of what I’d just told him? How could he treat the miracle of my even being there in that moment as if it were a joke? Then again, his laugh was tinged with a nervousness I rarely heard in his voice. Maybe he was truly frightened and just trying to humor himself out of that fear. In any case, his laughter made my decision to keep mum easy. I was relieved that I need not tell him of my eighth flee from Death.

I watched as Jeremy’s laughter faded. As his face went suddenly pale. As his eyes grew wide with terror. I turned my eyes back to the road and felt it the instant I heard it: the unmistakable roar of a tractor-trailer’s exploding air horn.

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