#ravasthi

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Waiting

The worst thing about hospitals was the waiting. It didn’t matter where you were, whether it was a busy urban center or a small rural hospital like this one, the only one within a hundred miles of Shea’s home in northern Idaho; they were all the same.

Mostly the same. Some misguided soul had thought to make the waiting area more interesting by installing a full-sized taxidermy exhibit in the corner, complete with bear, elk, even a boar. Care had clearly gone into the thing—rocks and pebbles and fake foliage were artfully placed—but it was lit by the same sickly flourescent lights as the rest of the waiting room, giving the scene a creepy horror-movie feeling.

Shea tore his eyes away from it and repositioned the bloody towel on his forearm. He’d sustained a long, shallow cut in his latest altercation with his mother; he needed stitches, but since it wasn’t bleeding heavily, he’d been instructed to wait while the staff attended to the stomach flu-stricken brownie troop from two towns over.

She was a mean drunk, his mother, but until tonight, not a violent one. He’d learned long ago to tune out her tirades, to pretend himself somewhere quiet and peaceful until she wore herself out yelling. Tonight, she’d evidently gotten frustrated with his unresponsiveness and come at him with a knife. He hadn’t even realized what happened at first, staring stupidly at the blood welling on his arm, his mind still in the silence of the forest.

She’d surprised herself too, dropping the knife and following its descent onto the kitchen floor before bursting into tearful, incoherent apologies. Those, too, he tuned out, grabbing a clean dishtowel and her car keys, sidestepping her bleary attempts to touch him. She’d probably still be there when he returned, blacked out until he poured her into bed.

It had been years since he’d thought of her as anything but a burden, to be endured until her body failed to stand up to her constant abuse. He’d stopped wishing she’d just go away somewhere, that things could somehow be different. He was just waiting.

The triage nurse called his name and he stood up.

[flashphotographyforwriters]

Fall

I shut the front door behind me without turning on the light. Kicking off my shoes, I swiped at a stray tear and headed to the bedroom. Got into my sweats and some thick woollen socks, then padded through the darkened house to the back porch and the old glider there.

The glider was situated next to an old refrigerator, one I’d inherited from the previous owner and kept out here, as they had, to hold drinks. It had started out a cream color but was somewhere dingier now, its top half covered in bumper stickers for defunct radio stations and theme parks on the Jersey shore. There were remnants of duct tape on the handles where they had been secured for a previous trip, and the freezer side didn’t really work. It had probably, I thought glumly as I yanked it open and grabbed a bottle of beer, led a more interesting life than I had.

I popped the top with the bottle opener I kept tied to the handle and flopped down on the glider. It was still early October and the leaves had just started to turn. The air was cool but not cold, crisp with the scent of apples and pine, and hints of smoke from someone illegally burning leaves in their yard.

The house sat at the top of a gentle hill, and the back yard sloped down to the worn cedar fence marking the neighbors’ property line. It was possible, sitting here, to see the rooftops and windows of half the houses in the neighborhood, scenes of people living their lives obscured by tree branches tipped silver in the light of the half-moon.

I’d had quite enough beer already tonight, but was in no mood to refrain at the moment. I scrubbed my wet cheeks with the sleeve of my hoodie and took a sip. Tomorrow, I’d get a hold of myself and make a plan to get through this. Tomorrow, I’d throw myself into my regular life and try to move on. Tonight, though, I’d relive the moment that my silent and cowardly devotion had been unknowingly rejected, in favor of a girl who’d seen someone she liked, and done something about it.

I leaned my head back against the wooden siding and listened to the wheezy, comforting hum of the fridge. Tonight, I’d cry.

[flashphotographyforwriters]

One hundred pounds of painstakingly-carved cement turtle inched, backwards, across the gravel. Dropping the hose that disappeared into the turtle’s nether regions—it was a fountain, of all things—Ana slumped onto its back and wondered where her life had gone wrong.

Not so long ago, she'd had a job in a nice, air-conditioned office, a job with a huge salary, free coffee, and more corporate bureaucracy than a girl could dream of. But she'd given that up to live her dream: physical labor during high summer, for a client with more money than taste. Or sense. Who thought it was a good idea to run a fountain in the middle of a drought.

Ms Beauregard had charged into the office yesterday, feng shui book in hand; after that Ana’s memory got a little fuzzy. There had been something about good luck symbols, south-east corners, and possibly changing the flower order for the fourth time—next thing she knew, she was dragging a monstrous turtle fountain across an endless garden.

But Ms—she insisted on that—Ms Beauregard wanted her daughter’s wedding to be a spectacle, and a spectacle she would get, though it was looking increasingly likely that Ana would kill herself doing it.

If the business wasn’t so new, she’d be able to say no to the whims of the rich and foolish with impunity. But there were contractors to pay, materials to buy, and a reputation to establish. None of which was getting done while she sat here.

She heaved herself to her feet, picked up the hose and pulled.